#so too does the pain and the righteous anger

[squishykitty825]

Human Parasite

Hi, I’m _____ what’s your name?

It all began with an outstretched hand

A greeting and a smile

And all that was asked for was a name

Hi, I’m Whice

A strange name for sure

It didn’t earn more than a blink of the eye

And a nice enough kid wouldn’t think twice

It didn’t take long to learn it was a lie

A whisper here

And a little gossip there

And it became unclear what was truth or lie

That was the first clue

The first of many that would follow

It should have been obvious

But you were just too good, weren’t you

Ten years of lying

Ten years of trying

Ten years of gaslighting

Ten years of pain

Ten years of insecurity

Ten years of hating myself

Ten years of pushing everyone away

Ten years of hiding

Ten years of fighting

Ten years of wishing things could go a different way

Your presence is a leech on my self esteem

You suck all the life from my veins

I’m pale and drained from your smile

I’m so exhausted I can’t even scream

I spent years of my life

Years just trying to be seen

All that’s left is a ghostly reflection

And in my back is your bloody knife

I see your palace of bloodstained brick

Built on the backs of those you betrayed

Those whose lives you sucked dry

And after ten years did it click

It’s too kind to call you a witch

Your vampiric behavior sign enough of that

And after all these years I still hate this day

So happy damn birthday you bitch

[starry-bi-sky]

Just as it was in the air, the drive to wherever they're going is a mess of orange-streetlight smeared blurs and rapid-passing buildings. Danny keeps his head rested against the door, forehead pressing against the cold window, and breathing slowly through his mouth.

From his unfocused peripherals, the man -- of whom with the passing lights, Danny can see is dressed as... some kind of bat? Honestly, not the weirdest thing he's ever seen. -- routinely keeps glancing over at him. He's never seen someone grip a steering wheel so tightly.

"Do you know what your godfather poisoned you with?" The man eventually asks, his voice just as soft and raspy as it was in the air.

It takes Danny a moment to realize he spoke at all, his brain sluggishly catching up to his ears. "Hrm?" He blinks, lifting his head. Danny regrets it immediately, his vision swims nauseatingly and blurs dangerously. He rests his head again. "Oh. Y'h. A flow'r called blood bloss'um."

They pass a streetlight, shining just enough light that Danny sees the Bat-Man's lips purse. Danny's mouth opens, but he makes no sound, his mind trying to find the words he's looking for. "I'z- it's extinct."

He huffs a laugh just as the man snaps his head to look at him, regretting it with a sharp cough and a feeling of dust in his lungs. Weakly waggling his fingers to make jazz hands, Danny slurs; "Shcience."

A coughing fit overtakes him then, and without the adrenaline of flying and running away from Vlad to distract him, the ache and burn of consistently coughing returns and hits hard and sharp. He's been stabbed before, and somehow this still hurts more.

(Well, one is being stabbed. The other is the result of a toxin made from a flower specifically evolved to eat ectoplasm. Something Danny is 50% made of.)

Whining low and through grit teeth, Danny turns and curls back up into the corner of his seat, arms boxing over his head as if that will make him hurt less. Tears spring into his eyes, and he tries to use the feeling of breathing to distract himself.

If he's still breathing, everything will be okay.

Wherever they're going, he hopes they get there fast.

----

("You're a hero, right?" The boy said, but the way he said it made it sound like he was only asking as a formality. That of course Bruce was a hero, it was obvious.)

(He didn't know how to tell him that no, he wasn't. Then he didn't have the time.)

Bruce's hands would be shaking if it weren't for the white-knuckle grip on the car's steering wheel. Every time he focuses back on the road in front of him, his eyes are drawn back towards the boy coiled like a ball in the passenger seat.

He can't tell if it's rage or fear that's making his arms tremble.

The boy -- Daniel, if the voice of his godfather was to be believed -- is small. Bruce could wrap his thumb and forefinger around his wrist, and he's positive they would touch. A waifish, slip of a thing, and Bruce thought he'd been small as a child. His clothes -- simple, unremarkable; a hoodie that hangs off his shoulders and a band shirt he doesn't recognize -- look too big on him, and Bruce wonders if Daniel even knows he's shivering.

This was not how Bruce thought his night would be going -- he was following a lead on Falcone and his people. Now he was rushing back to the cave with a boy who couldn't be any older than fifteen, a boy who was dying of poison because of his godfather.

Hurt and fury bubbles beneath his ribs.

(Who does this to a kid?)

He glances at Daniel again. Messy, sweat-slicked black hair clings to his forehead, and gathers around his ears. It looks like it hasn't been cut in months. He's unnaturally pale, and Bruce isn't sure if his paleness is from the poison, or his natural color. It highlights the dark circles beneath glassy blue eyes, peering unfocused and teary out from lidded eyes.

The blood dripping off his chin is damning and stark against his skin. Some of it is half-dried against his cheek, but most is a horrifying dark red and wet, staining down his throat and into his shirt. Every time the boy coughs, Bruce fears that blood will spill from his mouth next.

He breathes in shakily, and swerves around a left corner. The boy moves with the momentum. Bruce throws his arm out to catch him, and keep him in his seat, the boy jerks, and grunts quietly.

Guilt turns the back of Bruce's neck red. That, and embarrassment. "...Apologies." He murmurs, retracting his hand quickly. Daniel blinks slowly, Bruce nervously keeps an eye on the unsteady rise and fall of his chest.

He's pulled away when, much to his surprise, the boy smiles. It's weak, barely even there and trembling like the rest of him, but glazed in fondness. "S'ok'y." Daniel mumbles, blood sticking to his mouth as he slumps back into the corner. "M'dad drove the same way."

...There were a lot of questions there. But the hurting, discomforting squeeze of Bruce's heart turns his tongue to lead. His throat swells shut, grows a cancerous lump, and keeps his lungs thick. "..Hh."

(What does he say to that?)

A silence, ugly, falls over them again for a few minutes more. Bruce should keep the boy talking -- it's confirmation that Daniel was still alive, still breathing, Bruce hasn't failed yet -- and yet, he can't think of a single thing to say.

They're coming close up on the cemetery, Bruce turns down the road leading to it. His eyes flick to Daniel again. The boy is staring at him, the sickly yellow streetlights catching shadows on his face, leaving a glow lingering in his eyes.

(In his lazy eye, his mind tricks him into seeing a corpse. Bruce suppresses a flinch, and looks over again.)

(Daniel is still breathing. Good. Good. Good.)

He breathes in shakily, something dark and angry rearing its head once again. Who does this? Who does this? He grits his teeth, biting back the scowl pulling on his face.

("You're a hero, right?")

(No, but for now he can pretend he is.)

----

They end up in a tunnel somewhere. Danny's not quite sure where, but the road gets bumpy and the uncomfortable, rough jostling brings a groan out from him. His eyes pound in their sockets, the discomfort ricocheting to this temples and circling to the back of his head.

His head lolls, and Danny shoves it back against the seat with a thud, ignoring the dull pain it rings through his skull. "Are w'there yet?" He asks, blood spilling into his mouth that he tiredly tries to spit out. He's done with drinking it instead.

The numbness he'd been so graciously left with was starting to fade now, returning back to a burning, rhythmic soreness spreading through his limbs. It clustered up around his joints, feeling like pins and needles in his fingers and down his spine.

Bat-man guy grunts shortly, shifts the gearshift into a new position, and glances over to him for the nth time that night. "Almost."

Almost. Almost was... good? Probably. Hopefully. Danny doesn't give a response, just nods mutely.

The car comes to a stop some minutes later, parked in a wide open space with LED lights spread erratically through the floor that hurt Danny's eyes.

Bat-Man barely has the car in park before he's flying out of his side. If Danny didn't know better, he'd have thought the man had phased right through the metal. That's not what happened, and he watches the guy zip around the front of the car to his side.

He's barely understood that he's even gotten out of the car before Bat-Man has Danny's door open. He jolts involuntarily, sitting lame in his seat as Bat-Man gets him unbuckled and pulled out of the car.

The lights are still painfully bright in Danny's eyes as Bat-Man pulls him out, and he whines involuntarily, tilting his face inward to hide it against the armor-weave.

"--sleep at a reasonable-- dear god! What happened!?"

Oh, forget the lights. Danny turns his head and braces against the brightness -- and his tilting, whorling sight -- to see who else was here. He sees an older man with a cane standing near one of the tables.

"His godfather poisoned him." Bat-Man growls, Danny nods heavily. "I need my antidote kit. Alfred, I need you to stay by him, make sure he doesn't start choking if he throws up."

The older man -- Alfred? Scoffs, and when Bat-Man passes by he follows after him. "As if you need to ask me. But where do you even plan on putting him?"

Without answering, Bat-Man shifts Danny until he's being held in one arm, and then approaches a metal table covered in nuts, bolts, and half-finished gadgets and gizmos. Without blinking, Bat-Man uses his free arm to shove it all off the table with a crashing, clattering, banging sound.

Then he lays Danny down.

The metal is freezing, sinking through the fabric of his jacket and shirt, and Danny turns his head to watch Bat-Man. In the process, he catches a glimpse at Alfred's expression -- and the sheer exasperated affront written on his face forces a laugh out of him.

Bat-Man's hands still from where they're tilting him onto his side, and Danny covers his mouth with his hand to stifle his giggling. "Sorry." He says, trying to catch his breath. "th'look on his face was funny."

