#she's never thought she finally mattered to Harrow and then had her love and life rejected

[bambitae]

You Belong with Me

Synopsis: When a cynical good-for-nothing, Jimin, sees the girl he was in love with a year after he'd quit gardening for "Bright Horizons", the luxurious development she resides in, all his feelings come rushing back, along with the harrowing memories of what had happened in that gated community last summer; all the while he meets a mysterious man who claims he sees the potential for show-business within him.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Romance + Drama + Angst + Smut + Fluff

Word Count: 3.6k

|| Episode 01 of ? ||

i.

Tonight he saw you. Yoongi and he were pushing out of the cinema in a current of people when he saw you in a blue coat, mincing through the crowd. That stupid hot tremor mantled his cheeks, his chest and stomach; always new and horrifying no matter how many times he felt it. He called your name so quickly his voice ended a squeak, and the pedestrians around him became dense as statues as he charged through them until finally a pinch of your coat was in his fingers and you turned to look at him, the shimmer around your eyes sparkling under the pale streetlamp. He was bilious with panic. Beneath your skirted coat, your legs were naked and bristled with goose bumps, and he barely recognized you with your face made up.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “Y/N. Call me, write to me.”

You smiled at him, a bit like you from last summer, nodded stiffly, and you were gone with a bang of the yellow cab door. He stood on the curb for what felt a long time, hands sweating in his pockets and the oppressive, sweltering desire gutting him as he thought of your slight eyelashes and voice and lissome fingers on his shoulder, until that prick Yoongi came and slapped him on the head, telling him to get a move on and not to be so fucking pathetic, and Jimin slapped him too, and the prick laughed in his creepy, gravelly voice and fished a cigarette out of his pocket and shoved it into Jimin’s hand and told him to come on, that he’ll buy him a drink, and to wipe off that pussy ass face and stop being a fucking idiot.

He took him downtown, to Jack Rabbit, a sorry little alleyway pub made of wood panels and suffering from cramped space and fusty cigarette air, and they sat at the bar across the bearded codger that tended it on uncomfortable oak stools; Jimin couldn’t understand why he insisted on coming there, because, honestly, the draft beer was too bitter and flat and the ancient pop music from the jukebox prickled his ears and the codger always spewed some pseudo-philosophical bullshit and bored him to death with his dull life spent in poverty and gloom—and, really, it was a bit humiliating to frequent such a dump. It was a mystery how it stayed running with barely any guests. Still, Yoongi dragged him there routinely and downed the beer as if he enjoyed it and entertained that annoying old man with sagging jowls and a pig gut. If the prick weren’t the one paying, Jimin would have fucked right off out of there.

They drank for hours, until both of them were red in the face and slumped over the bar; the hung glasses and shelved alcohol bottles spun violently, Jimin’s foot kept slipping off the footrest, and Yoongi shook him until he was nauseas. You’re a moron, he kept telling him. A fuckin’ dunce. Face it: she’s never going to be with a good-for-nothing like you. You think she’s gonna pick you over all the rich motherfuckers chasing her? Don’t be a damn idiot, Chimmy, save yourself the fucking time.

But Jimin knew all this and still he didn’t believe it. The problem was not that he mowed your lawn the previous summer or that he went to a shithole like Jack Rabbit because he had no money to buy himself a beer. The problem was he, that fuck-face, that disgusting richling and his sick obsession with you.

It was all Kim Taehyung’s fault, that’s what he wanted to tell Yoongi. Jimin’s only sin was not killing the fucker. Richling was crazy about you, and Jimin saw firsthand how for weeks the bastard spoke about nothing but screwing you, making you his, whatever it took; I’ll fuck her like this, he’d drawl, the same shit over and over again, eyes bloodshot from the alcohol, I’ll fuck her like this then I’ll flip her on her knees and I’ll bang her like this, and he would wipe the whiskey off his mouth with the flat of his hand and laugh like a psychopath. Then he would clamber to his feet at the edge of the pier and pull out his cock and piss in the river as he blabbered on about how he was going to ram into you, teach you a lesson, and then he would shove it back into his swimming trunks, sit back down, and roll a blunt with those same filthy hands that touched his penis, all the while Jimin laughed faintly and made the most of Taehyung turning his back on him to swig from the bottle and take another cigarette, puffing smoke at the relentless mosquitos that wouldn’t stop latching onto his arm.

It was all that bastard’s idea of a joke, just banter, drunk talk, or at least that’s what Jimin thought in the beginning during their first carousals down by the river, in the shadiest part of the small wooden platform, where the gnarled branches of the fig tree kept them hidden from the eyes of the watchmen and other residents of the complex, and most crucially Taehyung’s grandparents that would, in his own words, suffer a stroke if they saw their “little boy” drinking alcohol and smoking pot and who knows what other crap, and that with none other than a member of “the help.” A gardener, no less.

That would be an absolute scandal, a breach of trust that would undoubtedly send Jimin across the river never to come back to Bright Horizons again, which in all truth wouldn’t really bother him, to stop slaving away for the bourgeois, except this was his first real job, his first signed contract and a steady paycheck, and even if it weren’t for the money, he would agonize endlessly over having lost the opportunity to see you, a privilege he wouldn’t have outside of that picket fence community, and for that he would withstand all Taehyung’s yapping and twisted fantasies, no matter how sick he was of his obsession with you, whom the bastard had fallen for the same day Jimin had, that afternoon in late June when your family drove to the Horizons to pick up the keys to your new home, you sprawled barefoot over the backseat of your grand white jeep with a book in hand.

Jimin remembered that day well; he had gawped at the Patek Philippe glimmering gold on your father’s wrist, lolled outside the window as the man gestured around explaining who you were and what you were doing there, a firm, grave glare fixing Jimin over the rim of his horn-wire spectacles, and your mother sat gracious beside him with a wary mascaraed eye, your run-of-the-mill lady, identical to all the other women living in the Horizon’s white villas, with her lips painted red and a hand fan in her lacquered fingers.

For a moment, you had looked up from the book, a finger pressing into the page, eyes naked and lustrous and in that moment staring into his with an air of bright, girlish interest; and even when he had opened the gate and the jeep drove in with a powerful whir, he saw you peek through the rear glass, mouth twisting into a demure smile once you had caught his eye.

Later, when he had first sat with the richling by the river, Jimin listened to an excruciating torrent of bullshit about how you had come out to the veranda barefoot that day, in your whorish white dress, and sat with your book and an apple, crossing your legs and biting into the fruit as if you had meant to taunt him who was watching you from the window, and whom you had smiled at too once he strutted into your front lawn with a plate of his granny’s lemon pie.

“I knew I would fuck her the moment I saw her,” Taehyung had told him, speaking of this as if it were some grand catharsis, only to then cluck with laughter like a damn hen and say, “But the slut is harder than I thought.”

That was the pioneer of all the times Jimin fantasized of wrapping his fingers around the bastard’s thick, tan neck until it blued and the fucker finally croaked; the first time his hands tingled at the thought of punching him. He wanted to push his head into the river, yank his arm out of the socket, beat him bloody for the whole Horizons to see and make him eat dog shit and garbage off his own lawn. And that’s what he should have done before leaving, instead of fearing what the rich boy might do to him; then he wouldn’t have had this terrible lingering fury that made him break out a sweat every time he thought of his idiotic face.

Around midnight, when Jimin was already so pie-eyed he could scarcely follow Yoongi’s monologue, a small group of men, all with gelled hair and their shirts crisp with starch, ludicrously wandered into Jack Rabbit, buzzing with talk and decorous har-de-har, their eyes meandering over the joint and its only two patrons with an air of cool, curious solicitude. The one who had opened the door, a tall, long-faced fellow with a rounded jaw, grinned widely, black coat billowing behind him as he approached the bar.

While he sat beside Jimin, a cologne of birch tar and lavender whipping him over the face, he wished the codger a good evening, his three cohorts sidling after him while giving each other the eye.

“Hello to you too,” said the codger and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, smile so big Jimin could hardly believe his cracked lips could stretch that far. He leaned over the bar. “Been a while since I saw you here, son.”

The man spoke again, and this time Jimin was perplexed at how deep and scratchy his voice was, and still less irritating than Yoongi’s. “I was busy with work,” he had said, or something along those lines; Yoongi clicked his scrawny fingers and distracted him from eavesdropping.

“Are you even listening?” he said, and Jimin could barely make out what was his voice and what the screech of the stools.

“No,” he told him, unsure if he had heard right, too shit-faced on those rums Yoongi had made him chug to think about it too much.

“Asshole.” He grabbed his bottle by the neck; draft beer had become too warm for him, he claimed.

The group had settled at the bar but everyone aside from the cheery man squirmed on the rock-hard oak, warily taking off their shawls and coats, the stubby one seated at the end trying to hook his own on the rack. One of them, the man who seemed youngest, was typing something on his phone while glancing at the codger at intervals.

“What are the gentlemen drinking tonight?”

The man took off his coat and elbowed Jimin in the ribs; the large tag inside read “Max Mara,” beneath it a bold, flashy text: Made in Italy. “Give me a Tom Collins,” he said, and shoved his coat into the man beside so abruptly the phone nearly fell out of his hand.

Jimin scoffed. “You make cocktails, old man?”

“For you, I don’t,” he said, and Yoongi laughed with his mouth still on the bottle. The man chuckled politely too, fingers laced and propped on his elbows. His sleeves were neatly rolled up, leather wristwatch taunting Jimin with its shine. The fool held himself so high and mighty all the while he sat in the same dunghill Jimin did.

Then, and for the rest of the time spent in that hovel, Jimin watched the man out the corner of his eye, contempt sprouting furiously at his lifeless, impersonal laughter, spiraling when he opened a fat cigar case and lit one of those dark, wiener-like abominations. Pungent whirls of tobacco drifted through the small space, thick and inescapable, crashing into Jimin’s cigarette smoke. The man nudged the pack toward the codger, who begrudgingly took one and smelled it, grumbling about its staleness while he hungrily drew on it.

Jimin didn’t have to speak to him to know the type. Entitled, obtrusive, rich. The kind who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Former presidents of the Student Council in college, which they breezed through in a whirl of toga parties and drinking contests, always secure and unafraid because a chair at daddy’s marketing firm was being kept warm for them. Those were the sort who grew up to be glitzy businessmen oblivious to their extravagance—the cigars, tailored suits, those bland, overpriced Max Mara coats. They were all Kim Taehyung in a few years, once he buys a few blazers and decides he wants to play grown-ups.

Those pricks seemed to haunt him, follow him even to a dump like the Rabbit. What did they want of him? Why did they swat at him like flies to shit?

“That’s the problem with rich bastards,” he was telling Yoongi later, as they walked through narrow Ahyeon-dong streets with their last cigarettes in mouth, steep alleys with webbed cables, too narrow for cars. “They’re all the same. Thinking they can just walk in anywhere and be treated like kings. Fucking pricks.” He was slurring frenziedly, tongue immobile and heavy in his mouth.

An icy breeze blew past, and all the blood surged into his cheeks, pumping, until he was so hot under the collar he thought he might go insane.

Cloud of smoke Yoongi had blown out hopped over his head and disappeared. “Stop your whining,” he said. “The world isn’t gonna stop spinning just because it hurts your feelings, Chimmy boy.”

Jimin could barely walk without vertigo and as they stumbled up the slope, then climbed the chipped rock stairs hanging onto the railing brown with rust, up till their street, he couldn’t strangle the words coming out his mouth to a halt; curses, profanities, calling Yoongi a pansy and a coward, sending him to hell, drooling like a cur, blustering with such famine and delirium until in the end he revolted himself, yet Yoongi’s apathy to the whole ordeal annoyingly persisted.

Before he went into the house, he gave Jimin a friendly slap on the cheek and told him to go to sleep, and to that Jimin stood in front of his house shouting until the man stuck out his middle finger and he was left on alone on the street and could go nowhere but his own home where, once he had closed the door, the silence was deep and thunderous.

The few hours until dawn were a painful slog. It was surreal: he wanted to fall asleep or at least do something, anything to keep the blare of quietude from piercing his ears, but instead he stared at the wall, turned over his bed like a worm, tiptoed from his room to the kitchen with his head full of nothing. He couldn’t tell what he thought about even if someone asked. Fatigue was weighing on him and the first hints of sun trespassed into the house in slits, cut up by the metal bars on the window, the sorry semi-basement rectangle. Outside of it swayed the rose shrub madam from upstairs planted; the tall brick gate it leaned on hid the street.

Jimin took a roll-up from the coffee table over his mother’s sleeping body, and it was a bad one, stale tobacco the color of hay jutting out the tip, and he sat on his bed listless, the only thing that could sedate him the thought of you. If he concentrated hard enough he could almost believe you were beside him, finger pressed into a book, window light catching onto the slight curly hairs that turreted into your scalp.

He fantasized about your skin, your big, honest eyes looking over him, the smile you gave him tonight, all those times last summer when you sat by the pool as he cleaned it, pushing a glass of lemonade into his hands, telling him it must be so hot and so hard and to come sit with you under the shade of the garden parasol for a moment. Then, as these thoughts usually went, those hands of yours, soft with all the creams smelling of pink peonies and peach, were gliding down his arm and you were thanking him for all his hard work, but he couldn’t hear you anymore because you hung on his elbow and the soft flesh of your breasts spilled over the neckline and touched his skin. He could die in that moment, if he wanted to. And although this image in particular usually led him to a cozy fairytale land, wherein he would be so muzzy and warm fighting sleep seemed tiresome—the joy of speaking with you in tongues and hands too grand to leave—tonight even those thoughts went awry.

The longer you were on his mind, the colder your smile from tonight felt, more distant, until it seemed so cruel he was certain his memory must have warped it.

What had that smile meant? Why had you said nothing to him? Would he, if he were someone like Kim Taehyung or the peacock from the bar, live to see you shun him so frigidly?

Sometime when the sun broke wholly over the sky and the rushed footsteps of the landlord’s children going to school trundled past his window, Jimin dozed off into a heavy, dreamless slumber, the stuffed ashtray beside his shoulder spilling when he rolled to the side.

The stench of cigarettes was unbearable when he awoke that noon, mother’s hands joggling him until he felt queasy. Look at what you’ve done, she was yelling, get up, get up right now, you idiot, but Jimin’s eyes felt so sunken and heavy it was a labor to open them, and he kept swatting her hands away, saying he will, saying just another moment, until she struck him so fatally on the back he jolted right up. She snatched the linen smeared with ash, singing a tired monologue of how he never listened, how she’d told him so many times not to smoke in the house, until it soared to the most common conclusion in their household: he was the same as his father. It all made his head ache and a faint taste of rum was on his tongue. Today, he felt so miserable he couldn’t find it in him to talk back to her.

At the side of the house, in the claustrophobic, dark cubicle of a bathroom, smelling of toothpaste and cleaning supplies, Jimin bent over the washbowl in unthinking ritual, scrubbing the filth off his face with soap, but no matter how many times he kneaded the bubbly foam into his cheek or spat out the gum-bloodied paste, he could not rid himself of the crud and grime anchored in his skin, as if he wore the raveled coat of a street mongrel.