The Alfred man sends a look at the Bat-Man when he glances at him, one eyebrow arched, before stepping over as Bat-Man gets Danny full on his side. Bat-Man disappears down somewhere, his footsteps echoing through the room.

"I hope he knows that he'll be picking all of this up when we're done, because I am certainly not." Alfred says stiffly, procuring a pristine handkerchief out of thin air. One of those nice looking ones that are probably made of like, butterfly silk.

Danny almost smiles, but Alfred starts reaching for his face, so instead he suppresses a flinch. There's a pause, before Alfred's hand glides over his cheek. Despite the callous padding on his palm, his touch is resoundingly gentle.

He cups Danny's jaw, and starts wiping the blood from his face.

...Oh.

Danny blinks uncomprehendingly up at him. He hasn't felt an actual affectionate touch in months. Vlad tried to be, but every touch to Danny's skin felt oily; disgusting. Danny wanted to scrub at the spot every time he pulled away.

So this was like warm sunlight on his face, and he hums low and pleasantly. "Tha'feels nice." He mumbles, relaxing unconsciously.

"I would hope so, young man." Alfred-guy says, folding his already blood-stained handkerchief in half for a cleaner square and moving to clean the blood from his throat. "All this blood couldn't have felt pleasant."

No, no, Danny thinks slowly, not that part.

"May I ask for your name?" Alfred asks before Danny can correct him. "It's not every night that the young master brings someone back with him."

Danny stares. "Danny." He says, "Mnh... just Danny. M'godfath'r calls me Daniel, an' he poisoned me."

Alfred nods, and pulls his handkerchief away. It was stained right through with blood. Danny cringes with shame. That probably won't come out. "I wish we were meeting on better circumstances, Mister Danny. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His good midwestern manners kicks in, and Danny nods curtly. HIs head spins in revenge for the movement. "Y'too, sir."

Bat-Man reappears in that moment, clearing off a space on the table across from them with a kit of various bottles and vials and other doodads that Danny's too unfocused to recognize.

He watches him yank off the vambraces wrapped around his arms, and then the gloves on both his hands. Alfred brushes the hair off his forehead, gathering Danny's attention again.

"If you don't mind, how did you two meet?" He asks, Bat-Man glances over his shoulder at them both, but says nothing. There's a clattering of bottles before he bounds off again down a tunnel. Danny takes that as his sign to explain instead.

"All'y." Danny says, shifting when the pressure on his shoulder grew too uncomfortable. His stomach flips, and he freezes in place to breathe in slow. He swallows dryly when the nausea passes. "Um-- I w'z runnin' from Vlad, an' I saw him in one 'f the alleyways."

Bat-Man reappears again with more things, and starts messing around with his collection of bottles and tubes and whatever -- probably to fix an antidote.

...Would he even be able to make one? Fuck, Danny hadn't thought of that. Blood Blossoms interact with him differently.

He forcibly keeps his breathing even, and zeroes in on Alfred. "I thou' he was a hero, n' I was right. He is." He smiles, and Alfred's expression softens out.

Danny breathes in sharp, pain ricocheting up his spine. "He's-- mine, at least."

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[sonicpositive]

MASSIVE Sonic 3 spoilers, don’t click on if you haven’t seen it. I need to infodump about one specific scene.

—

I wanna talk about the Super Sonic and Super Shadow fight scene, which may I say, was one of the COOLEST things to come out of the Sonic series thus far.

It posed the question, who would win? Super Sonic or Super Shadow?

It straight up told us the answer, with Shadow saying “you’ve won, so finish it!”

But Sonic didn’t win. I don’t think he would win that fight regardless. I think Shadow said that and gave Sonic an opening to kill him to prove a point.

Even while still on Earth, Shadow was goading Sonic about how they were alike, how Sonic was acting out of anger the same way he criticized Shadow of doing. He was trying to push Sonic to a breaking point. He brought up and mocked Tom, there’s no way he wouldn’t expect to be hit for that. At MOST, maybe he was caught by surprise, or underestimated Sonic, but I think he left himself open on purpose. Shadow is too skilled of a fighter to make that mistake.

Then Shadow, on the moon, tried to goad Sonic into killing him, “finishing” it. He stayed down, but I don’t think he was out or done fighting. We see that he wasn’t beat because of the Eclipse Cannon fight later. I think he feigned being beat to prove to Sonic that he does not have the moral high ground; Sonic can be dragged to the depths of anger, despair, revenge, and violence over something painful happening the exact same way Shadow was. And Sonic proved that Shadow was wrong about him.

Regardless, I think this perspective lends a lot to Shadow’s character as a whole, and his rivalry with Sonic. Though they hadn’t known each other long in this continuity, Shadow believes he is better than Sonic in every way. Even in the context of the movie, he probably sees Sonic as some naive, incredibly cocky and powerful kid who acts like he knows what’s right when he can’t even fathom what Shadow has been through. Shadow has to show that he’s better than him. That even when Sonic thinks he’s won, even in their most powerful form, Shadow still will rise above him.

And yet, Sonic still surprised him and proved him wrong. Because Shadow so firmly believed in his righteous pursuit of justice and revenge as the only way to go, until Sonic chose not to finish the fight and kill him.

And then, as annoying as he finds Sonic, he can respect him because he showed Shadow a way he hadn’t even considered. There’s something to be admired in that level of optimism, even if ultimately, Shadow still believes he’s better than Sonic.

Anyway, this concludes my analysis. Thank you for coming to my TEDtalk.

[metalomagnetic]

Either must die snippet

***A dear friend asked on discord if I have some EMD writing left, so here it is.***

----

Harry hadn’t stopped screaming since he entered the kitchen; he’s furious. It’s been a long time since he exploded in such righteous anger.

Cheeks red, jaws set, and those damned eyes of his glinting. Why, it’s almost like before, back in the war. Of course, now at least he can appear somewhat intimidating, what with the size of him. He doesn’t intimidate Voldemort, but it is easy to imagine he could make a random individual cower. Voldemort would like to see Harry going off like this on some pesky journalists or one of his stalker fans. It would be entertaining.

As it is, it’s not entertaining at the moment. It irritates Voldemort to be screamed at.

One flick of his wrist, and he could silence Harry. Another flick and he can send him crashing into the wall. To resist temptation, he drums his fingers on the table, reaches inside to find patience. It’s getting harder and harder to be patient these days. He had to suffer it for a while, but now he’s back in power. A Minister, not a war lord, yet people learned not to trifle with him, not to glare at him, not to talk back.

Even Harry learned, as the years passed by. He minded his business, and he let Voldemort be. Yet it’s not worth the trouble to put him in his place, now. He can already imagine the dramatics that would follow. Harry would break again, and Voldemort will either have to lock him in an attic, never to be allowed in public, or he’d have to put in the effort to build him back up, and he certainly lacks the patience for that. Hermione would be insufferable about it. Delphini would cry.

Harry must be aware of these unpleasant outcomes, too, because while he screams, he doesn’t dare do more than that. He cries, too, tears of pain and frustration and pure despair. That improves Voldemort’s mood a tad. Harry always looks good when he’s crying. “I asked for one thing!” his voice breaks, rough. “One thing! You have everything, and I said nothing- you use me, you use my name, you- I only asked for one thing.”

What a lie. Harry might not verbally ask for much, but those pitiful eyes of his ask plenty, and Voldemort gives it to him. The ungrateful brat.

“And you couldn’t let me have it! You’re a monster!”

Show him, a voice begs, a voice that was dormant for so long, but it’s waking up lately. Show him the monster. Show him how patient you’d been with him all these years. Show him how it could have been.

Voldemort ignores it. His fingers curl around the table, momentarily, because just drumming them isn’t enough anymore, he itches for his wand, but then the crisis is avoided, and he is in control, he won’t snap. He does stand, because it’s safe to do it, his temper is in check, and Harry tired himself out with his tantrum. “You asked for her life,” Voldemort reminds him. “She is alive.” Moly Weasley lives. Thought it seems a misfortune befell her earlier that day. Well earned. Delicious revenge. Harry, sadly, is not the type to enjoy the poetic justice, the mastery in this delivery of punishment.

She lives, like he wanted, she isn’t even in pain, but the score was settled. Fleetingly, he wonders if Bella is happy, if she laughs gleefully in the afterlife. Perhaps not- Bella was never one for poetry, for subtlety. She got her vengeance in blood and screams. Harry stares at him, shaking his head. “I hate you,” he whispers. Voldemort did not want to break him, but he broke, anyway. So fragile, this boy of his, despite his impressive muscles, he shatters like glass. “Nothing new,” Voldemort replies, and walks out of the kitchen.

As soon as he reaches the garden, he feels his anger rising, now that he isn’t focused on not hurting Harry until he explodes into a pile of blood and bones. He gets angrier and angrier with every step. He feels as impotent as Harry must feel. No matter how mad the boy was, how obviously hurting, he did not even think to draw his wand at Voldemort, or punch him, like he once did. He would have- for Molly fucking Weasley, he would have. Harry has few limits, but the Weasleys are one. Harry would crash and burn with them, for them, the world be damned. He didn’t, however, because he must know, deep down, that it wasn’t Voldemort. But he can’t admit it to himself, not consciously. Voldemort is a convenient scapegoat. Voldemort is a monster, rotten and evil, and it’s easier for Harry this way. Easier than the truth.

He Apparates to Lestrange Manor, and he thinks of Bella again. How odd- he hadn’t truly thought of her in years, but now he feels her around; when he walks to Lestrange Manor, is feels like before, like when he’d walk this path and knew he’d find her and Rodolphus inside. He doesn’t, of course. He finds a copy of her, instead. Bella left him copies of herself, echoes that remain to dwell the earth in her absence. Voldemort walks past Andromeda, strolls through the Manor, until he finds Rodolphus’ copy.

Voldemort knows Rabastan is guilty as soon as he lays eyes on him. That stiff posture, the fear in his eyes, even if he keeps his chin up, defiant. “Your wand,” he snarls. Andromeda followed him, she’s frowning, confused, asking what the matter is. The matter is that Voldemort was disobeyed. “Leave,” Rabastan begs her. “Leave,” Voldemort snarls at her. Andromeda is a cheaper copy of Bella, in all senses. Tamer, sadder, broken. But wiser. She leaves.

Rabastan gives up ‘his’ wand. It’s not his, of course, just like Voldemort suspected. He knew, as Harry was screeching, as Voldemort sat there trying not to snap, he was thinking how all this could have been accomplished. Delphini is at Hogwarts, after all. Impossible for her to also be at the Burrow. Unless she Apparated there. But she wouldn’t risk doing all that with her wand. It became quite obvious who would have given her a wand. “It had to be done,” Rabastan dares to speak. “You moved on, but I can’t; not until justice was served. You moved on, but Delphi couldn’t.” Delphini is a far better copy of Bella, compared to Andromeda. But, as Voldemort feared- you do not fear!- as Voldemort suspected, she is no true copy of her mother. Oh, she’s her spitting image, she has some Black traits in her personality, but no- Delphi is his copy. The anger reaches its peak. Voldemort always treasured Rabastan over most others, awarded him more leeway than most others. But Rabastan is no Harry, he’s no Delphini, and Voldemort snaps.

He reminds Rabastan who he serves, whose mark is on his arm. Useless, of course. Rabastan was never one to cow for pain, nor learn from it. Yet his pain serves to soothe some of Voldemort’s anger, lets him take it out on him. Another convenient scapegoat.

(-)

She does walk like Bella, a confident, defiant tilt to her hips. She walks loudly, proudly, as if used to have others look at her in awe, covet her. She brought her heels, even if the path to the Forbidden Forest is not exactly best suited for heels. Whenever she angers him, she knows to make herself look even more like her mother.

Once, when he searched her mind, he saw Rodolphus teaching her this, on the night before he left her at Rowle’s. “It’s best if you look like her,” he told her, advising her to let her hair free, to wear the dresses Bella favoured. “He treasured her above all others, and, in time, I hope he’ll treasure you, too.” She doesn’t stop at a respectable distance, like Bella would have done when she knew she messed up, when she angered him. No. Delphini comes close, closer than anyone dares.

She’s taller than Bella already, and the heels almost bring her up to his chin. She looks up, and those are his eyes, that is his glare, his defiance, his stubbornness. “What potion did you give her?” “My own invention,” Delphini says, and pride flushes stronger on her face. “They won’t detect it.” “And if they do, then what is the problem, no?” Voldemort asks. “Who is going to suspect a perfect school girl? And if they do suspect her, who is going to blame the Minister’s daughter? Who would dare arrest her?” Delphini shrugs.

“If you plan on using my influence to stay out of trouble, if you know you can easily fall back on me to protect you, then you should discuss things with me before you do them.” “Why bother,” she spits. “You would have said ‘no’. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” He should have tortured Rabastan more, because not all the anger is out of his system. Furry comes back hot, coursing through his veins, going to his head. “Ask for forgiveness, then,” he hisses, and he takes the step that separated them, towers over her. If she wants to play these games, he’ll play them. She will lose. It’s time for her to learn to lose- Harry spoiled her, far too much. He ignored Voldemort’s warnings that Delphini shouldn’t get away with everything she does, that he should push back, whenever she tests them.

As always, Harry’s kind, tolerant heart, explodes spectacularly in his face.

Delphini doesn’t cower, not truly, but he can detect the current of fear that passes through her. Strangely, it does nothing to improve his mood. Terrifying people usually soothes his fury, but now it just taints it with an unknowable feeling. “I thought you loved Harry,” he says, softly.

“I do!” Her fingers curl into fists at her side. Her neck is bent back uncomfortably, trying to keep Voldemort’s gaze. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Like he asked. She loves Harry, didn’t forget him, and she’ll no doubt dote over him, like a mother. In fact, now that she only remembers loving him, she’ll love him even more! I took nothing from Harry! He can have his pretend mummy! I only took away the memories of all her living children! It’s only fair!”

Delphini’s voice gets louder. Defensive. “She stole my mother from me! So it’s only fair she forgets all the beautiful memories she has with her children, memories she didn’t let me form with my mother. It’s only fair she will only remember her dead son, like I have to remember my dead mother, every time I step foot into the Great Hall, where that harpy took her from me. From us! You lost her, too! And now Molly Weasley cannot remember her husband, either! It’s fair, it is!”

It is beautiful, he agrees. It is poetic and it is just. It is perfect. However.

“You knew he’ll blame me for it; you understand he’s devastated; you understand how he’ll avoid me now, how he’ll suffer, how he’ll moan and whine at me for months on end, start drinking again, retreat into his spare bedroom and rot there for who knows how long. You are perfectly aware Hermione will blame me, too. That it could potentially harm my work. You knew this would affect me. And you did it anyway.” He cups Delphini’s face, and she finally flinches, though she doesn’t draw back.

So beautiful, this child. So intelligent. She loves Voldemort, understands him like no other. His perfect girl. If Voldemort would have ever wanted a daughter, if he’d have been given the chance to make her, build her from scratch- this is what he’d have imagined. Only, he still wishes she would have been more like Bella, or Rodolphus, or Harry; it would have been easier. For him, and for her. Alas, she is not like them. She is like him.

“She deserves it,” Delphini insists. “She hurt me!” Ever her tears are perfect, pretty shapes, clear, trailing down her cheeks. “That never works with me, Delphini,” he reminds her, using his thumb to brush one tear away. “I know!” she hisses. “Nothing works with you! That’s why I didn’t ask! Because you give Harry everything he asks, you are so attentive to provide him with what he needs, but you never care about what I want. What I need. I asked you to punish her, you promised me, remember? When I first met Ron. You promised me! But then Harry asked you to spare her, and you did what he wanted. You forgot about me, about my pain-“

“Shut up,” he says, softly. “I allow you far more than I would anyone else. Harry is my prisoner, he does only what I allow him to do, even if he deluded himself into thinking otherwise. I give you freedom. I don’t make decisions for you. I accept you as you are. But-“ he takes his hand away. “Do not trespass against me, Delphini,” he warns her. “If you want to hurt others, don’t use your mother as an excuse to do it. More importantly, don’t hurt people that are useful to me. Ask before you pull something like this again. And when I say ‘no’, better heed it. Or leave. Go far away, and make trouble there. This is my country, and nothing happens inside it without my say so. I worked for sixty years to subdue this island. If you want that kind of power, you will have to work for it, too.”

[asheepinfrance]

i don't like this, nor am i really sure of what it is, and it is certainly not i wanted it to be, but it exists as it does, and maybe that's alright for now.

As a child, Art spent a lot of time in the nurse’s office, complaining of the typical childhood ailments that Ms. So-and-So, name and face turned beige and fuzzy in the backlogs of his memory, was so weary of seeing. Headaches from staring too long at small font and big numbers, scraped knees from trying just a little harder than everyone else in gym, and stomachaches. Mostly stomachaches. Whenever she asked him to describe the feeling, voice tinged with the sticky-sweet honey of thinly veiled aggravation, he found himself struggling to. It wasn’t pain, per se, or at least not in the traditional sense. No feeling a pulse where there was no heart beneath skin, nothing to dig at with bitten down nails. All that was there was the awareness that something wasn’t normal, or if other kids his age felt that way, they’d never made it known. He chose the word nauseous, usually, and took the time to lay on the old leather bench in the corner of her office, covered in a thin sheet of paper which crinkled each time he moved. The stomachache would never really leave before he went back to class.

When he thought about it, it wasn’t just a feeling beneath the skin that he wasn’t normal, because they clearly felt it, too. Not that he couldn’t hold conversations, tell the right jokes to pull a laugh from a light, youth-filled chest, he could. In fact, he did so quite well. Nana’s little comedian. But he never had friends to come home with after school, crammed in backseats next to the booster of a younger sibling. No one to giggle with over carrot sticks and crustless peanut butter sandwiches at lunch, over girls, sports, maybe just nothing at all. No one who’d send him smiles sans front teeth without having one sent their way first. 

His Nana always said he was perfect, his mother always said it was a maturity thing. The other kids would catch up someday, as if he existed on some superior form of youth more akin to adulthood. An incoming peak in college. But he didn’t know that that was true. He was born a middle-aged man, ready to sleep his days away and eat more than his fill to distract himself from that ache emanating from his very core. And if he was already that old, by the time his peers reached that age, he’d be dead in a living body. He hoped, though, that his mother was right, more for Nana’s sake than his own. He doesn’t think she could bare the weight of a second unlovable child, even if he’s not truly hers.