Begrudgingly, he let the bathtub fill, and in the meantime sat on the fractured toilet seat that swayed to the side whenever he moved, lighting a cigarette he had swiped off the table. Now that his body had sobered, it seemed his mind followed, and in the place of last night’s ire and hurt came the routine gloom. He felt so full with nothing he thought he might implode. Everything he did last night, everything he said, even his every thought now seemed so juvenile and worthless, seemed so humiliating shame could have swallowed him whole. Why had he let any hope of you linger when all it ever did was fatigue him? He looked at the purling bathtub, the yellow rust inside it and the enamel steel chipping at the sides, and was sick with laughter. Even in a world where you wanted him, what came after that, bringing you to his house? Letting you bathe in there? See where he slept? He would rather bite his tongue off than ask that of you.

Never mind how better he wanted to make himself think he was than those banal fools swatting you, it was, in the end, a fact: he was twenty, jobless, and living with his mom in a half-basement. Of course you would shun him. Yoongi was right: he couldn’t compete with all the rich motherfuckers chasing you.

Still it was a pleasure to fantasize. As Jimin poured some little wash gel in the tub and soaked himself in the scent of camellia, the bad habit persisted, pictures of your sundress and hair tousling in the wind and all those times you touched him, where you for a moment became a creature of flesh and blood and not a figment of his imagination stalking barefoot across the lawn, sprawled furiously before his eyes, every one of them another punch in the gut.

It always was very hard for him to think of you without romanticizing you, but today all the love and worship in these dreams and memories, which had mushed together in a confused, giddy dollop, seemed cruel and masochistic to indulge in, and still he sought them and the pain they brought.

He must have enjoyed suffering if he longed for it that much.

Jimin sank his head in the water until it swallowed everything beneath his eyes, and at once, absurdly, felt entirely peaceful.

Until the water cooled and his mother began yelling for him to get out, Jimin kept punishing himself by thinking of you and holding his breath under water, and by the time he had dried himself, he was serene, almost rechristened. Nothing had changed, and he barely felt any better, but now he had accepted you were only ever meant to be in his head.

Author's Note: Hello, lovelies!! Thanks for reading all the way through to the end, I can't explain how grateful I am you took the time to consume my story! You are wonderful!

Aside from expressing my gratitude, I wanted to throw out some fun facts about this particular story for anyone who's interested. This entire written chapter had been sitting in my drafts for almost two years now, and it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I went trash-diving through my laptop and found this. At the time I'd first written this, I was very discouraged because I felt this was not good enough, and it took me many morning commutes to work to finally talk myself into posting this.

What I really wanted to gain from sharing this fic here on Tumblr, though, was an honest opinion of someone outside of my head. Is this actually any good? Is this oh-my-god-throw-it-in-the-trash bad? Is there any aspect of this I could improve? That is what I wanted to ask you. So, if there is anything at all you wish to say to me about my writing (even if that's: Uhm, you misspelled this word here, dumbass...) you are very welcome to do so!

If you're too shy or simply think this was so bad you want to forget it as soon as you scroll past this post, that's okay too! Thank you for reading and I hope you have a very nice day ahead of you.

XO, bambitae -`♡´-

[huenation]

who you are / csb

word count: 3,180

genre: soft angst, fluff, slice-of-life

warnings: not much happens in this and it’s almost a vent piece so you probably wont love this — mentions of nervousness, family issues, mc has a big family

synopsis: when soobin finally meets your family, he learns something about you (and he can’t help but love you more)

soundtrack: lovelovelove by baek yerin and can’t you see (acoustic) by matthew and the atlas

soobin is never home on weekdays in the mornings because of work, happily assisting the newbies at his barista job, since he’s been working there for three years now. he didn’t remember what nine am’s in his home looked like until now. he paces his hallway, awaiting your text message to let him know you’re outside to pick him up. it’s the big day after all, the one where he meets your family.

it’s been roughly eleven months since you both started dating and you’d just been introduced to soobin’s family a week earlier from now at a brunch. his sister and brother had finally decided to both visit his family home at the same time. despite the great harrowing pill of trepidation taken at meeting your boyfriend’s family, they had been so graciously welcoming and accepting of you. their questions were mere softballs, compliments and genuine interest in you that didn’t at all feel too much. you and soobin are familiar with the weight of stares, certain tones, and body language.

you had understood that floods of words could be conveyed through touch. being held by his family, a gripping hug, tearful thank you’s told you everything. it just meant a lot of love. soobin’s parents had embraced you so tightly that night, his mom more than kind and thankful when she held your hands and told you how special her son was to her, how dear you were to him and for that, she thought of you that much as well.

it all made sense that night on the drive home — it made you comfortable, knowing and seeing how soobin was raised well and so loved. he’s his own guy, but he is definitely a fragment of all those around him: infinitely precious.

so, when time allowed for him to meet your own family, despite the fear of jumping off your comfortable cloud into oblivion, you and he felt it was time. sure, he was beyond nervous when you both agreed to today as he’s currently anxious out of his mind, but you are, too. eye twitches, shivers, and that swirling pit in your stomach are all little footprints of this feeling.

really, as long as you have each other, just the knowing of it, that’s what matters.

he feels his phone vibrate and your contact name and picture pop up from a message that lets him know you’re outside. a small grin sprouts between his dimples at the sight of that photo. in it, you’re wearing his hoodie with the hood over your head so only your mouth is showing, a big smile worn. of course he had to set his contact photo as that. your contact name has your name with a single white heart.

just by seeing it, thinking of you… this warm feeling washes over his freezing shivers that wrack him from anxiety. you melt it away. you make a typo in your message as he’s already exiting his place, meeting you, stepping in your car, greeting you with a gentle but wide hug, kissing your cheek and thumbing the ends of your pretty eyelashes.

so, even if he’s nervous, you were able to do it, and it is about time, after all. he can do it. he holds your hand the entire way.

amazingly enough, the drive draws his anxieties away, your hand in his, and far too distracted by your chatter and the way his legs must bend to fit in your passenger seat. you chat about work or school, or something an online player from his game did that was funny, even jamming out to your shared playlist. but then when you start slowing down, pulling into a street, hitting stop signs, it gets quiet.

“we’re acting like we’re going to the police station…” you point out, sharing a little laugh with your boyfriend, whose eyes are bouncing around as they always do. there’s lots of cars down this specific street. it’s why you have to park just a little ways to your destination, beside the curb, soobin gaping at the environment and litter of cars that definitely signifies there’s a lot of people inside. the growing clamminess in his palms only intensifies.

“soobin, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, baby,” your small flame of reassurance has him turning back to you, a crease between his eyebrows and a pout on his cute lips. you have this effect; the world can start spinning far beyond a speed he can keep up with, but there you go, slowing things down. “what?” his question comes out a lot louder than intended, making you both laugh. “i wanna do this… i’m just nervous is all. that’s normal. i’ll be fine, babe.” you don’t seem satisfied with that, nodding and trying to smile it off. he sighs, deflating into the seat.

“i just… i don’t want to leave a bad impression on your family.” he mumbles, ears growing crimson. you coo and he scoffs a little, fake annoyance at your touched reaction. soobin’s legs are folded, knees pulled up high from his great height, but they also surround a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that sit in a timeless vase he bought. those familiar, luscious gardens are so full, you can even catch a glimpse of their edges and you’re down the street from them. all in all, it’s a very sweet gesture — you paid witness to him tracking down multiple florists and online shopping for a pretty vase.

“that’s how i felt about your family! and look what happened? i’m still alive and it’ll be the same for you!” you wrap your hands around his bicep in an effort to warm him up. your cheek presses on his shoulder. his head angles down and your eyes lock. oh he’s a very weak man when it comes to you.

“that’s not fair!”

“what is?”

he exhales, eyes dropping to your steering wheel.

“no one could hate you. you’re basically perfect!”

and if you’d been an anime character, your nose would’ve for sure bled. it’s silly how he thinks this way of you when he’s got it flipped. he doesn’t even know how special and loved and wonderful he is. to you, at the very least.

after giving soobin a few more moments to prepare, you both unload your car once he feels ready to enter.

he watches with rapture at the way you look around at what he is seeing for the first time. it’s different the way you do it. you look at things with familiarity and this far away look that can’t decide itself between nostalgia or simple history. soobin’s heart thumps something harder because he’s about to see who you came from and how you came to be.

the door opens once you knock and there’s a few kids lingering in the hallway, waving at you, staring a little too long at soobin. you introduce them as your younger cousins, and all hell breaks loose once you tell them it’s your boyfriend. soobin’s eyes grow so big at their loud excited voices, all asking questions about his height, if he loves you, if he has a lot of money, et cetera — all silly questions that feel like practice runs for when it comes to the adults. he allows himself to be shy, to stutter and make mistakes, expecting harsh reactions for doing so but your girl cousins simply coo and call him cute. the boys ask if he plays any games and right when an interesting conversation is about to start, you hear your mom’s voice before she makes her way over to you, grinning ear to ear.

looking down at others physically-wise is not new to him. he’s just been tall since he could remember, shy, too, might he add, so standing out isn’t a new concept. however, now as he meets your mom and slowly the rest of your immediate family bleed into the living room, he feels so exposed and naked, watching from above, like he can’t control his real body. he finds himself particularly scared. what grounds him is the way you hold his hand or link arms with him, turning your head all the way to face him, smiling at him like you’re the only two here. the littlest contact does wonders for him.

all good?

your eyes deliver this message in the shadows. his dimples flex.

all good.

for the first hour or so, it’s just introductions and endless flow of compliments. all your relatives call him cute, handsome, charming, and oh so very tall. he hides his blushes as best he can despite towering over you. everyone’s having dinner by the time you and he arrive, so you just assume your plates and eat at your own little table, talking and fighting the nervous sweats. soobin finds that the new foods he’s trying seem to distract him with how good they taste.

then, it gets a little… soobin doesn’t know how to put it. nor did he think it was his place to have an opinion. well, at least at first. one by one, some cousins and relatives come by to your table to get to know more about soobin. he gets flustered easily, so it was expected that he wouldn’t be able to handle everything perfectly. but, he did, not that he had a choice. you would be speaking for him, but they would cut you off, demanding he answer instead. you’d seemed flustered, apologizing, squeezing his palm and looking at him expectantly.

it became more than that.

soobin might not know the ins and outs of girl talk and well, the inner workings of your family, but he senses the backhandedness of the constant surprise your family members show at seeing you together. they choose their words incisively. his heart aches for you when they do so. your mom even jovially points out your flaws to contrast his strong points he’s only revealed to answer their question.

you just fight it off with an embarrassed grin, gripping onto soobin’s big hand from under the table.

there’s no place to try to even talk about what’s going on. not without any prying eyes following you or him. he has no ill feelings — well, maybe a little — towards your family, but he doesn’t understand why it is the way it is.

it’s getting awfully late, the party definitely running on momentum to carry on past the dead hours of the night, and you know it’s more than ready to begin bidding goodbyes. you rise from your chair, sparing soobin a tight smile, excusing yourself from your parents first before making any moves with soobin.

leaving seems a lost cause when you keep getting pulled aside by a relative or two. right when each conversation is done, your mom is calling you over to the kitchen to take leftovers. as you should.

it’s when he’s briefly alone, a few family members turn to him, simple questions on their tongue. his heart beats so fast and irregularly, but he somehow finds the strength to ask a few questions.

all he gets is one in, and somehow it is enough to answer a lot.

what were you like as a child?

he is met with inconsistencies or things that seem to be the opposite of you. they fumble softball questions, so obviously unaware of your hobbies, your favorite color, your passions, drawing assumptions of your character on the way they treated you as a kid. soobin smiles and nods, internally confirming his previous thoughts, though it makes his stomach ache at the thought of it.

sunshine comes around the corner in the form of you, speeding over with a large tupperware of food, nearly tripping with the bustling kids running around without care. your smile is stretched so big and he knows more than anything that it’s because you can’t wait to get out of there.

instead of excusing yourself individually from everyone with soobin like you’re supposed to, you both just get up and head to the door, waving and giving one big verbal goodbye. soobin holds the tupperware for you in one hand and he has your purse hanging over his shoulder, bowing his head a few times and smiling while you wave and keep saying bye until the door shuts behind you. you deflate with relief once it does that.

the walk to the car is quiet. both of your stomachs are turning with anxiety because you kinda do have to talk about it.

soobin opens the passenger car door, setting the bins down on the seat before closing, turning to face you as you lean on the car next to him. he moves away so, you can lean on where he was standing.

he can’t really let it go. they don’t even know you. maybe you gave them the opportunity to, while you grew up, maybe you didn’t. but, you just now are old enough, their lack of empathy and familiarity a result of their own carelessness. you were just a kid.

soobin turns on his heel to face you. his shoe twists the gravel beneath, dull against the incoherent beats of crickets chirping and cicadas buzzing. the streetlight above attracts a few fluttering moths, dim in its function, enough for fireflies to float around in the air. the world moves around you both, never pausing for either of you to try and catch your breath. literally. it spins on its axis at 1,000 miles per hour.

it is pretty baffling when he thinks about it. the way you do so much for him, calming down his faint heart, and his chest clenches at the annoyed urge that he can’t have the same or a better reciprocation of providing shelter, happiness, and love.

your eyes are still stuck on your dress shoes, head hanging low and back slumped against the passenger door of the car.

“sorry, you had to see all that.” you finally manage, moving upwards to look at him with a humorous smile.

the world moves fast regardless of what happens. soobin doesn’t know why he gets so hung up on the mountains he can’t move.

he blinks down at you, watching the way your curtain of eyelashes reflect a shine from the lamp post near you, fingers twiddling in real time at the speed of your thoughts. you are everything to soobin. he loves you and declares himself the happiest person ever being with you. isn’t that enough?

there’s a lot he knows he can’t do. but one thing is sure, he loves you endlessly.

“don’t be sorry, babe,” he takes another step closer to you, smile widening and at that, your mouth follows his expression. like magic, lighting a flame in his heart and tummy, your hands reach up towards his, and without sparing another moment, he takes them in his hands. you intertwine your fingers, moving your wrists a little, hands playing around.

there’s a part of him, wide and conquering, that has him unsure of what to say, no room to figure out the best thing to open up with or explain what unfolded. you yourself look overwhelmed with this very burden. even if your smiles say otherwise.

he makes a little noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a hum before sealing the proximity. soobin slides next to you against the car and gently rounds his arms over you, pulling you in for a hug that knows no end to comfort. he curls his hand in your hair. his fingers stroke softly through the area closest to your temple and your own hand fists into his clothes. a kiss is pressed to your crown and your eyes sting.

the crickets chirp so loudly around you. the bass of the muffled music booms from the inside, but it doesn’t reach your ears. he kisses again this time with an audible pucker, making you snicker into his bicep. your hand shifts up to drift over it. you wrap up in each other like two snakes on a caduceus.

soobin is so thankful you let him in to your little world, even if it meant you nicked yourself while opening the door to your background. it adds up as to why you’re so resilient and strong, characteristics he could only dream of being able to call himself. he thanks you for allowing him the honor to knowing you, understanding you, and loving you. the people you consider family don’t know you one bit, but he feels lucky because you let him know you. and you are so beautiful. he has to blink aggressively so as to will the stinging tears away.

“do you think your parents liked me?” he murmurs and you snort, angling your head to now face up at him.

“soob,” your tone is in warning, but he knows you’re joking. “you know they loved you.” with that answer, you reach up and stretch to peck the corner of his lips.

“and your family, too?”

“especially my family.” you chuckle, feeling the fabric of his sleeve. soobin holds back a sigh. guilt and a sort of odd tension bubbles in his gut.

“thank you for letting me meet them,” he mumbles against your hair. you hum out a response, but it mainly comes out as an acknowledgment. “now, i know we have tupperwares of food, but what if…?” you can hear his smile.

“what if we go get mcdonald’s and watch a show while we snuggle?” at the last word, soobin brings you closer in his chest, laughing at your muffled yelp and own laughter.

you angle your head to peck a kiss to his wrist, looking up at him and he is already gazing down at you, eyes full of love.

your heart races just a bit at the excitement but also because you know you are due to talk about how you felt during the dinner. the drive home is going to be filled with your favorite songs, you and your boyfriend singing along to the lyrics while the other one talks or comments on tonight. soobin drives this time, ordering and picking up the food, your order memorized. you feed him some ice cream while practically downing your own. once the show is on, food is settled, you and him are wrapped up in blankets. you bring it up on your own accord, talking about how your family made you feel and how you already would rather spend heaps of more time with soobin’s than your own. soobin will stay quiet for a bit, hand rubbing your back in circles until he tears up, making you tear up, leaving you two to have quite a heart to heart. the forecast has already played out, but it doesn’t matter; none of it does since you have soobin and he makes you so happy. so, you pull away, giving him a big smile, which makes him light up like a star, and say,

“i’d want nothing more.”

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖✶ ✦　　

ending note: if you have any ideas or requests that have actual plots and want to spare me one and do me a favor, please hit me up T_T i feel like i give you guys nothing and i’m so sorry,,, if you made it to the end, thank you 🙏

[liesmyth]

may i humbly request a director’s commentary for any part of as long as it is day

omg omg very happily!! Writing that fic was a fantastic experience I love chatting about it

as long as it is day (The Locked Tomb, Time Loop, Gideon-centric; Gideon & John; Gideon & Wake; Gideon/Harrow)

Nonagesimus, you owed me so big. You spat on my gift of a perfectly good soul, you trapped me in the back of your head like a bad dream to be forgotten and brought me back to fight disgusting bloody wasps, and then you got me stuck in a nightmare whirl of the worst fucking night of my life. Which, you know. That’s really saying something.

This fic was written for a fic exchange for @augustmourn who had THE most beautiful collection of prompts ever. It was a struggle to pick only one to fill. I landed on the time loop idea and picked the ending of HtN because it's such a WTF moment for Gideon, with everything happening at once, and discovering who John and Wake are to her literally seconds before disaster.

I decided from the start I wanted Gideon to fight Heralds a lot and die a lot. I spent probably days sliding into @nikkicafeina's DMs to figure out the best John & Gideon's dynamic and we landed on John would be absolutely delighted to have a secret daughter!! who's also Harrow's cav!! That man loves finding His People. Meanwhile, Gideon who just watched John do HtN Act 5 would be extremely wary and pissed off at him. She is NOT impressed with her newfound father. Half the John & Gideon scenes in the fic are John going like, "Wait are you MAD at me?" and Gideon who reluctantly goes from "I want nothing to do with you but unfortunately you're literally God and I need your help to find my girlfriend" to, like... remembering that she grew up as a foundling on the Ninth daydreaming of the day somebody would come for her. She never had anybody before (Harrow is complicated) and now John wants to play cards with her while they're stuck in a time loop. Is he a good person? No. Does it matter? No. Nobody ever even pretended to care about her before.

Gideon & Wake was my favourite part to write. It was hard because Wake as a character is so complicated to me — the strength of her convictions but meanwhile she's sleeping with her mortal enemy on the DL! She will do anything to free her people up to and including killing millions! She only ever saw Gideon as a bio weapon but she says "I'm sorry" the first time they meet face to face! Ultimately, the version of Wake that Gideon meets is a revenant who only wants one thing. Gideon, who grew up talking to her mother's bones, has to put an end to Wake's mission because she needs John to help her find Harrow. As I said in the tags: the universe's WORST family reunion. I'm actually pretty proud of how the final Wake & Gideon scene came out because I gave myself feelings.

Random thoughts:

I love naming TLT fics after Bible verses especially when they are sort of ironic. This one is from John 9:4. “As long as it is day, we must do the works of him who sent me.” <- this means. Gideon baby girl you're not getting ANY sleep

I'm really pretty proud of how the Gideon voice came out ngl

Gideon POV grasp of the Lyctors and their dynamics was a blast to write. She does NOT care about the Lyctors, they could die for all she cares (should die probably) but I think she's in a unique position to understand their fucked up codependency. Nobody else understands what is like to go through immortality other than another immortal. She witnessed Mercy and John and Augustine all trying to kill each other the first time around. But she understands fucked up codependency and why John would never let Wake kill any of HIS Lyctors. They're HIS.

Gideon confronting Wake with the fact that the Ninth House nuns named her after the guy who killed her. I'm always thinking about whatever the fuck must have gone through between Wake and G1deon; I loved writing this line: “There are worse names,” she conceded. “He killed me, but he made it quick. Others wouldn’t have.”

Gideon (a normal person) describing the Heralds (disgusting space wasps) and the Mithraeum (bone palace central). I feel strongly that she'd actually like the Mithraeum! She grew up with Crux telling her "and even after you're dead you'll serve the Ninth as a skeleton". I feel like, to her, the idea of bones being used as decoration in a beautiful place instead of as manual labour is quite soothing.

I'm gonna be honest and admit I only came up with section header names so I could call one "2Emperor 2Murder". I think it captures the spirit of the books.

I had SO much fun with pronouns. Gideon-in-Harrow's body sometimes refers to the body she's inhabiting as Harrow's (I bit your lip) and sometimes it's both of them (I looked at the woman behind those eyes. She looked at us.) <- all of these are intentional and were fun to write.

John is the person who designed the #aesthetic of the Nine Houses. It's very important to me that he has a cool wizard sword of his own and he's absolute shit at using it. He's never had to get his hands dirty at close range before. He made himself cool weapons for cool factor and that's it.

I feel like a hack because SO many people liked the last line and it wasn't even mine.

I thought: Harrow, I’m coming. Which, you know. That’s what she said.

^ credit for this goes to @theriverbeyond who's THE Gideon expert in my life <3

WOW TURNS OUT I HAD A LOT TO SAY ABOUT THIS FIC. THANK YOU FOR INDULGING ME <3333

[fanfic writers director’s cut meme!]

[lau219]

Hope

Part 1

…………………………………………………………………………….

​It had been eight months that they’d been living like this, all together in the cramped little apartment, taking turns sleeping on the one bed, using the one bath, making meals each day. And as unnatural as the entire situation was, it grew to feel somewhat normal and domestic, like one big, mismatched family. They’d been thrown together without any prior knowledge of each other, but the time together had allowed for a closeness to form amongst them all. It served the situation well, as any onlookers and bystanders were easily convinced that the two couples were meant to be together. Little did anyone know that they were all a part of this harrowing situation.

​But there was a big part of her that didn’t want it to be an act. She kept this a secret, of course, not even sharing with Marie how she felt. But over the course of the last eight months, a warmth and devotion towards Josef had grown within her, and that soon grew even more into what she was afraid was love. Every time she allowed herself to acknowledge it, she just as quickly admonished herself. How could she be so foolish as to let herself have these feelings? This situation was fabricated, and not permanent, and, in the most basic form, it was an act. She had been a part of similar situations before, albeit not quite as lengthy or involved, but never had she ever let emotion cloud her. Until now.

​It wasn’t just one thing; it was everything about him. Quiet, stoic, and intense, he was always reserved and practical, but he was also thoughtful, kind, and ever the gentleman. He was dedicated and focused, and at first glance, one might think enough experiences had caused him to be hardened, as he gave little away. But over time, she had come to learn him, to understand his looks and his body language. He was hardened, in fact, but not by what he’d been through, exactly. Moreso, it was the fact that he’d had to go through any of it at all. He was sad. Sad that this was the life he had to live, that any chance of normalcy had been robbed from him long ago. She could tell that each day, he functioned somewhat on automatic, trying to ignore the fact that this was what his life was. And it hurt so much to watch because he was such a good man.

​He didn’t deserve that, she thought. None of them did. When it came down to it, they’d all been forced into this life, unaware of how much it would consume them and chart their courses for them. Had any of them known, they’d never have agreed to be involved in the first place. But war brought about all kinds of scenarios that no one would have ever dreamed of, and it would be a safe bet to say that their former selves would never recognize the people they were today.

​Yet, she always remained hopeful. Hopeful that this would one day end, that normalcy, or some sense of it, could be hers again – could be for everyone. She refused to let herself completely resign to the idea that her life could end this way. And she tried so hard to make others believe the same. As she and Josef would walk together, she’d insert a hopeful remark here and there, trying to lighten the weight he carried that was always felt but never seen. When he’d talk about things he’d hoped for as a younger man, he always said it with the finality that it would never be. She couldn’t bear to hear it, and so she’d do as much as she could to try and bring a smile to his face, to offer him hope. She willed him to believe it, but she had the fear that she hadn’t been successful.

​At the same time, though, she did her best not to overstep. She knew she had no right to project anything onto him, and outside of the occasional times when they got more personal, she did her best to mind her own business. The less she provoked, the better, she thought. Just let them be, she thought. She again reminded herself that she had no right to be a part of their real lives.

​However, no matter how much she’d reminded herself of that, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from falling for him, and she felt ashamed for letting it happen. He was everything she could want, and she found herself daydreaming of another world, one in which they’d met naturally, where his handsome face wasn’t always tinged with sadness, and where he chose to be around her because he wanted to be, not because he had to be. Of course, he’d never made her feel as if he didn’t want her around, but it wasn’t as if any of them had a choice. But there were times when, for the briefest moments, she’d catch him looking at her in a way that made her heart forget their situation, that felt like he saw her as she hoped he would. In those moments, she’d had to stop herself from reaching for him.

​She had awoken that day with a new resolve to ignore it all and simply focus on the task at hand. It had been easy enough earlier in the day, as she and Marie had been away from the apartment all day to retrieve information from various intel sources. They’d even had a scare when gunfire had rung out at a storefront as they’d walked by, but it turned out to be from a disagreement between two shop owners, one of which apparently lost his temper. Her heart had raced as they’d thrown themselves to the ground, and it seemed almost comical now that she was unscathed.

​When she and Marie had arrived back at the apartment, both Josef and Jan immediately jumped from their chairs where they’d been sitting at the small dining table, having heard about what happened. Marie and Jan had rushed to each other, meeting in the middle of the room for a heated embrace, yet she stayed at the doorway. After watching them for a moment, she felt Josef’s eyes on her, and when she looked to him, his expression was one she couldn’t read. He almost seemed to be, dare she say, restraining himself, and her heart pounded when he opened his mouth to speak. But almost immediately, he decided against it, and she simply gave him a small nod before turning back around to remove her coat and hat. She then went to the bathroom to splash some water on her face before excusing herself to go downstairs to the landlady’s apartment.

​She was grateful she had agreed to watch the woman’s small grandbaby for a few hours, needing the distraction. She had hoped to have Marie for emotional support after all they’d been through that day, but as she carried the baby back into the apartment, she found her and Jan putting on their coats and heading for the door she’d just come through.

​“There’s a band playing at the pub down the street,” Marie explained as they stopped on their way out. “Won’t you come with us?”

​She said nothing, simply gesturing to the baby on her hip.

​“Why on Earth did you agree to that?” Marie asked. “How long?”

​“It’s only for a couple of hours,” she responded. “For all that woman has done for us, the least I could do was allow her a short time’s peace to visit her husband at the hospital. Besides, it will be nice to have a little lightheartedness around here.” She looked at all of them, including Josef, who stood in the kitchen, leaning against the sink. “I think I may cry if I have to spend another night around all of you.”

​They all had laughed, but she noticed how Josef’s expression had quickly returned to a serious one. Although she’d turned away, she could still feel his eyes on her as she’d said goodbye to Marie, waving the baby’s small hand at her and Jan as they’d rushed down the stairs. She had then closed her eyes briefly and silently inhaled a deep breath, steeling herself before closing the door and turning around. Josef was likely highly annoyed that a baby would be disrupting his evening.

​“You didn’t care to join them?” she’d asked him.

​“No,” he’d replied simply, still standing across the room.

​“Well, I’m sorry to do this to you,” she apologized. “I thought for certain that I would be alone, or at least that it would only be Marie and myself. I didn’t mean to disrupt your evening.”

​“It’s fine,” he’d replied, and when the baby suddenly cooed and grabbed her finger with a squeal, the hint of a smile spread across his face as he watched her laugh.

​“It suits you,” he said, looking between her and the baby.

​Her eyes shot to him at his words, a blush dancing across her cheeks as their eyes met. The moment felt suffocatingly intimate, and she had to look away from him. Fortunately, the baby was making enough noise to keep away an awkward silence, and when he stretched his arms out towards Josef, she smiled.

​“I think someone likes you,” she said to Josef, allowing herself to look at him again. “Would you like to hold him?”

​A look of hesitancy crossed his face, and he didn’t move away from the sink. Nevertheless, she walked to him with the baby, stopping in front of him and smiling.

​“Go on,” she encouraged him quietly. “It will be good for you.”

​Josef glanced at her again briefly before looking down at the baby. She shifted him in her arms and then passed him to Josef, who gave one more look of uncertainty before awkwardly taking him from her. Their bodies brushed as she helped him adjust the baby, and she guided his hands to where best to hold him. After a moment of awkwardness, Josef seemed to (almost) happily surrender to the situation, and when she saw the two of them smile at each other, she physically had to turn around and look away, the entire sight being too much to take. But when the baby squealed again, she turned back around.

​“Alright, let’s take you in the other room, shall we?” she said to the baby, not allowing herself to look at Josef again. Keeping her eyes lowered, she gently took the baby from him and turned around, walking into the sitting room and making the baby comfortable on the floor.