Tennis had given him something, though. An outlet, in all the ways that didn’t matter. A means of venting his frustrations with himself, his family, his ‘friends’. In the ways it did matter, however, it was medicinal. A balm to alleviate that inherent wrongness within him. The discomfort from being thirty at the age of seven. The overwhelming anger he never showed to anyone, because a boy his age should have no reason to be as upset with the world as he was. It worked magic, though, making strength from thin arms, chiseling stronger features into the stone of a hard-set jaw, pulling new muscle from old bone. It was the youngest he’d ever been, when he was on the court. He hurt afterwards, yes, from soreness, but it felt righteous. Like his suffering, in some form, was meant to be there, even if he hadn’t learned what it was all for yet.

It gave him Patrick, too. The first person who met his eyes and seemed to see through him, not just see what he presented. Patrick was smart, even if he pretended not to be. Art couldn’t understand that for the life of him, why Patrick so often pretended to be stupid. He was naturally more open, confident, out-spoken than Art, yes, but in the quiet of their dorm he found Patrick could be quiet, too. Soft-spoken, gentle if need be. And no one would believe him if he said the boisterous Patrick Zweig had it in him to be soft, much less sweet. But he learned, eventually, as Patrick must have done at a younger age. When Patrick spoke, loud enough to swallow up a room and fill it with himself, and just dumb enough to give people something to poke at, he got attention, validation that he was worth looking towards. Art learned to understand. Art learned to be dumb, too. He learned to become what he wasn’t, or more accurately, who he wasn’t. He felt sick most times for it, the restless, hungry pit in his stomach not necessarily satiated by it, but it quelled it some days. 

When Patrick slung his arm around his shoulders one day, likely only in an effort to show off the corded muscle to the giggling blonde across them, he spoke for Art like he knew what he wanted. 

“We’re going to pro together, y’know, after this is up. Don’t you wanna be able to brag about fucking a tennis player?”

The language made Art wrinkle his nose a bit, but he laughed anyway, entranced by the way Patrick followed up his words with a swig of whatever it was in his cup. Maybe to wash away the gluey, cloying feeling of significance. Maybe just to wash down the guilt. They’d never discussed the matter together, come to think of it, because Art didn’t know what he wanted. He loved tennis, yes, loved Patrick just the same, but he didn’t quite know what it was he wanted to do with himself. It felt like he’d figure himself out if he just waited a bit, after all, that incoming college peak was nearer and nearer to rounding the corner and actually being his life. They still didn’t discuss it when Patrick came home later that night, tugging a shirt back into place where it clearly hadn’t been seconds ago, and he dropped onto the pillow with a heavy sigh, nuzzling his face into it. That asshole couldn’t even be bothered to stay the night. And still, he knew that if asked, he’d do it. After all, who was he without stitching himself to Patrick’s side? He wasn’t sure he knew. It made the offer he’d accepted from Stanford feel that much worse.

After Patrick came Tashi, bright, beautiful, lovely Tashi. And after that Tashi came the hardened one, legs always crossed at the knee like anyone could forget what was hiding. And Tashi saw him reborn into his own greatness, shaky on his knees like a foal. Each time she looked his way, he felt some jagged piece within him, one he’d never known to be out of place, click into position. Maybe it was that she’d kissed him like he thought he’d wanted when he was eighteen, bright-eyed as he could be, but never quite as bright as the other hopeful suitors surrounding her. Maybe it was that he got the attention which she gave out so sparingly. Maybe it was the surgical precision which she stared at him, like she was peeling back each layer of skin to find the brown, softened beginnings of rot. She was like a scalpel in that sense, always opening, opening, opening, and never quite cracking in return. Not even a chip. Each remark, about him, about his game, the occasional reference to a boy they once knew who would never truly be a man, nameless like it’d kill them to say aloud, was a knife. Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, she can practically feel a stab wound forming where their tongues brush in a kiss, the rising copper from it. He thinks she’d still look beautiful with crimson-soaked teeth. She’d be beautiful if she hurt him.

He called Nana about Tashi quite a bit, her voice always shakier than the last time. It always took more and more effort for her to speak, and less and less words would come out. But he took each one gratefully, like a small gift which he’d never done anything to deserve receiving. Just like Patrick’s stolen personality, or Tashi’s stolen career. After all, where he was was just an amalgamation of his only loves’ stolen dreams. He sometimes wonders where he’d be if he didn’t naturally suck the life from all he touched. Nana seemed to like Tashi. The usual questions always came: marriage, children, the future proposal plans. He always laughed about it, huffed and shook his head like he was already an exasperated father, saying ‘someday’ to placate her. Maybe he would make that true, and maybe he wouldn’t. Because when he looked to Tashi, Tashi brushing her hair, Tashi tying the laces of her shoes, Tashi humming just a bit too loud at six in the morning as she brews her coffee, he thinks he’s never deserved anything less. Then again, maybe it’s not about deserving things. Maybe love can genuinely be unconditional, even if it’s for him. He shudders to think. He feels warm. His stomach hurts.

[wannab-urs]

Title: Crawling Back to You

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: After some particularly awful shit goes down, Javi distances himself from you. But he always comes crawling back. 

Tags: Angst, smut, more angst, reference to s2e3 events w Carillo, Javi sleeps with Gabriela (that’s the one from S2E3 y’all), sad!Javi, self hating!Javi, references to blood, wounds, rot, etc, all metaphorical, drinking/alcohol, as always: excessive cursing, me trying to speak spanish (translations provided), arguing, manhandling, dry humping, fingering, oral f receiving, face riding but while lying down, hair pulling, actual riding, Javi very briefly picks you up, that one position from s1e2, unprotected PiV, creampie, Javi crying, Javi yelling, reader yelling, did I mention angst? WC: 2130

A/N: I'm sorry? And thanks to the HBH for beta reading <3

Series Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Crawling back to you Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? 'Cause I always do

Javi has avoided you for two weeks now. He got himself involved in some truly fucked up shit with Carillo and couldn’t bear to face you after that. He couldn’t let you see him like that – completely ashamed of himself, broken. He went to Gabriela instead. He knew she wouldn’t ask too many questions, that she would let him take out his anger and helplessness and shame on her. 

When he got home that night he still almost called you, just to hear your voice. You calm something inside him, something dark and violent. But it feels like a sin to expose you to it in the first place. He’s terrified of letting you in. Sure, he’s afraid of getting hurt. Afraid of giving his heart to you and possibly watching you crush it in your hands. But what he’s really scared of is letting you get close enough to see the blood in his teeth, to smell the rot in his chest. Afraid his darkness will infect you, ruin the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He is a bad man and you are so so good. You deserve better than him.

And yet he can’t truly let you go. Just another reason he doesn’t deserve you. He’s selfish enough to keep going back to you, to keep knocking on your apartment door and burying his pain in your body, only to tuck tail and run the second you push him for more. Most selfish of all is how much he wants more with you. Wants to come home to you every day. To cook dinner with you, to share a bed with you, to share his life with you. He wants everything you want and more and he’s terrified and horrified at the prospect. 

You haven’t called him. Maybe you finally listened to him. Finally accepted he’s not what you want or need. Do you think about calling him? Maybe after a bottle of wine, listening to your maudlin records and relaxing on your couch. Do you drink yourself into a stupor before you can make that mistake like he does? 

He dreams about you, about your body wrapped tightly around his, your nails dragging down his back so sharply it snaps him awake. He finds his whiskey glass turned over and spilled on his couch. His back aches from falling asleep sitting up. He eyes the phone. 

Fuck calling. 

Javi stares at the brass numbers on your apartment door. What the fuck is he doing here? He just can’t leave well enough alone. He pounds on the door until you answer. 

“No.” You slam the door closed. 

He bangs on the door again, fist pausing mid-air as the door swings open. 

“You can’t just come crawling back to me when you get tired of your whores, Javi.” You look beautiful. Standing in your doorway in one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties. Righteous anger puts a fire in your eyes, gives a hard set to your jaw.  

“No es así y tú lo sabes.” (It’s not like that and you know it).” Javi steps closer to you, you don’t step back. “Me haces falta. (I miss you). Let me in.” 

“Oh you fucking miss me? It’s been two weeks. Y no llamaste. (and you didn’t call).” You didn’t call him either, but that’s not the point. You didn’t show up at his apartment.

“Sé, lo siento. (I know, I’m sorry).”

“No. No lo eres. Déjame en paz.” (No. You’re not. Leave me alone.).  

“No puedo. You know I can’t.” Javi looks defeated, run down. You know he needs you. Despite the advice of everyone you know and your own better judgment, you step aside and let him in. “Gracias, cariño.” And he sounds so relieved, you almost feel bad for keeping him out, for not calling him. Almost. 

He closes the door behind him and you stalk off to the kitchen, still not quite ready to face him. You pour yourself a glass of whiskey and shoot it, wincing a little at the burn, before grabbing another glass and pouring one for each of you. You set both on the coffee table and sit on the couch, folding your legs beneath you. 

“Why are you here, Javi?” He’d asked himself as much.

He picks his glass up off the table and sits on the couch next to you. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I need you. I don’t know what else you want me to say.” 

“Start with why you disappeared.”

“Classified.”

“Bullshit.”

Javi sets his glass down and manhandles you into his lap. He crashes his mouth into yours and at first you don’t even respond to his touch, but it doesn’t take long to fall into him. You can’t deny that you’ve been miserable without him. Craving his touch, missing him so much it hurts. He’s like an itch you can never scratch enough to satisfy. A festering wound that won’t ever heal. So you may as well pick at the scab. 

Javi pulls your crotch flush with his. He’s already hard against you. You bury your hands in his too-long hair where it curls at the nape and lose yourself in him. You grind down on him and he thrusts up against you, the denim of his jeans and hard line of his cock creating delicious friction even through your panties. 