​The few hours passed without incident, and she managed to keep the baby happy and entertained, singing to him and making him laugh, bouncing him on her lap or walking around the room with him. Not once did she let herself look beyond the room for Josef, and, in fact, he’d been so quiet that by the time the landlady had knocked on the door to retrieve the baby, she’d nearly forgotten he was there. She chatted with the landlady at the door for several minutes before stepping back inside and closing the door. As she turned into the kitchen, her eyes met Josef’s, who was standing near the sink again, watching her. Her heart pounded, but rather than indulging herself in foolish thoughts, she headed towards the bedroom, grateful for the distraction of the baby’s extra blanket that the landlady had left behind. She’d return it to her tomorrow, she thought, and she picked it up off the bed and carefully began folding it. But soon, the sound of Josef stopping at the door caused her heart to skip a beat.

​“In another life, I’d make you my wife,” he said quietly.

​Her heart completely stopped, and when she turned around and met his eyes, she briefly forgot how to breathe.

​“What?” she whispered, hardly able to form the word.

​He stepped the rest of the way into the room, stopping in front of her, his eyes never leaving hers.

​“In another place, in another time, I would make you my wife,” he repeated. “You would be mine. You would have my children. And you’d let me love you.”

​She could hardly comprehend what he was saying, her blood pounding in her ears as she looked at him. Yet, she couldn’t stop her own words that came next.

​“I would never have to let you,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “I would willingly be yours...in an instant.”

​Josef’s jaw clenched as he reached for her, his hand slipping behind her neck and gripping it firmly with possession.

​“You would?” he asked.

​“I am,” she replied. “I’m yours.”

​He shook his head, stroking the back of her neck as he pulled her closer.

​“Not here, not now. It’s been taken from us.”

​“No, Josef,” she said as she shook her head, tears silently running down her cheeks. “It can happen. Here and beyond.” She raised her hands and gripped his shirt. “You speak so certainly about impossibility. What about the opposite? You have to have hope, Josef. Don’t live as if you’re already dead. Please!”

​Looking down into her eyes, he slipped his hands to her cheeks, cradling her face. His eyes were full of love and heartache. With the direction his life had taken, never did he expect to find a woman like this. A woman so full of love and compassion, yet so strong and resilient. Someone who had every reason to be mad at the world, but instead was full of light and kindness and beauty, and who grasped at hope. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to find her, resigned to the fact that his life couldn’t be that way, and that it would in all likelihood be cut short at any moment. What was the point of love if it was met with death? But she had made her way into his heart against all odds.

​Pulling her even closer, he closed his eyes tightly and rested his forehead against hers. For the first time, he allowed himself the tiniest sliver of hope for beyond all this. Hope for a life with her in his arms. A life where the good swept away the bad.

​“I love you,” he whispered to her.

​Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and stroked his hair.

​“I love you,” she echoed back to him. “So much that it hurts. But we have to believe that there’s a future beyond all this. We have to.” She pulled back enough to look at him, touching his cheek as he continued to hold her.

​“Make me,” he said as he looked into her eyes. “Make me believe.”

​When their lips met, her knees buckled, and Josef held her against him as they both became lost in each other. Hope, love, and desire rendered each of them helpless, and as they made love, time seemed to stand still, their bodies and their emotions connecting in a painfully beautiful way. When the room fell silent, Josef held her against him as she drifted off to sleep. As the light of the moon shone through the small window and highlighted her beautiful face, he clung to her tighter. Clung to her, and to hope. The hope that, somehow, they would come out of all this on the other side. Together.

Part 2

@neonpurplestars89-blog

[down-a-dark-allie-way]

DATV - Fanpanion

(possibly thinking of building a little compendium of Dragon Age Fan-tasy. Ha! Get it?)

“To see nothing but, evil. Feel nothing but, the bad and to still choose to do good - that is what makes you good. And, to do that again, makes you the best of us, kid.” - Varric Tethras

‘I have nothing to fear of demons. They think I am one of them.’ - Winnow

Winnow was found within the tall walls of the Kirkwall circle. They weren’t born when the fight between Knight Commander Meredith and Grant Enchanter Orsino came to an explosive conclusion. Years later, Winnow was discovered by a templar knight within the Gallows, but there was no person who would claim the rosy-cheeked babe as their own. It wasn’t uncommon for fearful parents to drop off their children. Mages also would have children within the Circle and abandon them, afraid of the consequences.

Winnow would be declared an orphan and made a ward of the Kirkwall Circle.

Their early years were to put it simply, chaotic. New laws and reforms were introduced then rescinded constantly. Despite a wealth of good intensions, change was slow and imperfect, as it always is. No matter what was implemented, a circle would never be a place where children should grow up, but it would continue to be.

Winnow was raised by a combination of templars, circle mages and chantry sisters. Never anyone long enough to be called family. Because Winnow’s parentage was unknown, they were marked as a potential mage, meaning no leaving the circle, no adoption, no chance.

While coming of age, Winnow was educated by the Chantry and Melody, a circle mage with a delicate disposition. They were a quick learner and wanted praise more than anything else. Unlike many others within the walls, Winnow was content, even happy at times. They had known no other life.

Difficult at times, but a good life nonetheless. Until they neared their harrowing. There was little record keeping in Kirkwall, even as the resilient city rebuilt, and the chaos dimmed. Because of this, no one knows if Winnow even, displayed any magic abilities prior to their trial. Regardless, the templars claimed Winnow had failed their harrowing, which meant they were to be made tranquil.

Melody fought tooth and nail. Winnow was so young, and they had grown up in the Circle, followed every rule and condition. How did they fail? No. No. Melody rallied the Circle mages and, well now it looked to much like the rebellion a few years ago. Templar justice is rarely right but, it is swift. The mages were confined to quarters. No news in or out. Not easily dissuaded, Melody decided extreme situations called for extreme action. Winnow was her family.

The things we do for love.

She managed to sneak past the guard and, out of desperation and affection she threw herself from the Gallows wall into the merchant courtyard. Melody died on impact but, she would speak from beyond the grave. Melody carved Winnow’s story into her still bleeding back. It finally reached the ears of those who could help. That was the last thought she had before slipping into darkness.

‘Child to be made Tranquil!’

‘Monster child, no parents. Demon?!?!’

‘Rite of Tranquility is the Right of Man’

‘Magic should not be a sentence’

The debate echoed through every alleyway in Kirkwall. However, the people were reticent to fight the Order without their Viscount. They had just reassembled the city with what broken pieces were salvaged after the civil war. Would this cause another one?

It was such bad luck that Varric had been away. By the time he learned about Winnow, he was too late.

Or should we say, half too late.

Varric managed to interrupt the ritual, leaving the tranquility half completed. Winnow’s positive emotions had been sealed away but, the negative remained. When Varric told the child he fate of their friend Melody, Winnow just trembled holding onto Varric like he were driftwood in a storm on the water. It wasn’t fair. He was so sorry. Varric needed to stop taking in strays but, he felt responsible. Had he just attended to his duties as Viscount, instead of chasing Solas, maybe he would have stopped all of this from happening.

Varric demanded Divine Victoria undo the Rite placed on Winnow. They had discovered the reversal. Consequences be damned. It was the right thing to do. The Divine was focusing on the bigger picture and the stability they had just put together. Divine Victoria said no. This would be the last straw, and the last time the two would speak.

Winnow was taken in by Varric. They reminded him of Cole in some ways. Odd. Monotone. Curious. Somehow despite it all, kind. They had deserved so much better. Winnow would work as Varric’s editor learning of the world through his stories. Varric also taught the kid all of his roguish talents. The question of magic hung in the air but, Winnow didn’t seem open to the discussion so Varric left it at that.

Varric would seek out Dorian, who also felt kinship with the mistreated youth. While still busy with magister duties, Dorian did what he could to research possible cures and took care of the child when Varric needed to go on exceedingly dangerous missions. Winnow argued they were better suited at Varric’s side and that argument worked most of the time. They were talented and careful.

The kid excelled with the determination only seen in tranquil given purpose. Winnow seemed to be one with darkness. They would blend into nothingness to gather intel and steal from the unworthy. Winnow was a talented rogue, especially when confronted with Tevinter mages using demons. After all, Winnow was just singular negativity. The demons thought Winnow was one of them.

This let Winnow gain access to areas normally swarming with demons, in and outside the fade. They also documented everything they saw. Demon behavior. Demon types. They were set to becoming the foremost expert on demons in Thedas. Not that, there was a ton of competition.

Varric swore he would do right by the kid. Once this thing with Solas was all over, Winnow would have Varric’s full attention. He promised. He had promised.

[until-another-one-comes]

Part 3 of my serial killer! Francis AU

Regarding his backstory, Francis grew up in a really toxic, abusive environment. His dad is physically and verbally abusive towards him, often beating and dehumanising him when he’s in a bad mood. He also frequently cheats on his wife. Francis recalled seeing him with a new woman every now and then. Meanwhile his mother was caring towards him and would often shield him from his father’s abuse, which lead to her being beat up with every inch of her life while Francis watches in despair as his mother tries to protect him. Francis was also a social outcast at school. He was quiet, shy, reserved, always kept to himself and didn’t stand out in any way. Most of the kids know his dad is a horrible man and a cheater, so by extension, they see Francis as a horrible person too, so they would always bully, degrade, destroy his belongings, anything to hammer in that he’s a sub-human.

One day, Francis’s mother snapped due to the abuse she endured from her husband. While she still cares for Francis, she in turn, became psychologically abusive towards him when she’s hysterical, also seeing him as an extension of his father because they look alike. By that point, Francis was heartbroken. He had been betrayed by the one person who cared for him in his life. His mother turned against him like everyone else. During his teens, Francis’s mother died of an illness and during her funeral, Francis had the biggest mental breakdown in his entire life. This was the time he cried the loudest. Even though Francis bear some resentment towards his mother for abusing him, a part of him still loves her. After enduring so much pain, suffering and tears, Francis finally snaps. He cried so much until he felt no emotions anymore. He became an empty husk of a human he used to be. He now has a huge disdain for humans and believed nothing in the world matters.

One day, when his father was being cruel to him again, Francis in a fit of psychotic rage smashed an empty bottle against his head and killed him. Like I mentioned before, his father was his first victim. For the first time ever in his life, Francis felt a wave of euphoria he never felt before. The person who tormented him all his life was murdered by his own two hands. Francis let out a deranged laughter. The twisted euphoria of ending the life of someone he despises brought pleasure to him. Then Francis mutilated his dad’s corpse with a kitchen knife, stomped on it multiple times until his dad’s corpse was nothing but mushy remains. But after the surge of sick ecstasy, Francis went back to feeling nothing. All the sick pleasure he experienced was short lived. And Francis thought that if he can kill someone who crossed him, why not kill again to feel that rush.

Now that he killed his father, Francis can’t let himself get caught. So he hid his dad’s corpse, cleaned up and moved out of his hometown and never went back again. He got a job as a milkman and feels no joy from his work, only working to survive. To the public, Francis was a tired, polite albeit dull, uncaring milkman but on the inside he was an insane madman with a soul blackened tainted by the people who tormented him.

Whether Francis is caught and put on the death row or he got away with it all with no consequences, either way, he’ll die all alone, unloved and still a traumatised, broken man. On the verge of his deathbed, Francis doesn’t regret the lives he ended by his two hands. He’ll willingly burn in hell as the rotten man he is. He knows that despite the outcomes, he was tragically doomed. Deep down, Francis never saw himself as human. In fact, he knows he’s no different than his abusers or the doppelgängers. Even if he did care for someone, his relationship was bound to fail anyway. The bottom line is, the one person who Francis hates the most is himself. And he’ll die and be remembered as a notorious killer for years to come.

Holy shit his backstory is harrowing. Can someone save this man.

Thats honestly sad and very understandable why he became the way he is, even though that doesn't excuse his actions

[lavathein]

About the final in episode 6

"I'm going to be objective. Because I'm a fan of Loki for 10 years, and I've been waiting for a series about him. I didn't ask them to make him like this, I didn't expect this outcome. If you're curious - I was afraid of a romantic storyline, because I thought they wouldn't pull it off. And Season 1 seemed to prove me wrong. I'm in love with this series. I liked all the characters in this series, Sylvie, Mobius... Everyone. And I believed that this season wanted to tell me something. Loki found a friend - Mobius. Loki fell in love with Sylvie, and she with him. It was a good story, and I won't dwell on it. I'll move on to the finale.

Episode 6 season 1:

Loki and Sylvie go to the Citadel at the End of Time to meet with He Who Remains. And here a conflict arises - the resolution of which I've been waiting for 2 years. And not just me...

He Who Remains tells them about the Sacred Timeline and the Problem they cannot avoid. He gives them a choice: either they kill him, or they take his place. I'll remind you, neither of them wants the throne; they wanted to be together on the Timeline and live their lives. Sylvie had this goal long before Loki, and for her, it's not just a goal; it's a very long and tragic path to avenge her ruined life. For Loki, no, he just wants to be happy. Sylvie sees a monster in front of her that needs to be destroyed. Loki sees a trap they skillfully want to lead them into. They are both right. But Loki understands that they can't just walk away, and something terrible may happen. He doesn't know what to choose, but he doesn't like the choice they are given.

They have different thoughts on this matter. Then Sylvie says, 'Kill me and take your throne' - this is important because she immediately makes it clear that she would rather die than leave this person alive. In other words, 'either I kill him, or you (Loki) kill me.' Loki truly loves her, as clearly shown in Season 1, and of course, he has no intention of killing her. And he is sincere when he says, 'I just want you to be okay.' Sylvie loves him just as much, but he is not on her side and also makes it clear that he will not back down. They are in a situation where they cannot resolve it together. Sylvie kisses him goodbye and pushes him away - it's a choice she decides to make so that they don't harm each other even more. It was very powerful, beautiful, and profound in my opinion. Because here's the situation, here they find themselves, and a conflict unfolds."

They don't talk about it in season 2:

And now, what happens next? Loki searches for her, wants to bring her back and seemingly figure out the situation? He fails because Sylvie doesn't understand his motivation - the throne? TVA? Was he deceiving her or genuinely caring or loving? Does she know about it?

I liked how in Season 2, even through the conflict, there were hints that they care about each other. They don't blame each other for the Citadel situation; Sylvie agrees to talk with him, although she could have said 'No, I don't care, go away' - no, she goes, she doesn't like the TVA topic, but when something is in danger, she also goes and helps. And again, they continue to learn something from each other, even without looking at the conflict. These are good moments in Season 2, but really... What is their conflict?

In the misunderstanding of each other and in the fact that each made a difficult choice. But did they do something wrong to each other? No. They can't be enemies. They don't talk about the situation in the Citadel at all. Throughout Season 2. There's a similar situation at the fair, where it's clear that this topic is painful and unpleasant for them. Okay. But they don't talk about it. Never. - Why?

Season 2 finale… what's the point?

Final of the 6th episode. Okay. What's the catch, so to speak? Loki has gone through a very harrowing journey from the finale of Season 1 Episode 6 to the finale of Season 2. What has he realized? He learned to TimeSlipping - as I thought, all of this was part of the plan of He Who Remains. It led to him trapping them and attempting to divide by undermining trust between them. Okay.

What's the problem? The weaving loom is impossible to fix. Either it will defend the One Sacred Timeline, and all branches will have to be pruned and killed, or the Timeline will be free, and at some point, it will start self-destructing. In other words… there's no point in choosing the right thing at all. If he stops Sylvie - He Who Remains will continue doing what he did, but Sylvie will likely die rather than agree to it - a ruined life, continued killing, she just won't be able to forgive it. If she kills He Who Remains, we see what happens - the weaving loom overloads, and ultimately, everyone dies. But… even if they both (Together) come to the conclusion that, yes, He Who Remains needs to be killed - it leads to the same result. In other words, it's impossible to fix it without the sacrifice Loki makes in the end. I want to say - there's just no other way. The situation is hopeless no matter what he chooses, except for the option where he kills Sylvie and leaves everything as it was. But he won't do that because he loves her, and he said that in the Season 1 finale - 'I just want you to be okay.'

Now the question, so what's wrong with the finale of Season 2? It seems logical… NO. Not entirely. In reality… No. They don't talk about their feelings. They don't talk about what happened in the Citadel; they don't… Haven't they reconciled? Haven't they said goodbye? Understand correctly, they show in Season 1 - they fell in love with each other, for them, it's the first time, and it's something real. It breaks reality; it helps them understand many things; they, for the first time, think not only about themselves. Then a conflict arises. Sylvie - 'I just need to kill the monster who ruined my life,' and Loki - 'I just need you to be okay' - In 6 episodes, there was no opportunity to talk about it and reconcile? To understand each other and realize that they weren't lying and genuinely cared about each other? Loki doesn't even have the chance to find out if that kiss was real, and he has to go to sacrifice with this silence? I don't understand this…

Destroying is - Easy:

Okay, let the finale be like that, I agree, it's beautiful, it's tragic, and it's sad, but why should it happen on such a bad note for these two characters who were portrayed as truly in love until now? It's like we're pretending - that this is how we remember what happened in Season 1, and what Loki is doing now seems to respond... But I'm not sure it should have ended like this. And I'm not talking about the characters; I'm talking about the scriptwriting. It's just discarded - an unresolved conflict.

I'm really disappointed with this part. It feels like the writers got scared and went the route of 'We'd rather ruin than fix what happened.' The scene in the Citadel starts to seem like a joke, where Loki can't do anything different, and she, like a bull seeing red, charges at He Who Remains... And then they literally say, 'Sylvie, sorry, but you're getting in the way, disappear somewhere' - What the hell was that? I remembered fans who loved to shout, 'Sylvie is Loki's competitor, just get rid of her' - it's so absurd, as if she doesn't matter... It's like spitting on the previous development and work because what happens to Loki - everything happened to him because of her. What happens in the series, the freed Timeline - it also concerned her. And now one Loki takes it all upon himself? It looks so ugly and weak, honestly. As if you're not even trying to hide that you're just getting rid of the character from the path... When so much could have been made into a very powerful story that would be more beautiful and stronger. I repeat once again - with the same conclusion. But it would have been just BETTER and more fitting in this story.

I'm just saying, for me, Season 2 didn't handle the conflict that Season 1 gave us. You may like Season 1. You may like Season 2. That's okay. But if you look at it as one story, there are so many questions (several thousand) that you still haven't received answers to or just left it - well, it happened, but it led nowhere. I am very saddened because indeed, the 6 episodes look beautiful, seemingly deep, but when you start to analyze it - No, they still messed it up and didn't cope with the task.

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

4

Seventh skull... that bodes well; everyone we've ever met from the Seventh is dead, and we are firmly in the realm of the living.

The plants filtered out some of the clinging smoke, and Nona loved to look at the trees and the bristly, curving shapes of the shrubs and bushes.

Me too, Nona. Sounds like you don't have a lot of plants there.

Another place had been cleared and ineptly concreted over, and they put the cages there. The cages were bone-cold and they’d been almost fully cleaned, but Nona didn’t like looking,

Cages... for what, Nona?? Or... for whom???

Then the teacher said, unexpectedly: “Hot Sauce is here too.” Not even the teacher knew Hot Sauce’s real name. Nona said, “That’s early.” “Yes. I asked her why, but she wouldn’t say. Check on her, won’t you?” As though Nona could check on Hot Sauce. “I’m worried about her, living alone. I’ve tried to tell her about the sheltered accommodation, but she’s too independent…”

We're finally getting to see Nona at school!

Honestly, I'm with the teacher on this one. As much as Hot Sauce is a leader and independent and all of that, she's also an orphan of like, fourteen.

Hot Sauce said, “Don’t let them see you from the window.” “Who’s watching?” “Don’t know. Green building. Fourth floor.” Nona was smart enough to catch herself getting up to look, which she privately congratulated herself upon.

Someone is watching. Hot Sauce doesn't think they're watching for Nona, but you can never be sure with these things. For all we know, the Emperor and/or Blood of Eden have lost track of Harrow's body and might very much like to get it back, no matter who is currently residing in it.

But Nona is so precious. I love her. She's so bright and full of love for plants and animals and people around her and herself. Have I mentioned that she's precious and that I love her?

Hot Sauce’s failure to ask anyone’s opinion on anything she did was probably the reason she was the unquestioned authority in the school, over and above the teachers. Nona had told Palamedes about it and Palamedes had said, Lead researcher material, certainly.

Lol, having worked in research, this is most certainly a diss against some kind of lead researcher Palamedes has worked with in the past. Maybe even himself.

She was a gallant little person of fortyish who gave the impression that she had learnt a lot early in life and discovered late that it was no real good to her or anyone else. This lent her teaching a weightless, secretive feeling, like it was really all for fun at the end of the day.

We meet "the Angel" for the first time properly, and this whole thing is a big mood. Same, Angel.

Nothing Pyrrha drank could really hurt her. She had even drunk the contents of the bleach bottle once. When Palamedes had asked why, Pyrrha said she had realised she wasn’t used to being tortured while immortal and wanted to get a head start, and Palamedes said bullshit because he thought Nona had not been listening. Nona wondered if the Angel had been drinking too, albeit not bleach, which had given Pyrrha some sensational hiccups.

Hold on. Pyrrha drank bleach?? Is she. Is she okay?

I mean, if you think about it, she's really not; she's stuck in Gideon the First's body, Gideon is dead, all Pyrrha's friends are dead, and she can't go back to the Emperor, and she can't go to the Blood of Eden, and she's here working her arse off for these kids, which is really what Nona and Cam and Palamedes are to her. Hard, thankless work day in day out, with very little idea of when this will end.

Oh, Pyrrha.

Everyone turned to look at Nona, who writhed beneath this judgement, and they agreed that she had not looked well for, like, weeks. “I do,” she said indignantly. “Look at my braids—I look wonderful,” which thankfully replaced their worry with a group effort to squash her vanity. They often took it in turns to squash Nona’s vanity, which never worked.

Good.

Anyway, she looks like Harrow, who's never looked particularly healthy in her life. Sorry to break it to you, Nona. She's in a Lyctor's body, which means very little can truly hurt her - I bet she could survive drinking bleach like Pyrrha - but if the other kids think she hasn't looked well in weeks, but she was looking better before then, is there something going on?

Even if they all assured her that she was nothing to write home about, she could say, “Who cares? I can’t write,” and then they had to switch tack and squash her for being proud that she was so goddamned stupid.

This is so fucking precious. Keep being proud of your dead-body looks and your above average stupidity, Nona. We love you.

Anyway, this kinda points to Nona's sickly looks just being general Harrow-ness.

The most interesting sight was someone lounging in an alleyway opposite the school building, sitting in a busted-up chair next to an overflowing bin, and Nona watched intently, trying to decide if they were dead or not. She decided not dead, because they were wearing quite a good jacket and faceguard and nobody was coming around surreptitiously trying to take either.

I'm sure this isn't of any importance whatsoever.

[bloodtwin]

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. ❞

[princesscolumbia]

Another TLT thought

Would Wake really have hated Gideon that much?

Stay with me here, this is important.

Let's say that, somehow, Wake didn't die on the Ninth when trying to airdrop in. Let's say she managed to stay alive and get away and somehow Griddle still grows up exactly the same way, still does the fire-less shish-ka-bob with her heart for Goth Queen, and winds up clawing her way out during Varun's attack on the Mithraeum, and the conversation about who Gideon is still happens without Wake piloting Citherea's body like her own Gundam.

Wake is still trucking about in the galaxy, you probably wouldn't have the terrorist-style attacks on the Empire (even Jod admitted that Wake had more sense than to nuke random targets), G1deon is still doing his level best Terminator impression.

Palamedes and Harrow insist that bonding a soul to an inanimate object will, over time, degrade that soul. It will not retain all the important of the everything about the person the soul is from long term. It will eventually turn into a ravening revanent, incapable of properly processing the world around it.

John seems to think (and would be the leader of the school of thought by default) that the soul is immutable, that once formed nothing changes it. No wonder he treats Wake as a coherent individual when he's talking to a literal possessed zombie, it never crosses his mind that maybe he's wasting his time. Wake isn't a coherent person anymore, she's fashioned herself into a cold, impersonal implement of destruction for everything wrong with the galaxy. She literally had her last living thoughts be about completing a mission, life be damned, at the expense of all else (No wonder G1deon had such a hard-on for her, he'd done the same thing to himself). She made herself into a weapon.

No wonder she possessed a sword for nearly two decades.

She locked her very malleable, slowly decaying spirit inside a cold, hard, immobile, single-purpose prison for two decades. Her entire purpose became to haunt the Walking Tomb of 200 Infants, and when she finally had a chance to be somewhere else, she put herself in the body of another woman who'd turned herself into an undying weapon.

Decades of nothing but cold, hard, unrelenting, raveningly insane HATE OF ALL THINGS ALIVE AND NOT. This was her ENTIRE WORLD.

And then Palamedes tumbles to the fact that souls are 100% mutable and malleable and WILL take on the traits of that which they are part of no matter what.

Back to the theoretical timeline where Wake didn't die on the Ninth...

Word gets back to her that there's this poor redhead who's got her nose and drive and Jod's eyes and seems to be working to try to White Knight All the Things who (and this is an IMPORTANT BIT) wasn't subjected to the irrational HATE of a schizophrenic teenager because IT WAS WAKE'S DECAYED SOUL THAT FORGED HARROW'S PAIN AND ANGER INTO HATE IN THE FIRST PLACE and she says, "Huh...okay, yeah, she's a zombie, but she's also my kid. I've had two decades to mellow after that cock-up of a mission. Maybe I don't love this zombie, but let's see if she hates her old man as much as I do."

And yeah, Gideon hates mommy dearest as much as she hates her pops, but they can at least respect each other and work with each other. They won't trust the other, but they're both smart enough to rely on each other to get the job done.

And since souls are malleable and Wake isn't locked in a tomb (see what I did there) of cold steel, maybe she warms up to her daughter.

[mythicspiration]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 from the Argent mountains, had gained a strangely warm regard from the lone explorer, because following along its length guaranteed arrival at its eventual confluence with the great southern Demacian river-- and that meant tiled rooftops peeking through leafy canopies at its peninsula. The fledgling town of Terbisia occupied Ezreal's thoughts as of late, overtaking his home of Piltover, the same way Ezreal had begun to seem like the figment, rather than Jarro.

When Ezreal passed the town's gates, his three month long journey was written all over him: scrapes, partly torn seams and hems, dry hands and lips, overgrown hair. He had injured his ankle in a rather harrowing slip in the cavern he'd descended, which still ghosted as the slightest limp in his step, no matter how well he thought he hid it. While he'd never been very scared of injuries or pain, this time Terbisia, and particularly its people, had flashed in his mind as a reminder of where he could not return, if he hurt himself too badly. That kind of sentiment was new for the lone explorer.

The hinterlands of Demacia were no uncharted territory for him. He first journeyed there years ago, and that marked the beginning of his attachment to Terbisia, as not long after he befriended the most unlikely person: Lux, or Luxanna of the Crownguard, but he didn't like to call her that. Back then, despite all her incredible talents, she was used as merely a playpiece of her family's politics. She was one of his only real friends, and his first love-- if he ever really fell out of love with her at all. The time they could spend together was little, and their friendship was challenged by their difference in station. In a way, it should've never been possible in the first place. Gradually, he fell out of touch with her, as Demacia grew harder for foreigners, and especially magic-born such as himself, to access.

Now, in the aftermath of the mage uprising, Lux was the Governess of Terbisia, offering refuge and guidance for Demacia's oppressed mages and rebuilding over the ruins of the town. He had sought her out after the conflict, and found her in this town. Ever since, he had returned as often as he could, rekindling their old friendship. Terbisia had begun to feel like a home, in a way Piltover never did. Along with Lux, the entire town of Terbisia met him with friendship-- and such a thing Ezreal had never, ever experienced.

He had never been quite stupid enough to think that a noble-born, on all accounts incredible person could be his friend, but here he was. He was, however, stupid enough to fall in love with her, but who wouldn't? His life had its share of curses and he had accepted that a long time ago. A lot had happened in the years he'd spent apart from Lux, and it seemed that she had loved another, at least until recently. He knew he shouldn't, that it was the most idiotic and moronic notion, but he couldn't help thinking; maybe, maybe someone even like himself, could have a shot at happiness and home. A family.

Terbisia was flourishing, people smiling and new houses receiving foundations-- thanks to Lux, he thought in awe. After some searching, and a delay from familiar faces in town who welcomed him back, he finally found his dear friend at the warehouse, where new supplies had arrived and demanded her attention. She looked a little tired, which didn't surprise Ezreal as much as it worried him-- she had always been hardworking, caring and thorough, and governing over an entire town was no doubt incredibly demanding. It was completely beyond his understanding how she managed to do it. But he would always, if he only could, try to lift her mood.

❛ Your Governess, ❜ came his greeting in mediocre Demacian, as he bowed his head, all dapper and posh, imitating some sort of Demacian nobleman. However, the playful twinkle of blue beneath his overgrown fringe gave away his pretense, and much more. The way he heaved his backpack to one shoulder, too, clashed against the persona he was trying to exude.

❛ Your town looks most excellently governed I must say, ❜ he continued, taking languid steps towards her, as if he wasn't dying to hug her. He even made a point to look around as if inspecting her handiwork, before letting his backpack drop to the floor. That was as long he could spare without looking at her, and his arms were now freed to do what they most desired. Finally deciding to drop his stupid joke and boorish Demacian, he had one thing to utter into long, silky pale strands as he embraced Lux tightly: I missed you.

He squeezed her against his chest, swaying a little, hands drawing stars onto her shoulders where he held her. It was longer than he usually hugged her for, and his heart beat rampantly, asking her if this was alright. He got suddenly scared that this really was out of line, and pulled away a little abruptly. He retracted his hands into his pockets, and even procured a fitting excuse; ❛ Sorry. I'm probably pretty nasty, straight out of an epic adventure and all that. ❜ Top it with a chuckle, and smooth as butter.