He breaks the kiss, dragging his lips up your jaw, and whispers in your ear, “Can you come for me like this?” You don’t answer him, simply grind down on him harder, faster, nearly rubbing your thighs raw on his jeans. He peels his t-shirt off your body, throws it behind the couch, and immediately sucks a nipple between his plush lips. He bites down and it sends a jolt straight through your core. 

“Fuck, Javi. More, baby. More,” you whine. He grabs your hips and drags you along his clothed length hard and fast. You feel your core tighten around nothing, and a keening moan falls from your lips as you come. 

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before he’s thrown you onto the couch. He drags your ruined underwear down your legs, tossing them over his shoulder, and buries his face between your thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth and pushes two fingers inside you, pumping slowly and rolling your clit gently between his teeth. 

You arch up into him, and instead of pinning you down like he often does, he lets you grind your pussy on his face. The hard ridge of his nose, the rough drag of his mustache, the plush softness of his lips, so many different sensations hitting you as his fingers plunge into your cunt, curling into your g-spot over and over. It’s completely and utterly overwhelming. You fist his hair and hold him tight to you as you ride his face, and he moans into your cunt. He fucking loves it when you let go like this, unabashed moans filling the room, probably filling the whole apartment complex. 

You fall apart again, like this, hips stuttering to a stop as you squeeze his fingers so hard it almost hurts. Javi peers up at your blissed out face, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, takes in just how beautiful you are. He drags his tongue through your slick one more time before hovering over you and licking into your mouth. 

You suck your own slick off his tongue, licking into his mouth as you feel him shove his jeans down enough to free his cock. He pulls back, sits on the couch and drags you into his lap. You straddle him and he helps you line up before grabbing your hips and pulling you down on him. 

You collapse forward, the feeling of him inside you is like being split apart and it would probably hurt if you weren’t so wet. He grabs your hair and pulls backward until your back is arched. “Montarme, cariño.” (Ride me, baby). You start moving your hips, slowly picking up in speed until you’re bouncing on his cock so hard and fast you can barely catch your breath.

He hitches your thighs around his waist and wraps his arm around your back, dropping you on the couch. He shoves his jeans down, stepping out of them, and drops one knee to the couch. He pulls you into his lap, wrapping your legs around his hips. You cling to his shoulders with your left arm and drop your other one behind you for leverage, rolling your hips into his. He meets you with his own thrusts, holding your body to his and burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

He’s so close, you’re so tangled up in each other, he’s so fucking deep inside you, barely even pulling out before rolling back up into you. You fall back onto the couch and he follows, still holding you in his arms as he fucks you. Your orgasm hits you like a wave, rolling over your body and giving you chills as your cunt flutters around his cock. 

He comes with you, fully collapsing down onto you. You should feel crushed under his weight, but it’s comforting. He holds you so tightly it’s like he’s afraid to let go of you. Afraid that when this moment is over you’ll kick him out and he’ll be alone again. Afraid this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch you. 

You pet his hair gently, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. It’s late. You’re so fucked out you feel high and maybe the whiskey is loosening your tongue a little.  

“I don’t understand, Javi. If it feels like this, why won’t you love me? What more could you want from me? What am I missing that you need?” This is going to ruin everything.

Javi pushes up on his elbows to look you in the eye. “Cariño. It’s not you–” 

“I swear to God, Javi, if you use that line on me I will burn your apartment down with you in it.” 

“You don’t understand. You won’t understand. I’m not good. I’m only going to get you hurt or killed.” 

“You already are hurting me, Javi,” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you. 

He’s silent for a long time before he half whispers into your shoulder, “I’m just so afraid.” His voice breaks and you feel a tear land on your skin. You stroke his hair, drag your fingers along his heated skin. 

“I know you, Javi. I know who you are and I don’t care. I think about you all the time. All the fucking time. I can’t stop thinking about you no matter how hard I fucking try. It’s torture.” 

Javi shoves himself away from you, standing and grabbing his jeans off the floor.“That’s my fucking point!” You flinch at his volume. He pulls his jeans on, grabs his boots and crams his feet into them, already heading to the door. He turns around. “I am only ever going to hurt you. I am a bad fucking person. I hurt people on purpose and you are not immune from that just because I care about you or because I love you.”  

You stand and try to take his face in your hands but he grabs your arms and holds you away from him. “I’d let you crack open my chest, rib by rib, while I watched if it meant I could have you. If it meant you’d be mine. Stop running away from me! I’m begging you!” You’re sobbing, yelling, pleading with him to just listen. 

Javi looks at you, brow furrowed, big brown eyes shiny and bloodshot with tears. He lets go of you and steps away slowly, putting distance between the two of you. His mouth opens as if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He drops his head and closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath, and walks out the door.

He knows he will come crawling back to you, tomorrow or a week from now, he can’t ever stay away. But maybe this time the wound will be too raw. He will have hurt you too much, and you will shut him out. He fucking hates it, hates the thought of being without you, hates the way it feels like he’s clawing out his own organs hurting you like this. But this hurt is so much less than what he would do to you given enough time. This wound will scab over, form an angry scar, he will have left his mark on you. But you will heal. 

dividers by @saradika

[insert-random-account-name]

Analyze the Princess- The Witch

The Witch’s fame can be mostly attributed to her companion route, the Thorn, which is quite possibly the fan favorite. Of course, the Witch is well loved too, captivating people with her creature-like behavior, but most of the time, when you hear about her, it’s in reference to the Thorn. The Witch is one of the characters to change the most in her Chapter 3 iterations, with little of her crafty and taunting personality making it through. It is very easy to get in a pitfall with the Witch, since the choices that seem to be good wind up bad, and the obviously bad choices lead to a happier ending. Her route is intentionally designed to mess with your head, but unfortunately, people fail to realize that, and instead get frustrated that the person they stabbed in the back isn’t eager to be friends. The Witch is the perfect rival to the Voice of the Opportunist.

You get the Witch by entering the basement in Chapter 1 without a knife, attempting to free the Princess, but eventually betraying her once the knife appears in the basement. You can also get her by retrieving the blade, finding her severed arm in the basement, and inspecting it without closing the door first. This leads to a shifty Princess whose actions conflict with her words. You got so close to freeing her, then changed your mind last minute. If you’re willing to play that kind of game, how can she ever trust you again? The Witch plays, not in her own best interests, but in the interest of having her revenge. She will not be the bigger person. She will drag you down in the dirt and kick your shins. If she gets even half the chance to make you feel what she felt, she will take it, even if it means dying herself. The Witch doesn’t trust in anyone ever, no matter the situation. Her constant attempts to outsmart you lead to her actions being unreliable and, in some cases, nonsensical. 

The Witch’s route represents revenge, but also; hate. In this chapter, you get to understand the true damage when you live by “An eye for an eye”. Despite the knowledge that she cannot escape without you, the Witch will still gladly kill you or lock you up forever, because she hates you and all that you are. She throws away what could be her last chance of freedom because she can’t rest until the scales are even. The Witch savors the feeling of pain and death, as long as you are there, suffering beside her. She relishes the thought of worms feasting on your corpse, since, in her eyes, it is what you deserve. This kind of hatred is self-destructive. It is all-consuming. And in the end, all the Witch is left with is the bitter irony that she hurt herself as much as she hurt you. Or, if she locks you in the basement, the fear of someone she hurt coming face to face with her once again. 

But what happens when she does get revenge? I’m not going too deep into this one, since it ties into the Thorn, but if you let the Witch take her anger out on you, she finds the victory less sweet than she imagined. The triumph quickly fades away as she realizes that the win was handed to her on a silver platter. How can she keep hating you when you let her kill you? And if she doesn’t hate you, what else does she have?

Finally, if you attempt to slay her, she is thrilled. The Witch wants nothing more than to fight again, only this time, she’s ready. What she despises most is being deceived. A fight is the only way she can ensure your honesty. A fight lets her hate you out loud, rather than hiding behind a truce until she can backstab you. However, this cycle of violence and revenge that’s being perpetuated traps you, in quite the literal sense, as the roots of the cabin slowly close in, forcing both of you to die as wretchedly as you lived. The Witch’s chapter is deceptive, with a righteous heart.

Other parts:

The Razor The Stranger The Damsel The Prisoner The Tower The Witch The Spectre

(If you like my yapping, check out my other analyses. There's one for the voices here and my one for the narrator here)

[brainmaggotzzzz]

☆Little AK47☆ Hwang Inho x reader

part 13

story masterlist:

cw: everything as before

It all happened in a blur. One moment, you were frozen in shock, and the next, In-ho was dragging you through the halls with swift, calculated movements. His grip around your wrist was firm—tight enough to assert control, but not enough to bruise. Even though his face remained concealed behind that eerie, geometric mask, his anger was palpable. It radiated off him in waves, laced into the tension of his shoulders, the quick, precise way his head turned to scan for prying eyes before pulling you into an elevator.

Then, you were back.

The luxury apartment-like space swallowed you whole, the stark contrast between its lavish decor and the filth you had just escaped making your skin crawl.

And then—he threw you.

You gasped as your already bruised, sore body collided with the plush cushions of the couch. The force wasn’t enough to truly hurt, but it still sent a jolt of pain through your muscles. Before you could recover, he yanked off his mask.

His face was sharp with frustration, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. Though his voice came out flat, controlled, his expression told a different story—a storm of anger and something deeper, something unreadable.