He had a point though; even he could smell the campfire smoke off of his own jacket, and he was in sore need of a haircut. He was unwilling to dwell on it however, and continued: ❛ Are you alright? Not to be rude, but you do look a little-- maybe, stressed out? ❜

The markings on his cheeks had lit up from the contact with another magic-born, their blue pronounced against elatedly red cheeks. In his eyes swam a mixture of hope and worry-- hope that Lux didn't mind the longer hug; worry for her well-being, and that she did mind. His fingers fiddled anxiously with a gift he had hid in his pocket, wishing to give it to her as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

Starter for @seekslight. Ezreal & Lux.

[ashland-frost]

Family Matters

I didn't like that there were no options when it came to this part of the game, so I made what I thought would have been better. Let me know how you like it and what you thought the options should have been.

My MC is not the new fifth year. It's another student who's been friends for a while with Sebastian.

Sebastian x MC { Frost}

The battle against Solomon was not where you expected this path to lead. Just as you finally managed to calm Sebastian down, his beloved uncle emerged and ruthlessly destroyed the sacred relic. "What have you done, boy?!"

Your exasperation reached its peak, for every time this absurd man opened his mouth, things only worsened. As you heard Sebastian's incantation, "Avada-" your instincts kicked in, propelling you to push Solomon aside in the nick of time. Sebastian, shocked by the near-tragedy he almost caused, was not consumed by anger or sadness at the prospect of almost ending his uncle's life. No, it was the harrowing realization that he had almost taken yours, his tears streaming uncontrollably.

Rushing towards him, you desperately reassured him that you were unharmed. "I almost killed you... I could have," he whispered, his voice trembling with guilt and regret.

"But you didn't," you countered firmly, your words resonating with an undertone of relief and forgiveness.

Anne and Ominis burst into the scene, their footsteps echoing in urgency. They witnessed the sight of you enveloping Sebastian, his broken form collapsed on the floor, sobbing and screaming. "I just wanted my sister to be cured. Why wasn't it me instead?" his anguished words pierced the air, each syllable laden with despair.

Solomon, for the first time, stood motionless, unable to utter a single word. He was a mere statue, frozen in time. "She's the only family I have. My parents are dead, and my uncle hates me. What do I have left?" His voice carried the weight of a soul burdened by sorrow and loss.

Upon hearing those heart-wrenching words, Anne couldn't contain her own anguish any longer. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the chaos of emotions in the room. "Sebastian, you still have me, Ominis and Frost are your family too. Together, we will find a way. You won't lose us," she whispered, her voice filled with a steadfast determination to support Sebastian through the darkest of times.

Anne rushed forward, her body betraying her as she fell to her knees. Trembling with raw emotion, she choked out, "Sebastian, I'm sorry. I had no idea you felt this way all along. I never wanted you to suffer for my sake." Embracing her brother tightly, she pleaded, "Please, I can't bear to lose you either."

Ominis stood behind Anne, his presence a pillar of unwavering support. Placing a reassuring hand on Sebastian's shoulder, he spoke softly, "Sebastian, you're not alone. We are here for you, and we won't abandon you."

Meanwhile, you regained your composure and marched purposefully towards Solomon, who remained fixed in his vacant stare, unaffected by the emotional turmoil unfolding before him. The fire in your eyes burned bright as you confronted him, your voice trembling with anger and frustration. "YOU!! How dare you? Your own nephew needed you!" With a resounding slap across his face, you jolted Solomon out of his daze. The three of them turned to witness the impact, Solomon's hand instinctively reaching to his stinging cheek, yet still he remained motionless.

"Not once, in all the time I've known you, did you ever speak to Sebastian as if you genuinely cared for him," you continued, your voice escalating in intensity. "And now, as he's having a breakdown right in front of you, you do nothing. He believes you don't love him. Why can't you say anything?" Each word pierced the air with righteous indignation, as you shouted your accusations at the silent figure before you.

The room began to spin, dizziness encroaching upon your senses, yet you persisted, driven by your determination to make Solomon comprehend the pain he had caused. But then, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, your body betrayed you. You faltered and collapsed, consciousness slipping away. Sebastian rushed to your side, his voice trembling with desperation, "Please wake up. I need you." Those words were the last thing you heard before succumbing to unconsciousness, leaving the outcome hanging in the balance, and the hearts of those who cared for you filled with uncertainty and fear.

You lay peacefully asleep in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, unaware of the unfolding events around you. Sebastian sat faithfully by your side, holding your hand, his worry etched deeply onto his face. Suddenly, the doors burst open, and an imposing elderly woman strode into the room with purpose. Her commanding presence filled the space, and everyone within it felt a chill run down their spines. Fixing her gaze on Sebastian, she demanded, "Where is my grandchild?" Her voice reverberated through the room, leaving an uneasy silence in its wake.

Standing tall, Sebastian rose from his seat, his voice filled with remorse. "I'm sorry, ma'am. She fainted from stress. The nurse said it was my fault. She was helping me with a family problem, and she ended up worrying too much on my account."

The elderly woman's stern expression softened slightly as she observed Sebastian's honesty and maturity. "Well, this boy seems to have more backbone than you adults," she muttered under her breath. Then, addressing Sebastian directly, she inquired, "What is your name, son? You wouldn't happen to be Sebastian Sallow, would you?"

Surprised, Sebastian replied, "Yes, that would be me. But how do you know my name?"

"My grandchild sent me a letter about you and your sister," the woman revealed, stepping closer to your bedside. She cast a skeptical eye at the nervous nurse, doubting that the young woman could do anything substantial. Letting out a sigh, she muttered, "This child really isn't good with stress, she'll be up by morning"

The woman's attention returned to Sebastian. "Now, Mr. Sallow, where is this sister of yours?"

Sebastian hesitated for a moment, unsure of this stranger's intentions. However, sensing genuine concern in her gaze, he decided to trust her. "She's in Feldcoft with my Uncle," he replied, his voice tinged with a mixture of worry and longing.

"Well, lead the way then," the woman commanded, her curiosity piqued by the bond between you and Sebastian. For she had never known her grandchild to have feelings for another person or forge friendships that truly mattered.

Sebastian stood there, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected turn of events.

"She'll be alright, just needs some sleep, So stop your worrying "After a brief pause, he gathered his resolve and guided the woman towards Feldcoft.

As they walked away, the elderly woman contemplated the depth of this newfound relationship, realizing that her grandchild might have discovered something precious and rare in the form of companionship and love.

Arriving at Feldcoft and making their way to the Sallow house, the elderly woman broke the silence, her tone filled with curiosity. "Tell me, what do you think of my child?"

A genuine smile spread across Sebastian's face, radiating warmth. "She is wonderful. Smart, caring, friendly. One of the best duelists I've ever seen. But she is undoubtedly the best person I've ever met. Lovely in every way."

"Is she now? Not once have I heard someone describe her as friendly," the woman remarked, skepticism lacing her words.

Shocked at the notion, Sebastian replied, "Well, she may come across as a bit cold at first, but all anyone has to do is talk to her. Though I suppose her face can be quite intimidating at times."

"So, she takes after me more than her mother. How lovely," the woman mused, a sense of pride evident in her voice.

"I dare say she does. You scared everyone just by walking in. It was quite the sight," Sebastian admitted, recalling the intimidating presence the woman exuded.

"I think I see why she likes you so much. Quite brave and charming," the woman remarked, a hint of admiration in her voice.

Blushing, Sebastian stammered, "Did she mention that in the letter too?"

"No, it's just easy to see," the woman replied with a gentle smile.

Finally arriving at the door of the Sallow house, Sebastian knocked, and it was Anne who answered. Concern etched on her face, she immediately inquired, "Sebastian, is she okay? I've been so worried."

Sebastian's eyes softened as he reassured her, "Definitely, she's is fine, shes still sleeping"

Anne then noticed the presence of the elderly woman and straightened up, politely addressing her, "Goodnight, ma'am. Is there anything we can help you with?" She whispered to Sebastian, "Who is she?"

"This is Frost's grandmother. She's here to see you," Sebastian replied quietly.

"Me? But why?" Anne asked, puzzled by the unexpected visit.

"To see if I can cure you, child. May I come in?" the elderly woman interjected.

Anne, taken aback but gracious, responded, "Oh, yes, my apologies. Please come in." She turned to Sebastian, whispering, "are you sure Frost is okay?"

Sebastian nodded reassuringly. "Yes, she was just stressed with the whole situation. She'll be better in the morning."

The woman glanced around, noticing the absence of their guardian, which Sebastian also noticed "Where is Uncle Solomon?" he inquired.

"He said he needed to take a walk. I don't think he realizes how much he hurt you. I'm also sorry, Sebastian," Anne replied with a tinge of remorse.

"It's okay. We still have each other," Sebastian said, his voice filled with conviction.

The woman gazed at them tenderly. "How good to see siblings getting along. Come, my dear, let me have a good look at you."

Anne cautiously approached, her hands trembling slightly. "Are you afraid of me little one?" The elder asked.

Anne shook her head gently. "No, ma'am, just of what you'll say."

"Well, you don't need to worry, your curse is curable " the woman assured, waving her wand and uttering unfamiliar words. Dark smoke emerged from Anne's body, disappearing as it touched the wand's light. "It's done. You'll need to drink these potions until your health is fully restored," she said, handing Anne three vials. "When you need more, Frost will make them for you."

Anne's tears flowed freely as she asked incredulously, "I- I'm cured? Really?" Anne's voice trembled.

"Yes, Can't have the first friends my dear has made die, from a curse of all things" the grandmother replied. The twins expressed their gratitude, saying, "Thank you."

"What can we do to repay you for what you've done?" Anne asked, her voice filled with genuine appreciation.

The grandmother's eyes softened as she replied, "Continue to be friends with my child. She needs it. I'll send a letter to her in the morning. I'm off, children."

"Thank you," they both said, their voices filled with gratitude.

"And don't stress her out again, Mr. Sallow" the grandmother warned before vanishing from sight.

Sebastian spent some time with Anne, comforting her and making sure she was alright. As he prepared to leave, Solomon unexpectedly appeared. "Uncle! I... I shouldn't be here. I was just bringing someone to Anne, that's all. She's cured now. Frost's grandmother cured her."

"She's cured?" Solomon's voice was filled with surprise.

"Yes, Frost wrote to her grandmother, who possesses great skill in cures. She came to see Anne. So, Anne is good as new. I'll have someone come by to give her medicine. She has to take it until her strength fully returns," Sebastian explained.

"I see," Solomon muttered, his expression contemplative.

"I'll be going now. Um... don't worry, I promise I won't come back. I know you don't want me here," Sebastian said, averting his gaze and beginning to walk away.

"Sebastian, boy, I'm sorry," Solomon's words halted Sebastain's steps, causing him to look back at his uncle.

"You... you... I was just scared you'd get yourself killed. You're so much like your father, and I couldn't bear it. I don't hate you. I just... I'm not good at being a parent. I never saw myself with children, and with you two coming into my life, I realized I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm sorry, Sebastian. This is your home. I should have talked to you more instead of yelling, and I should never have told you to stay away from your sister," Solomon confessed, his voice filled with regret.

"You don't hate me?" Sebastian's voice wavered with disbelief.

"I don't. I love you and Anne. I'm just not good at this," Solomon admitted, his tone sincere.

"But I almost killed you," Sebastian reminded him, his voice laced with guilt.

"And it would have been my fault, not yours. You're just a boy, and I let you feel like you had no one while watching your sister slowly die. I forgive you, but I can't forgive myself for causing all of this. Come home whenever. We'll both be here. Now, go back to school before curfew," Solomon instructed.

"Yes, sir," Sebastian replied, tears streaming down his face as he walked away, a mix of emotions overwhelming him. The realization that his uncle didn't hate him brought both relief and sorrow.

Solomon stood there, watching Sebastian leave, repeating to himself, "I'm sorry," his eyes welled up with tears. Inside the house, Anne, with her back to the door, overheard the conversation, tears streaming down her face as well. She was grateful that amidst the chaos, they finally had an actual conversation and the beginnings of understanding.

[judiciously-ezekiel]

His eyes softened at his wife's words, shaking his head gently, "you never made me doubt for a moment, my love. I knew you were suffering and doing what you thought you needed to grieve. It was my own mind that poisoned me and my thoughts." There was a string that attached Ezekiel to Pandora, a red string of fate so strong that no matter what struck against it, it never snapped. That didn't mean, however, that it couldn't be hidden through years of tragedy and pain. Zeke shook his head, warm eyes never leaving Pandora's face. "My love, a mother grieving untold amounts of pain does those things. If you had zero compassion, then you would not have reacted the way you did... as for our son," a short beat passed as he thought of his boy. Rhys was always his spitting image, like someone who held a mirror to Ezekiel at a younger age, yet he knew his son was too much like his mother. "You may have lit the match of his rage, but his own grief was the kerosene. I'm afraid his own attachment to his sister would have poisoned him regardless, but maybe after time allows... we can bring him back, too." It would be a trial, perhaps one even harder than killing the Devil. Where Pandora had Zeke to balance her out once she allowed him to, Rhys held no attachments to anyone, and his moral compass was obliterated. Zeke didn't want to say it out loud in case it never came to fruition, but their best shot of bringing Rhys back from the brink was bringing his twin back to life– although that almost seemed too selfish to place on Celeste's shoulders.

Zeke dared not move while his Panny absorbed his words, feeling the panic flitting through her veins when coming face to face with the reality of their situation and the vain dream of what she wanted the curse to be. It was a valiant attempt at retribution. However, such an act only worked on someone who cared for those who were stripped away from them, and he knew the King would never have the capacity to care for the Princes as Pandora did for Celeste. The curse, however, was a double-edged sword. While the impact on the King wasn't as monumental as his wife would have hoped, it forever altered the boys' lives. Showing them a life outside of the clutches of their King and that there were other things to live for outside of duty and sacrifice for a man who cared not for them. "My darling, your promises to the King can change. He now feels the destruction of his kingdom when those Princes come for him. He's witnessing his downfall in real time, and there's nothing we can do that is more harrowing." Ezekiel didn't follow her as she moved, rooted to his spot, but he breathed a small sigh of relief when she agreed. It was a small glimpse that the wife he knew was underneath it all, and everything was finally aligning in the cosmos. "Our gift," he echoed, taking her hand as she grabbed for him, "we make Wrath's sword and then we break the curse. The end of the King's chapter is the beginning of all of ours, my love."