"I locked those doors for a reason, Y/N," he said, voice devoid of emotion.

You forced yourself to sit up, feigning nonchalance despite the storm raging inside you. "I needed to see. Sorry about the shower," you quipped, trying to match his coldness.

But In-ho wasn't amused.

Before you could react, his gloved hand clamped around your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His grip wasn’t enough to leave bruises, but it was firm, unrelenting. You groaned slightly at the pressure, glaring up at him with defiance burning in your eyes.

"You're making it difficult for me to protect you," he said through gritted teeth.

With his free hand, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, pouring the amber liquid into a crystal glass. The motion was effortless, as if this was just another tiresome inconvenience he had to deal with.

"Well, I'm not some pet you grew fond of during a fucking rat race, In-ho!" you snapped, your voice rising. "I'm a person! Don’t you get that?! I'm not something you can just lock away like a caged animal! I’m a human being! Or is that too hard for you to comprehend?"

The glass shattered before you could even process what had happened.

In-ho had thrown it—slammed it against the floor with such force that the expensive crystal burst into a thousand tiny shards, scattering across the polished surface. The sudden sound sent a violent shockwave through your chest.

You flinched.

For a moment, you weren’t here. You were somewhere else.

A dimly lit room. A man with shaking hands and hollow eyes. The sharp, ringing sound of glass breaking against the wall.

Your father.

The memory slammed into you like a freight train, ripping the breath from your lungs. Your hands flew up, covering your ears, your body reacting before your mind could.

"Stop! Please!" you gasped out.

But In-ho just scoffed.

"Really, Y/N? You're the one pleading for me to stop?" His voice was sharp now, cutting through the thick air like a blade. "All you do is behave like a spoiled brat who does whatever the fuck she wants. Is this even about your brother anymore?"

His dark eyes bore into you, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, though everything about him screamed unstable.

"Or is it just your pathetic heroism?" He stepped closer, towering over you. "Your self-righteous delusion that doesn’t actually help anyone—just satisfies your own need to feel like you’re doing something?"  Your expression hardened, your eyes narrowing into sharp slits of fury.

"Well, everyone needs a reason to live for," you spat, voice laced with venom. "You should know all about that, you ghetto department store ass Barbie!"

For a second, he just stared at you. His eyes—dark, piercing—blinked in disbelief, as if his mind was struggling to process the sheer absurdity of what you had just said. Barbie? Did you just—?

You scoffed, unfazed.

"Oh, we’ve got quite the ghetto doll collection here, don’t we?" You tilted your head mockingly. "There's kind, caring, protective Youngil. Then we have you—cold, calculated In-ho. And, of course, the gangster—the rich wannabe god who gets to decide who lives and dies. Captain." You practically spat the word like it was poison on your tongue.

You stood up, head tilting up to meet his towering frame, chest heaving with every furious breath. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

"Oh! But let’s not forget," you added with a bitter laugh. "The Captain is also a fucking PIMP!"

Your voice cracked through the room like a whip, raw, seething.

"What? If it wasn’t me—if it was an actual waiter—you’d be completely okay with them being pimped out to those nasty, animal-masked men, wouldn’t you?" Your jaw clenched as your voice dropped into something colder, something laced with disgust.

"You disgust me."

You glared up at him, fire burning in your eyes, daring him to deny it. But he didn’t. He just stood there—silent, unreadable, and yet… something in the air between you felt like a lit fuse waiting to explode.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Y/N," In-ho said flatly, his tone laced with quiet exasperation. His expression was unreadable—unamused, detached, as if your outburst wasn’t even worth the effort of a real reaction.

But you weren’t having it.

Taking a step closer, the glass beneath your shoes cracked softly under your weight. Soon, closing the distance between you, and without hesitation, jabbed your finger into his chest.

"Then why are you keeping me like this?" you demanded, your voice low, trembling with barely contained frustration. "All I do is cause you trouble!"

His expression shifted. The faint flicker of irritation in his eyes melted away, replaced by something colder—something eerily calculated.

You pressed your finger into his chest again, this time more desperately. "Why won’t you just put a bullet through my head already? Why not?"

Before you could do it a third time, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, halting your movement with an effortless grip. His fingers were firm, unyielding, yet his touch wasn’t cruel.

"I told you before," he murmured, voice dropping into something quieter, something almost dangerous, "you're something worth protecting."

Your breath caught for just a second before he pulled you forward.

"Inconvenient little brat," he muttered under his breath, his free hand finding the small of your back, pressing lightly against it—a silent demand.

Before you could process it, he was steering you toward the locked bedroom. He went back to the couch area and grabbed his mask, then showing to the sensor.

The door swung open effortlessly as he led you inside. Your ankles still ached, tiny shards of glass embedded from your reckless escape through the tunnel, but you gritted your teeth, refusing to show weakness.

He gestured toward the bed. "Sit."

You hesitated, stubborn, but ultimately sank onto the plush mattress. You hated how easily he could make you comply. Hated how—despite everything—some twisted part of you still yearned for him.

In-ho sat beside you, silent, before his gaze dropped to your ankle. His gloved fingers reached out, gripping your calf gently, lifting your leg to examine the injury.

"You're bleeding," he stated, his voice quieter now, lacking its usual sharpness.

His thumb ghosted over the scraped, bloodied skin, a frown tugging at his lips.

"You're constantly getting injured," he murmured, his grip tightening just slightly. "I'm putting an end to it. From now on, when I’m not with you, a guard will be stationed to observe you."

His dark eyes flickered up to yours, unreadable.

"You reckless girl."

◇

In-ho stood, wordlessly making his way to the bathroom. You watched as he returned moments later, first-aid supplies in hand. He has people to do anything he possibly would need or want—so why was he patching you up himself? You wanted to ask, but something told you not to press the matter.

He worked in silence, carefully disinfecting your wounds, his touch precise but never harsh. You refused to flinch, though the sting bit into your skin. It was strange—this moment of care from the same man who had orchestrated so much pain.

"You know, Y/N," he said suddenly, his voice softer than before.

You had already swallowed your pride, exhaustion weighing you down, and without thinking, you shifted. Your head found a resting place on his thigh as he sat at the edge of the bed, his presence grounding you in a way you couldn't understand.

"Your brother would be very proud of you," he murmured, his gloved fingers threading through your hair in slow, absent strokes. "Especially of your recklessness… and your idiotic bravery."

The words caught you off guard.

He—of all people—dared to bring up your brother? The very person whose death he had played a part in? Every rational part of you wanted to shove him away, to curse him for even speaking his name. And yet…

Something in his tone felt real. Unfeigned. Like, for once, the puppet master wasn’t hiding behind his strings.

A lump formed in your throat, but you pushed it down.

"I'm not an idiot," you mumbled, eyes staring at the ceiling.

He let out a quiet exhale, a hint of amusement in his breath.

"You yourself aren’t," he conceded. "Although your actions are."

Despite the insult, his touch remained gentle, his fingers lazily weaving through your hair, soothing in a way that made your chest ache.

The push and pull between you was unbearable. The pain he had caused, the comfort he gave—it should have been irreconcilable. And yet, lying here, feeling the warmth of his presence, the quiet care in his touch…

It felt like home.

Or at least, the closest thing you had left to it.

"I really wish your and Player 456’s naïve beliefs truly applied to this filthy world," In-ho murmured, his voice low, almost contemplative. "But they don’t. And they never will. Not in this society. Not with human nature."

His fingers stilled in your hair for a moment before he leaned back slightly, regarding you with that same unreadable expression. The dim lighting of the room cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the quiet weight behind his words.

"But," he continued, tilting his head ever so slightly, "what I can do is keep you away from the filth."

You let out a dry, tired breath, your body heavy with exhaustion. Your gaze drifted up to meet his, dull yet unwavering.

"What if I am the filth?"

For a second, something in his features softened—just barely. The faintest twitch of his lips, almost an amused smile, almost a sigh.

"Just let me be the judge of that," he said simply.

"In-ho?" You sat up, pushing yourself to his level. He quirked an eyebrow at your sudden shift.

"What is the next game?"

The concern in your voice was evident, no matter how hard you tried to suppress it. You needed to know. You needed to be sure—about them.

But instead of answering, In-ho exhaled and stood.

"I need to go to the guests," he said, his tone final.

As he turned, his gaze flicked down to you one last time, wordlessly warning you. Don’t try anything funny.

You barely had a chance to open your mouth before he was already moving toward the door.

"Wait—"

He didn’t. He was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

A moment later, it reopened.

But this time, it wasn’t him.

A guard stepped inside, wordlessly taking position. Silent. Watching.

Just as In-ho had promised.

◇

You rolled your eyes and looked at the guard in the pink jumpsuit. He just stood there—nameless, soundless, faceless. Like a shadow, or a statue with no purpose beyond existing. Something about his stillness annoyed you. On impulse, you grabbed a pillow and hurled it straight at his masked face.

It hit with a dull thud. He didn’t react. Didn’t pick it up. Didn’t even flinch. Just stood there like he hadn’t just been assaulted with plush fabric.

Then, a voice—automated, monotonous—spoke up.

"Y/N L/N."

Your body stiffened. Your eyes widened as you quickly got up and strode toward him.

"How do you know my name?" You demanded, disbelief flickering across your face. "Did the Captain tell you? Did he break his own rules?"

Without a word, the guard reached up. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his mask.

And there he was.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat before you could stop it. Him? The man from earlier. The one caught up in the encounter with that disgusting VIP, the one you recognized.