Pandora could recall how full of light they were in their younger years, seemingly chosen by the goddesses to become mortal carriers of their abilities. It was her destiny forming a coven led by kindness and a firm grip as was it Ezekiel's destiny being a father to all. Being the guiding light when one is lost within themselves, and when they were together? A cosmic collision written in the stars. She could not fathom how her vengeance could have blinded her so that she would abandon what they created from their blossoming love and the everlasting dedication to their children. Their twins. Pandora knew she was partly to blame, if not, utterly and completely responsible. Their coven lost a leader, she lost her family in one fell swoop. A devastating wake crippled those around the First Witch, the others disbanded after such a momentous grief clung in the air. Ezekiel's absence further divided what she once cherished and built before tainting a legacy she and her husband were fostering for the next generation. The ritual may have strengthened their already powerful magical bond, but the confessions and the truth solidified the fact that they will never separate ever again. "If there was ever a single second where you doubted that I still loved you, I am sorry, my darling. We are forever connected by bond and by the greatest love nothing in this world will diminish." Pan's eyes steadily lowered to their connected hands, the warmth of his heat soothing her very soul and feeling like home. She once has forgotten the meaning of the word home entirely. "A compassionate woman does not send her husband away or drag her son down to the darkest depths. I have poisoned Rhys, my darling. How are either of us certain I am still capable of compassion when I've failed our boy at every turn because of my selfishness?" The doubt strangled Panny no matter the web she spun. Nothing offered proof that the girl Ezekiel married isn't lost for good, it is a girl she has not seen in centuries, the stern and merciful witch untouched by unimaginable loss.

Pandora's eyes immediately shot upwards in shock at her husband's stated suggestion, nothing she hasn't thought herself at one point, but the fact he would offer this idea as if there were no other choice caught the woman with her back against the wall. Ezekiel's long-winded explanation, describing Rhys's turn to the darkness and detailing the consequences the King dished for every Prince, sent Pan through a whirlwind of emotions as her mind internally rationalized why she could never break the curse. Was she that stubborn, that vain and pure evil as to deny those boys their only chance ridding themselves of a monstrous abuser because of her own hubris? Pride placed a great barrier between himself and the King, going against his nature playing the dutiful soldier. Unexpected from him. She thought about Gluttony, souls ripped from his hands and a voice he coveted destroyed that left him with the silence just as Sloth was plagued by the screaming voices of the damned. She thought about Lust and his plight keeping his Prince from harm's way. Every memory she possessed of the brothers raced in her mind, blurry and indistinguishable, chaotic and causing enough fuel to set the woman into a complete panic. Those thoughts abruptly zeroed in on the two brothers who meant more to her than the idea of punishing the King. Greed and Wrath. Greed once upon a time looked her way when the other princes were preoccupied by the curse's effects, offering friendship and brotherhood when she spent her days alone. He opened his trust to her and she bared her soul as if they were two beings designed to coexist perfectly. And Wrath...the prince who granted her daughter happiness when her family could not rescue her. He and Pandora carried an understanding and he concealed her secret from his brothers for Celeste. Pan shook her head from side to side frantically, someone who exuded confidence her entire life, now left grappling with an impossible decision. "Everything that I have done, my promises to him, will have been for nothing." Pandora released her grasp and stepped back, willing the denial of the possibility to touch her lips, but the words failed. Zeke was right. Those boys are as good as dead in the water if their full abilities were not restored before the war landed at their feet. "I should have shown them mercy a long time ago." She whispered after a long paused beat. Pandora's attention shifted on her husband, nodding with acceptance. "It's time I let go before it really kills me, my darling. No more of this...this game of vengeance. For you, for our children, for those boys who deserve freedom. Our gift." Panny reached for the male's hands again, "We are breaking the curse."

[mayasaura]

i had a very sad au idea. where gideon gets off the ninth and joins the cohort. one of the commanding officers realizes that gideon shares a name with a lyctor and looks like Wake. cue jod finding out gideon exists and kiriona 2.0 happens (buts Worse)

I love this AU, (and really any version of "Gideon manages to escape to the Cohort and her dad finds out she exists,") though I have to admit I'm not quite understanding your vision. I can't see what makes it all that sad, or Worse than canon.

The way I'm seeing it, this Gideon flipped the Ninth the double-bird then got clotheslined into being a Prince, all with Harrow still safe at home to have her snooty little nose rubbed in it. Gideon will be able to write her a letter saying:

"Addressing Her Ghastliness the Lady Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House serving the Emperor Undying: Hey, asswipe, remember when we were kids and you said my other parent wasn't important? Guess a-fucking-gain, loser! Signed, Crown Prince Kiriona Gaia the First, First Lieutenant of the Cohort, Heir to the First House, only daughter to the Emperor Divine (formerly known to you as Gideon Nav, not that you ever called me by it. Suck on that, creepozoid) p.s. Chill out, I haven't told my dad anything that would embarrass the Ninth, and I won't unless you give me reason to. p.p.s. The Emperor send his regards to your parents! :)"

And she'll still be alive to feel her heart race as she pictures the face Harrow will make after breaking open the seal on this very important missive from the First House to read it.

[oopey-doopey]

If you’re not busy how bout a headcanon for how the four lords would react to their s/o, a doctor/field medic, somehow healing them of their cadou parasites and returning them to their normal selves

If you can't afford medical treatment just get your doctor S/O to do a quick surgery. It's legal and fun!!

Here's a cut cause this bad boy is long

Alcina Dimitrescu

You two had discussed it and agreed that it needed to be done. The girls would be in constant danger from BSAA/Blue Umbrella if Alcina was still such a strong bio-weapon.

She had worries; would she be weaker? Would she need to worry about her blood disease again? How would she protect her daughters? You assured her that you two would figure it out, that you would never do this if you thought it would do more harm than good.

The girls protested, saying they could handle whatever was thrown at them but Alcina hushed them, explaining that it was for her sake as well. It was only so long until BSAA stopped letting her get away with literal murder, no matter how necessary.

You had explained the most likely and best outcome, that she'd be cured and all the effects reversed, that she'd need regular infusions of blood and may feel weaker. You tried to treat her like a regular patient, the coldness of being a medic, but the worry loomed over you.

It was a quick procedure, the cadou just as it had smoothly integrated with Alcina, had been slipped out, the changes almost just as quick.

Her skin became humanly pale, no longer a porcelain white, wrinkles showing the age she was when infected, her height dwindling. You didn't account for her to wake up as quick as she did and had to dive to catch her as she wobbled of the operating table, not yet used to her smaller size.

"A mirror" "Are you sure, Alcina? Maybe you should-" "I want a mirror now" She was demanding, but you understood how justified that was. You only had a small one for operating on you but it would have to do.

She pulled at her face, a look of disdain as she inspecting the face of a mortal woman instead of an immortal lord. Seeing this you came up behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist like you were never able to fully do before, and planted a kiss on her cheek, now noticing how warm it was compared to her previous form

"I look horrid" "You look beautiful" The comment drew a smile from her, but you could still sense the doubt in her.

She stayed in her room for a while, you being the only one allowed entrance to tend her: Infusions, getting her used to human food rather than humans for food. Alcina insisted she fully recovers before her girls saw her as to not incite panic.

It was tough on her to be distant with her girls, but tougher on them to not see her after such a harrowing surgery.

When the girls first saw her it was as if they were interacting with a valuable and fragile vase, none of them wanted to get close in fear of hurting her, but they desperately wanted to inspect their mother.

"I'm not made of paper, an embrace won't kill me." It was lovely seeing them perk up at their mother's usual sass and even more relieving when they practically dove into her arms, bombarding her with questions on how she felt.

There were many things to still discuss, but for now, everyone was happy.

Donna Beneviento

Donna surprisingly brought it up to you first. You were having tea having a calm conversation with Angie for once. The mood felt off for that alone but for the whole day it felt off, now you knew why.

She wanted a normal life with you, one free of the mold and her dependence on her dolls. It was all a crutch and she wanted to start to walk without it.

You asked if she was sure, the dolls, especially Angie, meant so much to her, you didn't want to do it unless she was positively certain

"We've made our mind up, Y/N. We want this." Angie's serious response and Donna's nod were a startling confirmation. You set a date and prepared the tools for the procedure

Before all of that, you set up a party for Donna and Angie, placing all the dolls for one last goodbye. "Surprise!" You pop out with all the dolls, you suspect she knew as the dolls came to life to yell as well but she was crying tears of joy either way.

She said goodbye to all the dolls individually, thanking them for being there for her as she shut down her cadou in each of them. Donna told you that Angie didn't want to go until she had to. You understood completely.

On the day of the procedure, you knelt down to Angie and hugged her. She was always a little bit of a pain to you and she found you a bit dull but in the end, you cared and you were going to miss her rambunctiousness. You spared yourself the tears of a verbal goodbye as you placed her on the operating table next to Donna, she feigned unconscious to mimic her sedated friend.

It was slow and grueling to remove the cadou carefully from her face and skull, you wanted to leave as little scarring as possible. Donna had just stopped wearing the veil and you had no desire to be the reason it came back on

The procedure was no less easy as every amount removed, you noticed Angie appearing even more lifeless.

When it was done, she woke up, her working eye blinking under the bright lights of your operating chambers. She did not address you but immediately turned to Angie. You had not an idea of how she knew she was lying next to her

"Angie?" There was no response and you could see the tears forming as she slowly reached for her best friend, caressing the inanimate face. You took her other hand and squeezed it, before lifting it to your lips and planting a kiss.

Recovering was less physical than mental. Occasionally she'd ask her dolls a question, you'd catch her staring sorrowfully at them as they stared back unblinking. It was even worse when you heard her call for Angie, knowing it was impossible for her to respond.

Sometimes you'd find her staring out the window, holding Angie as she took in the horizon.

"It's difficult... She was always there for me." She stared at Angie, brushing the veil from her face as the setting sun leaked in. You sat next to her, leaning in close so you could support Angie's slumped head... Donna smiled at the action. "But, I suppose there's a lot else for me too." Donna rested her head on your shoulder, now looking at the broad horizon before you both.

Salvatore Moreau

It hurt you like nothing else to see Salvatore live in constant pain and suffering. You had done wonders for the hurt of loneliness but physically he was still in agony.

He has insisted not to burden yourself with him and that he was used to it, but the more he assured you the less you actually felt comforted. It came to a head one day that all he was doing was vomiting. You were sure you saw red at some point

"Stop saying you're fine!" "I'm used to it, Y/N" "Well I'm not!" You were a medic, it had become an instinct to stop people from being in pain, and Moreau made it flare up.

He refused to be operated on, making up excuses or insisting it was not a big deal to him after all these years. Clearly, you could tell it was something else, something he wasn't telling you but he refused to let it slip. It became a strain on your relationship. It felt bad but you had to threaten to leave if he was not going to be honest. He owed you that.

You felt even worse when you found out. "I'm scared it would get worse!" You realized that the last time Moreau was likely on an operating table, it turned him into what he was now. It was beyond inconsiderate to try and force him through it again.

For a while, you dropped it, letting the waters calm... until another vomiting fit happened and you thought you might lose him.

Luckily you didn't and unluckily for Moreau he had to see you're tear-ridden face the whole time, unable to assure you he would be fine due to the wretching. A day later he agreed to let you try.

You were relieved but now it went on to how you were exactly going to do this. You were unsure if removing the cadou would be enough to rid him of the tumors or if you would be on that too, you had no intention to make things worse like he feared.

A while passed as you collected the tools and set up an area in the reservoir to operate, everytime you made progress Moreau strayed farther from the area.

You finally finished and Moreau was off lurking in the waters, much like a child hiding from getting a shot. "Are you ready?" "Yes." "Are you lying?" "Yes." You were happy he found humor in the situation but you needed confidence.

You practically held his hand the whole way to the table, both to keep him from escaping to the water and a half for comforting, his grip did not slip until you had fully sedated him.

The procedure was more difficult than ever expected, the tumors were gelatinous and blocked the way to his cadou. You had to be careful not to burst one as well as not to accidentally paralyze him due to the proximity to his spine. It was slow and meticulous but eventually, you got it all.

Nothing happened. He laid unconscious on the table, cadou thoroughly gone, you made sure... but nothing happened. Did you fail? Was there another one? You pondered the possibilities but quickly stood up as the tumors began to swell, becoming enflamed before one burst, an acidic substance barely missing you and melting part of the floor. As more popped you took cover as not to get burned.

The grotesque sounds of bursting meat slowly faded, becoming less frequent until they stopped, but you waited, ensuring you did not accidentally get splashed by a straggler.

"Y/N?" The sound of your name from a familiar deep but the somehow less nauseous voice made you peer from around your cover, a man all too foreign and all too familiar sat dazed-looking on the table.

"Salvatore?" {Insert your own description of Moreau, I don't want to intrude on anyone's interpretation.} "Y/N!" He immediately tried to get off the table to come to you before you quickly stopped him, remnants of acid a very real danger. You covered a path and made your way to him, stopping at the edge of the table. "Did it work?"

Something about the question seemed laughable as you assumed the feeling would be completely different, but you still pulled a mirror close and let him marvel at a face he had long forgotten.

"Did I make it worse?" It was a snarky remark at his previous fears, probably a little insensitive but at the moment he smiled, suddenly pulling you into your first full kiss in your relationship. "Not at all."

Karl Heisenberg

You were helping him in the factory one day, decommissioning the more specialized soldats at the request of BSAA. You being less tech-oriented focused on the less mechanical soldiers while Karl took on the scrap heavy ones.

Having used some Cadou in them, you had to carefully remove that too, to ensure they would not resurrect after the metal was removed. It took no time for Karl to piece together who else that skill could be used on.

"Make space for me on your schedules, Y/N" He lit a cigar after the sentence, not explaining further. "Excuse me?" "You heard me, sweetheart." He ripped a core from another soldat before putting it on the belt to bring it towards you. You stared in disbelief.

"You want me to remove your cadou?" "Yep." "But I thought BSAA was." "I don't want those dick heads snooping in my body like I'm some labrat. You do it." The conversation was quick and honestly, it should have been expected.

Karl had joked with you before that you could take away his cadou. Just snip and a rip and it'd be done. You explained it wasn't that simple and he would chuckle out an agreement, but you could tell that the jokes had an air of seriousness around them. It had been his goal for a while to reverse what had been done to him

Picking a date was the biggest issue. Karl wanted to do it as soon as possible, get it out and be rid of it. You had to explain you needed time to prepare as the place was delicate and a risk. You knew it was out of excitement and anticipation.

When you finally made time, Karl was on the table before you had even put on gloves or disinfected it. "An eager beaver I see?" You tried to bring the humor Karl often did to scenarios like this, but you could see a sense of series on his face, even the glint of his glasses seemed steeled. "I want every trace of that bitch gone."

You nodded, pulling out the syringe to sedate him as you laid him down on the table. Removing his glasses you looked directly in his eyes, there was a trust in his that made you that much more determined. "You ready?" You asked as a medic protocol. "Just stick me doc." You rolled your eyes as he smirked before relishing in the slight scared look he gave the needle when you lifted it before him

The silence of it all unnerved you. Karl was always making wisecracks or jokes to alleviate the dreary mood of the factory. Having him laying silently before you, face still somehow serious while completely relaxed, made it all the more discomforting.