"You," you exhaled, amusement lacing your voice.

You had seen that face before, many times. The detective. The one who had been in charge of your case. The man who had spent far too much time tracking down the so-called "Gangnam pickpocket and shoplifter."

The very same guy who once stood before you, preaching about lawfulness and making money the right way. A hypocrite. A lawman by day, an executioner by night.

The irony was too much. You let out another chuckle, your lips curling into a mock pout.

"You even remember my name, Detective Hwang Junho," you taunted.

You’d thought about him more than you cared to admit. He had been the face of your downfall, the one who caught you, cuffed you, testified against you in court. A living reminder of how quickly your world had spiraled.

"Quit it," he spat, his jaw tight.

You scoffed, tilting your head.

"I'm here investigating," he said, his voice lower now. "Are you being held hostage?"

Hostage.

Technically, yes. You weren’t free. You weren’t where you wanted to be. You should be out there—doing something, anything. Instead, you were locked away in this gilded cage.

You inhaled slowly, then exhaled.

"I am," you admitted, the usual sharpness in your tone dulling for once.

Junho’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but before he could speak again, you smirked and cocked your head.

"Why did you assume I’m here against my will?" you challenged. "What if I’m one of the people running this?"

A single eyebrow arched as you watched him.

"Because you were a player," the officer said.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened again. How long has he been here? Was he the one sneaking through the ventilation tunnels, just like you?

"Look, I know I’m a petty criminal, but please," you blurted out, desperation creeping into your voice. You stepped closer, fists clenched. "You need to help me. Another game will start soon—my teammates, t-they—" Your voice wavered, panic bubbling up. "I don’t want them to die."

Your chest rose and fell unevenly as you looked at him, pleading, grasping at anything that might help.

"I know," the detective said with a firm nod.

"Then go! Control the game, do something! I’ll go through the ventilation—I-I’ll figure something out—"

"No," he interrupted. "The ventilation is too dangerous now. There are guards patrolling heavily. You need to stay inside."

"But—!" You felt like you were suffocating. Your hands balled into fists, frustration burning through you.

"I already have troops coming," he cut you off. "They’ll be here by tomorrow. The next game is freeze tag. They just have to hold out, and soon this will all be over."

"But what if—"

"It’s too dangerous." His voice was steady, unshaken. "They’ve made it this far. They’ll be okay."

You hated this. Hated the feeling of helplessness, of being trapped in this room while people you cared about risked their lives. But deep down, you knew he was right. You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair before collapsing onto the bed.

Your head tilted toward him. Suspicion lingered in your expression.

"How did you even find out what the next game is?" you asked, skepticism creeping into your tone. Maybe this was all an elaborate trick. Maybe the Captain planted him here to lull you into a false sense of security. It was just… hard to believe.

The officer simply lifted the mask in his gloved hand, tapping the symbol on the front.

You exhaled through your nose and nodded.

Your gaze met his again, this time with something deeper—conflict, uncertainty. If he’s really here to take this place down… should I help him?

"What do you know about the so-called Captain?" He asked carefully.

It was a loaded question. Because if the detective didn’t know the truth, you weren’t sure you wanted to be the one to hand it to him. He could use it against the man who—despite everything—still had a hold over you.

"Nothing," you said finally, dropping your gaze. "He always wears a mask. And I don’t know why he keeps me here." You lie.

The detective studied you for a moment. Then, his voice lowered.

"Do you want to kill him?"

You didn’t hesitate.

"Already tried to."

Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out.

"After my—" You swallowed the lump in your throat. "After my brother died here, I promised myself I’d kill him with my own hands."

The officer didn’t offer sympathy. No empty words of comfort.

He just nodded.

"Sibling bonds are strong, aren’t they?" he murmured.

◇

After what felt like an eternity—an agonizing stretch of time filled with distant gunshots, each one making your heart lurch—there was silence. A long, unbearable silence. Then, footsteps.

The detective straightened, adjusting his mask in a swift motion, your breath hitching as the door swung open.

The masked figure of Inho stepped inside, his imposing presence filling the room.

"Dismissed," he ordered.

Without hesitation, the faux guard gave a small bow and swiftly exited.

The moment the door shut, you rushed toward Inho as he removed his mask, his voice returning to its usual cadence.

"They made it," he said simply.

You wanted—needed—to believe him. That he wasn’t just saying this to placate you, to keep you from spiraling. Clinging to that fragile hope, you wrapped your arms around him tightly.

He stiffened at first but soon placed a hand on your back, his touch firm yet strangely gentle.

"You've been very good," he murmured, his voice muffled against your hair. "Not causing trouble. Staying put." His fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of your uniform. "You deserve a reward."

His tone dropped to a whisper.

"Tell me what you want right now. Anything."

You tilted your head up, locking eyes with him.

"You know what I want," you murmured. "I want everyone to be safe."

His gaze lingered on you, unreadable behind its usual coldness.

"You need to think realistically, Y/N," he said, his voice softer now. "What's something you want? Right now?"

You hesitated, because deep down, you knew the answer. It was something you never truly had—something you always yearned for but never dared to ask for.

"Normalcy," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Let’s pretend. Just for one night. Let’s be normal. A normal couple. On a boring date."

The second the words left your mouth, embarrassment crept in. It was such a mundane, almost childish request in the grand scheme of things.

Inho raised an eyebrow.

"Did you just say couple?"

Your face heated, and you shoved him—almost playfully.

"Shut up," you muttered.

To your surprise, he smiled. A real, genuine smile. The kind that made him look almost human, almost like Youngil again.

And despite everything, despite the chaos, the horror, the twisted reality you were trapped in—you found yourself laughing, just a little.

"Give me an hour," he said.

◇

[enigma-the-mysterious]

Komuram Bheemudo: "Make that bastard kneel now!" Part 2/?

Hey! Hey! Hey! Remember how the whole point of the public flogging was to make Bheem kneel?

Who am I kidding? We are reminded of it constantly throughout the flogging

Ram's failed attempt #1

Ram's failed attempt #2

This bitchiest bitch to ever bitch

Ram's failed attempt #3

This asshole dickfuck vomitted straight out of hell

Ram's failed attempt #4

And in the end, Bheem has his way. He falls, but he does not kneel. They break him, but they cannot be bend him. They can command him, threaten him, brutalize him, but they cannot subdue him. He is the tiger, he cannot be tamed.

But!

BUT!

BUT!

You know what detail makes me go absolutely feral is interesting?

Bheem is not the one who kneels after the flogging.

RAM DOES!

RAM IS THE ONE WHO IS BROUGHT TO HIS KNEES AT THE END OF THE FLOGGING!!!

And I don't even mean this in a metaphorical sense (though that one is true as well)

Ram. Is. Physically. Kneeling. Beside. Bheem. I cannot stress this enough.

This is a KEY moment in the movie. It's a turning point.

We know that seeing the unarmed civilians rising up against the armed British forces in the wake of Bheem's defiance is what spurs Ram to finally, FINALLY arrive at his epiphany. His idea of what a revolution is and how it can be achieved is too narrow, too rigid, too costly. The sacrifices are too many and at what point will the ends justify the means?

But to change his viewpoint (again both literally and metaphorically), RAM HAS TO BEND FIRST! Once Ram bends, only then can he finally SEE!

And what is it that makes Ram bend? It's his LOVE FOR BHEEM! His love for Bheem changes him.

So these, that is, the shots where Ram is SEEING a revolution, an actual revolution in action, sparked by nothing more than Bheem's song and his indomitable spirit....

....come AFTER these shots. Where Ram is compelled by his love for Bheem to bend down and kneel

Compare this with Ram's introduction scene.

There is a revolution going on. People show up in front of a police station on the outskirts of Delhi to protest the arrest of Lala Lajpat Rai, a prominent Indian political figure, in Kolkata, armed with nothing more than torches, flags, and their righteous anger.

Ram watches the revolution. But he does not SEE it. He is so focused on his distant goal that he is blind to what is right in front of him. What is literally staring at him in the eye.

So, what does Ram do with his myopic worldview? He quashes the revolution. He stamps out the very thing he is fighting for. He breaks the spirit of the revolution, the spirit of the people, and he watches stone-faced as the protesters limp away, defeated. All because he cannot SEE the revolution for what it is.

So, with these two scenes in mind, we understand that this is not the first time Ram has witnessed a revolution. The people's uprising in the wake of Bheem's torture is nothing new to him. He has watched it all before, has actively participated in snuffing it out even.

Here, Ram STANDS tall, straight, rigid, focused, unbending.

Here, Ram is ON HIS KNEES.

The only factor that changes between these two scenes is the presence of Bheem..... and Ram's love for him. It's Ram's love for Bheem that bends his inflexible worldview. It's Ram's love for Bheem that makes him take a step back and actually see the true meaning of revolution. It's Ram's love for Bheem that shifts his perspective. It's Ram's love for Bheem that makes Ram willingly give up a 15 year long mission he has been toiling endlessly for.

Love is THE MOST powerful force in RRR. No amount of pain, grief, anger, heartbreak, trauma, brutality or violence can wipe it out. It is love that shines and love that emerges victorious. And after the flogging, Ram's love for Bheem is the most powerful driving force in his life, more powerful than a lifelong mission, more powerful than a promise made among tears and blood.