You worked diligently, careful to find all traces of the cadou and to remove them into a jar you had set aside. It was long but you did it with dutiful ease, Karl had waited so long for this and you must do it right

When it was all finished you took the jar, disgusted at the somehow living organism inside. How could she put this in someone she considered her child. Bitch, was too kind a word Karl used for her. You took the jar to a furnace, throwing it in and watching the thing wriggle frantically before burning to a crisp.

Coming back to the table you found Karl stirring awake, groggily holding himself up on his forearms. "So, how'd it go?" "You tell me?"

Karl looked around the room, his hammer resting in the corner. Focusing on it he waited for the item to float toward him, yet it remained still. After a minute of nothing he stopped, a slow chuckle emerging from him, melding into a proud laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned, Y/N. You've outdone yourself." He began patting himself in search of a cigar. You pulled one from the side table and offered it, snatching it away before he could get a grasp on it. "No smoking until you're fully healed."

He shook his head, chuckling a little more before sitting up and pulling you close. Tilting your head up he locked your lips together. Pulling apart he smiled, "Whatever you say, doc."

I completely forgot that Moreau was a doctor and honestly I should've added something about medical knowledge but its super late and I have a job interview to get up for.

[cellophaine]

Home With You

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Word Count: 3003

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: I figured I should give you guys a break from my smutty contents lol. And I just wanted to write an indulgent fluff piece.

As always, every likes, comments, reblogs, feedbacks and ask submissions are greatly appreciated! My heart goes into cha-cha-cha mode whenever I receive notifications from you guys (it's a happy mode)

Prompt requested by: Anonyomous (love you anon <3)

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"Matt?!"

You called out as you walked into his apartment; the exhaustion crept into your voice. His name echoed back to you in the empty place, a tell-tale sign of Matt's absence. You huffed out a frustrated sigh as you stepped out of your heels, padding into the living room on bare feet, much to your relief. You dropped your briefcase to the floor with abandon, planting face-first onto the couch, releasing another weary sigh. This was the third night in a row you missed him on his way out, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. At this point, it had become a regular occurrence. You felt like you barely saw him as of late. All you had was the little time in the mornings with Matt's body wrapped around yours in the bed. And it wasn't enough. How could it be?

Your workload as a paralegal at Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz had picked up in the past few months. The pay was more than decent, but it resulted in more time assisting Jeri Hogarth in cases and less time spending with your boyfriend. The immense amount of guilt you felt kept building up, as you knew Matt was not happy about your situation, but he always knew what to say to make you feel better. You had spent time running around New York for researches, staying late at the office at Hogarth's requests.

The days would always end with you worn out to the bones. Matt hated how the job was clawing at you, chipping away a piece of you every day, leaving you stressed out and exhausted. But he was supportive anyway, understanding that it was your choice in the matter. And so, Matt was the only constant, comforting source in your life. He would be there every time you woke up, cuddling and kissing you, making sure that you had all your meals throughout the day, taking care of you when you couldn't do it yourself.

You dragged your enervated self into the shower, lathering yourself up with Matt's shampoo and body, indulging in his scent under the hot water. The clean smell of his soap in the shower steam helped relieve the ache of missing him in your chest. You had slept over his apartment every night. Still, ironic enough, you felt like you drifted away further from him, not of your own volition. Matt was the anchor that kept you close, but how long would it last? How long would he be willing to stay?

You patted yourself dry, walking into his bedroom, the air cool on your exposed skin. You opened the closet, pulling out a sweatshirt of his. You hugged it close to your chest, dropping your head low to inhale the smell of him. You pulled the shirt on along with his too-big sweatpants, tightening the strings at the waistband. You put on his socks, too, tucking them over the hems of the sweats, just like how he always did it. A habit of his that you had absorbed. A bittersweet thought struck you. Despite being in his apartment, often living in his space more than your own, you wore his clothes just to feel closer to him. He was close but never close enough.

You found your way to the couch again, plopping your head on the pillow. You curled into yourself, settling in a comfortable position. You didn't bother with dinner, for you craved something else. You just wanted him here. You wanted to spend every second you could get with him to make up for the time you had missed. You tried to stay up, waiting for him to come back. But the toll of the day pulled on your eyelids, luring you into sleep with much resistance from you.

A weightless feeling woke you from your sleep. You blinked sleepily; your hazy vision revealed Matt, still in his Daredevil suit, the helmet was nowhere in sight. His unseeing eyes radiated the comfort and affection you loved, and you hummed happily at the blessed sight of him. A smile pulled on the corner of Matt's lips as he laid you down on the bed, pulling the soft blanket over you. He brushed your hair off your eyes before leaning in, pressing a lingering kiss on your forehead. You smiled sleepily at his gesture, tilting your face up as his warmth left your skin. Your lips met his halfway, and you sighed into the kiss that you craved with the entirety of your being. You needed this, needed him; you yearned for him. Your hand found its way to him; his light stubble tickled your fingertips. You caressed his face, needing to touch, to feel him, as the kiss grew heavy. Finally, he pulled back from you with much reluctance, within your reach, just enough so you could hear his whisper.

"Have you had dinner? I left you your favourite in the fridge."

You pressed your head into the pillow before shaking your head, along with a muffled confirmation of his suspicion. His brows furrowed, and you quickly pulled on his jaw, drawing him closer. You resumed the kiss, and once again, Matt was the one who broke away. Lowering your voice in a soothing tone, you asked in the hope of distracting him.

"Do you have any injuries that needed to be looked at?"

"It was a pretty uneventful night. I know what you're doing, and it's not working."

He responded at once; his head shook slightly in disapproval. He knew you too well. You knew that. But you didn't want to get up while all you wanted was to bask in his familiarity, his warmth again.

"I had a very long day. I just want to go back to sleep, with you. Please?"

Your desperate plea tugged at his heart. His eyes softened as he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.

"Alright. But you will have a big breakfast, first thing when you get up."

You bit your lip, brows waggling at him, even though you knew he couldn't see that. A playful, suggestive tone glided into your voice.

"Oh, I definitely would like something 'big' for breakfast."

He let out a small laugh at your terrible tease.

"I'm serious. I was gone for a few hours, and you already neglected yourself."

"I promise. I'll be yours for the entire weekend. Now, can you get your ass in this bed, preferably naked? Pretty please."

He chuckled, standing up to pull his protective gear off. A few rustles later, the mattress dipped as Matt climbed into the bed behind you. He pulled you into his chest, pressing butterfly kisses on your hair. You turned onto your back, giving him easier access to your lips. He eagerly took you on your offer, pulling you in for a soft kiss, so soft that it made you melt into his embrace. He moved to kiss your cheeks, making his way to your eyelids, ending the kiss on your forehead.

"Sleep now, sweetheart. I'll be here when you wake up."

You turned to your side to cuddle into him, curling your hand behind his muscular back. You nuzzled your face into his firm chest, kissing and nibbling sleepily on the naked skin. You fell asleep promptly, grateful for the weekend ahead of you.

Your phone buzzed again and again on Matt's bedside table. You groaned, burrowing your face further into Matt's chest. The faint scent of blood and sweat, of Matt, infiltrated your senses through a daze. However, whoever on the other side stayed persistent; calls came in after calls. Finally, you untangled your limbs from Matt's with frustration, answering the call to hear Hogarth's voice on the other side.

"Where the fuck are you? Why didn't you pick up your damn phone?"

"It's… it's the weekend."

"And? This case won't go away itself. Come in now, or you're fired."

Your ears met with the dead tone from the other line. You fell back onto the warm bed, feeling like you could burst into tears. Pressing your face into the pillow, you muffled a silent scream. Matt propped on his elbow, caressing your back with the other hand.

"Stay here. Quit the job. You deserve so much better than how Hogarth's treating you."

You murmured.

"I can't. Her words have weight. She can really help me with my career. The pay isn't bad either."

"I know, but it's not worth it. I don't like seeing you bend over backward to every of her demand. I can feel your exhaustion every night. I hate seeing you so harrowed and stressed out."

You sighed heavily.

"It's not like I can quit right away. Not until I can secure a better job somewhere else. Rent in Hell's Kitchen is crazy. Until then, I'm stuck with her."

You moved around in the place, talking to Matt as you got ready. When you stepped out of the bathroom into the living room, dressed in your work attire, Matt walked over to where you stood, offering you a cup of tea. You smiled sadly at him, stroking his cheeks. Then, you raised on your tiptoe, kissing him swiftly before picking up your briefcase, making your way to the door.

"I'm sorry, I can't drink the tea. I'm already late. I'll see you later tonight?"

Matt fell into silence; his head turned away from your direction. The mugs of tea in his hands stayed still and abandoned. You felt an awful jerk on your heartstring for leaving him like this. You spoke softly.

"I love you."

One moment of silence, then two. Matt reluctantly spoke, his voice small, barely audible.

"Love you, too."

You gnawed on your bottom lip in defeat, walking out the door. Your heart grew heavier with every step you took, carrying you further away from him.

When the elevator opened, you were working at your desk, just outside of Hogarth's office. You looked up just in time as the infamous P.I of Hell's Kitchen walked past your desk, sparing a glance towards you. You sprang up from your seat, running after her.

"Ms. Jones, I'm sorry, but you can't go in there. Unfortunately, Ms. Hogarth is not available at the moment."

Jones reeked of alcohol, but there was no sign of intoxication. She scoffed.

"I don't care if she's fucking another secretary in there. Step aside. I don't want to hurt you."

You stood in her path, taking your stance. Although preventing Jessica Jones from entering your boss' office wasn't your job, Hogarth made you do it anyway. She made you do many things that went beyond your responsibilities as a paralegal, as she always held her power over your head like an invisible sword, readied to strike at any given time.

Jessica rolled her eyes, sidestepping you. You stuck your foot out in her path, making her boot catch on your heel. She stumbled lightly, whirling around to face you.

"Seriously?"

You swallowed, shrugging.

"A girl's gotta do what she's gotta do."

"Maybe that girl should get another job and stop working for that monster."

Jessica quickened her pace, pushing the door open as you chased after her.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Hogarth, but she …."

"… tired of your shit, Hogarth. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Jessica gritted out the words. Your boss sent a deathly glare at you.

"Leave us."

She flicked a wrist at you, and you closed the door behind you as fast as you could. You went back to your desk, speeding through your mountain of paperwork. About half an hour later, Jessica walked out with a menacing expression on her face, heading straight for the elevator. Jeri walked out about two minutes later, looming over your desk.

"If that happens again, I will personally destroy your little, pathetic career. You hear me?"

You nodded solemnly.

"Have them on my desk before 5."

Hogarth left you alone for the rest of your time there. You were done with the work at a little over 3 PM. You dropped it off, and it was refreshing to see a surprise expression on her face for once instead of the usual scowl you received. Then, you headed straight for Matt's place, couldn't wait to get back to your boyfriend, despite the little not-an-argument you had earlier that day.

He wasn't home when you got there. You sighed, afraid you had messed things up with him. After changing into something more comfortable, you sat down on Matt's kitchen table with your laptop open and a steamy plate of food Matt left you last night. You sat there, your fingers tapping away on your device for what felt like hours until you heard the sound of the door being opened. Matt walked in, dressed in his usual gym clothes with a duffle bag hanging off his shoulder. His face was flushed, his hair stuck out adorably. You stood up, lingering at the chair. You cleared your throat.

"I'm… sorry for this morning. Are we … okay?"

You ached to hug him, to be gathered into his arms, to kiss him. Your bottom lip trembled slightly. You wouldn't know what to do if he said no.

He could sense your uncertainty with every word. His face softened at your vulnerable disposition, his arms opened wide, dropping his cane and bag to the floor with little care.

"Of course we are."

You lunged into his embrace, holding him tight as he picked you up easily, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You found his lips, pouring your heart and soul into the kiss. Eventually, you pulled away from each other as you gasped for air, your foreheads touching.

Matt lowered you down to the ground, still holding you in his arms, his hand caressing your spine in a soothing motion.

"I'm looking up other jobs. Hogarth is … horrible, and I'm always stressed out. You're right. It's not worth it."

"You know … Nelson & Murdock can use a helping hand."

Matt raised his brow at you; an endearing grin pulled at the corner of his lips. You smacked his chest playfully.

"As if I'm not helping you guys in my free time already."

You trailed a finger from the waistband of his sweats, ghosting over his abdomen and chest, ended your way at the pulse on his neck, stroking the delicate arc of his throat. Matt let out a small groan of pleasure.

"That means you already have an in with the firm."

You squinted your eyes at Matt while he feigned innocence.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. I would love to have you there. We still have to discuss this with Foggy, but I think he'd be thrilled."

The earnestness in his voice was unconcealed. Working for Matt and Foggy was a tempting proposal, but you wanted to give it some thought first.

"Let me think about it."

The week started anew, with another visit from Jessica Jones. Only this time, you didn't cease your work pace, even as she walked past your desk. Jessica halted, looking at you skeptically.

"Why are you not stopping me right now? Did Hogarth call of her little guard dog?"

You looked up from your computer screen, giving her a nonchalant shrug.

"Nah, the order is still in effect. But I don't care."

The P.I gave you a nod and headed for Hogarth's office.

Before the workday ended, you were summoned by your fuming boss. Hogarth stood at her desk, a glass of whiskey clutched tight in her hand. She looked upon your entry, sneering at you.

"What part of preventing Jessica Jones from entering my office that you didn't understand? Do you —"

"I understand. I just don't care."

You dropped off the folder on Hogarth's desk. She narrowed her eyes at the manila envelope.

"This is my letter of resignation. I quit. I would say it was an honour to work with you, but that would be a lie."

You left the office that day feeling so much better than you had felt in months. There was a spring in your steps as you climbed the stairs to Matt's place. You walked in as an aroma of mouthwatering food being cooked engulfed you, welcoming you home. Matt was in the kitchen, facing the stove. You walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso. Matt lifted an arm over your shoulder, pulling you in to kiss your forehead. Then, he turned off the stove, fully angled his body to you and gave you a warm embrace.

"So you did it? How did she take it?"

"She was furious, Matt. She threatened to make sure I could never practice law ever again. Over and over. But I'm not worried. She can threaten me however she wants. I know the law."

"I'm so proud of you, sweetheart. You're better off without her. And if she dared to do that, you wouldn't be alone. Foggy and I will have your back."

You hugged him even tighter, pressing your ear to the steady rhythm of his heart. You stayed like that for a moment as the sound of Hell's Kitchen played in the background. Matt buried his nose into your hair, peppering your face with kisses. Then, at last, he spoke up.

"So, have you given more thoughts on working for Nelson & Murdock?"

You made a tsk sound, tapping a finger against your lips, pretending to be in deep thoughts.

"I don't know. Wouldn't it make quite a scandal since I'm dating one of the bosses?"

"Considering the other boss already knows about the arrangement, no one else has to. We can keep a secret -"

Matt dipped his head; his lips brushed over the curve of your ear purposefully. The mere contact sent a shiver down your spine in anticipation. Finally, he released the last part of his sentence; his voice dropped dangerously low, dripped in an alluring invitation.

"- and have fun with it."