The visual storytelling and symbolisms in this movie are insane. I am going to scream about them for the next 80 years.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Mini Meta]

[belit0]

Obitos reaction to his jinchuriki best friend from childhood becoming a powerful shinobi because of there bijuu and unlike naruto they despise the leaf because of what they put her through and holdes a grudge

The first time Obito sees her again, standing across from him as an enemy of Konoha, something inside him stalls. She is not the same girl who used to drag him away from fights, the one who laughed with him under the trees, who wiped his wounds and told him he'd be Hokage one day. No—her eyes now hold the weight of something dark, something bitter. And for the first time, Obito realizes: she hates the village more than he does.

It isn’t the righteous fury of a hero fighting for justice. It’s colder than that. Sharper. A blade forged in years of resentment, honed in suffering. He listens to her words, the venom laced in every syllable, and for once, he doesn’t have to explain why the village isn’t worth saving. She already knows.

He can’t help but be proud of how strong she’s become. The power she wields, the control she has over the potency inside her—it’s nothing short of awe-inspiring. But beneath that admiration is something else, something aching. Because while he turned to the Akatsuki, while he convinced himself that love was dead, she was alone in that village, drowning in its cruelty. And he left her there.

Their reunions are a battle of wills. She stands before him, unyielding, a force to be reckoned with. And Obito—who once believed himself the only one who saw Konoha for what it was—finds himself caught between his past and his present. She is everything he lost. Everything he thought he could never have again.

-You abandoned me, Obito.

-I thought you were safe.

-Then you’re a fool.

She doesn’t hide her anger. He doesn’t try to justify his choices. They are both shaped by loss, by pain, by a village that never wanted them. And yet, they took different paths—her hatred a slow-burning ember, his a raging wildfire.

He doesn’t try to talk her out of it. How could he? She has every right to hate the village. If anything, he understands her better than anyone. Perhaps even more than Madara ever understood him. Because while he sought to erase the world and start anew, she—she wanted Konoha to suffer. To know what it felt like to be cast aside.

Despite it all, despite knowing she can take care of herself, Obito still watches over her from the shadows. He doesn’t interfere in her revenge, but he makes sure no one else gets to her first. He’s seen too many people he loves slip through his fingers. He refuses to let her be one of them.

She doesn’t know, but when he hears whispers of Konoha sending assassins after her, of ANBU tracking her movements, something in him snaps. The thought of her dying at their hands—of losing her all over again—is unbearable. And so, one night, he finds her. Confronts her. Stands between her and the war she is waging.

-If you keep going down this path, they won’t stop until you’re dead.

-Then let them try.

-I won’t let them have you.- The words slip out before he can stop them. And for the first time, she hesitates

He doesn’t tell her how much she means to him. He doesn’t tell her that, in another life, maybe they could have been something more. Instead, he just stays close, lingers in the spaces between war and vengeance, always there, always watching. Because no matter how much she hates the world—no matter how much she fights against it—she will never be alone again.

Not as long as he’s still breathing.

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 1

Part 1 - Snap Back

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 7400

Chapter summary: 

In which the mission goes to hell and you and Steve clash. Again.

Series masterlist

Warnings: blood, canon-typical violence, mention of gunshot wounds, hints of unhealthy relationship to pain, mention of death, some angst

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

Steve Rogers was a very large man. Over two hundred pounds of muscle, over six feet three tall, he towered and loomed and hovered above everything and everyone. And yet, his body seemed too small to contain the huge ball of righteous anger, too small to contain the magnitude of the jerk he was being at the moment.

It must have been one of his greatest talents.

And you understood. You understood why he was pacing around, his face the perfect storm with lightning flashing from his eyes, his voice thundering; the mission was a failure, fire and destruction left behind without the important data retrieved. Hell, you understood a little too well how much of that was your fault therefore he had every right to be angry with you.

And yet. Yet, you couldn’t comprehend how that supposedly righteous man spitted around words full of rage when he was to blame himself too.

He was the one to pull you out. He was the one to shake you and break your concentration before your spectre, able to waltz behind locked doors without a key, could deliver the drive to another agent. He was the one to make you snap back, your astral projection dissipating.

Yes, your spectre had been barely walking. Yes, it had got shot in the gut and you really damn felt it. Yes, you – it, really – had been hanging on a tread, with you already at peace with the fact that once you’d snap back, you’d wake up in a hospital bed, because your body wouldn’t handle the strain. Yes, maybe you would have failed anyway, snapping back before you could do what you were supposed to. But now you’d never know, would you?

Because Steven Grant Rogers, Mr. Captain America with the ego of the size of his very moniker, couldn’t have handled you straying from his explicit order to get out earlier.

You were still shaky on your feet, barely having beaten your dizziness and having been walking the fine line of consciousness for way too long, hurting like hell the whole time, but good god, did you have the energy to fight that blonde disaster screaming you down. Especially since he was doing so in front of everyone as you remained seated on the stretcher and kept pulling at the i.v. with custom-made saline to get it from your arm and make the situation at least a bit less humiliating for you.

The audacity. The audacity it had to take for him to call you reckless and scold you for not disappearing faster despite the fact there had been another set of files that caught you eye and needed to be copied. His utter confidence that his plan was as flawless as the first kiss in the early era Taylor Swift songs; confidence that you would have got out safely and the Hydra agent would have never caught you off guard if you just listened to your Captain.

Well fuck your Captain.

You knew you were a failure. You knew that in the end, you were to blame for not getting the intel out in time before the base blown up, the flash drive lying somewhere in the corridor abandoned. Tony Stark might like to tell you that with your abilities defied the basic laws of physics, namely the law of conservation of matter and energy, but you didn’t defy them that much. You couldn’t carry things back by simply grabbing them as the spectre and snapping back to your real body; you had tried countless times, but that wasn’t how things worked, even if you wanted them to – and surely Captain Rogers did as well.

But he was the one to make you snap back. And he was able to do that, because despite the poorly masked hate he appeared to feel towards you at times, he still often made the strategic decision to be the one protecting your actual body; your paraconscious, softly levitating body, completely vulnerable to an attack. Apparently, he was the only one who could be trusted to do it after all.

Whoever called him a golden boy and actually meant it had to be an idiot.  

“You should have let me do it! I would have been able to get it to Lincoln or someone else!” you argued, hands pushing at the stretcher to stand up at last, wincing at the ghost of a sharp pain tearing at your abdomen. Never mind that, that was nothing new – Rogers’ unsolicited attack and complete lack of accountability were.

He only scoffed at your argument, crossing his arms on his stupidly wide chest. The bragger. The impossible cannot-do-wrong arse-

“Would you? You were going to pass out! I know the signs by now-”

“So what?!”

“So what?!” he echoed on full volume, throwing his arm out just as wildly as the whole tantrum. “I carried you out of there because you couldn’t walk!”

How dared he-

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you feigned regret, lowering your voice as you finally managed to rise to your feet. “I must have been such a terrible imposition to your superstrength!”

“That’s not the problem and you know it!”

Then what was his problem, you wanted to ask, but you knew that question was futile. You knew the answer already and it was annoyingly fitting to a considerably newer Talor Swift song: it was you. You were the problem he had. And the even bigger problem was that he couldn’t have you delivered back express to Coulson, because lately it seemed this team needed someone with the ability to project more than the new SHIELD did. He was stuck with you; with your apparently incapable ass.

“Do I?!” you questioned. “Well, I’m sorry I couldn’t just walk off a massive blood loss!”

Rogers winced as you spitted out the words; good. Maybe he’d think twice before yelling at you next time when the Quinjet hadn’t even touched the ground yet and everyone could watch your failure in HD since he served it to them on a silver platter.

You winced too as you breathed in deeply and fresh claws of pain dug into your abdomen again; really not good. But not unusual, even as there was no trace of the bullet wound on your body – because it wasn’t your actual body that got hit, not really. Still, the pain remained.

Yet, that was nothing to stop you from staring at Rogers as he glared at you with hard eyes, leaning forward, jaw so damn tense you might cut yourself on the tendons if you touched it.  

“You wouldn’t have suffered-- that if you’d have just followed orders!”

“Oh really?! Get over yourself, oh Mighty Captain!”

“Get over-” he repeated as if he couldn’t comprehend you just said that, breathing in deeply to ground himself and failing spectacularly since his voice was still full of accusation. “You should have brought us intel and instead we have nothing!”

You stepped forward to get your retort across almost as quickly as you felt everything in you recoil in guilt – because Rogers was right. Of course, he was right. And you knew that. You wanted to scream and cry and throw up and take a damn nap or maybe just wake up from this fucked up dream but you couldn’t, could you?

You could barely do anything.

“Well, I’m sorry! Okay?! I couldn’t do it and I’m fucking sorry! I know I fucked up! I should have pushed through more, I know, and you have no idea how pissed I am at me! But maybe I would have been just fine, if--- you shouldn’t have stopped me!”

“I wouldn’t have to snap you back if you just did what you were supposed to do!”

You grinded your teeth. Stupid, big-headed pig-headed supersoldier, if he had had any idea-

“What were you going to say just now?” he demanded, standing even taller than before, the mask of anger and disappointment shifting towards challenge.

Fight me. Yell back. Try telling me I’m wrong, when you know I’m not.

Goddamn him. He was so damn self-assured, so overconfident it would get him killed one day and you’d be there to watch like a useless dumbass, because you couldn’t do the one thing every single agent on this team should do: have your teammates’ back.

But you couldn’t tell him that. You couldn’t.

Your shoulders sagged, exhaustion washing over you.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, minding your volume even as most Avengers and other agents got the memo and tried to give you as much privacy as possible. Bless that useless gesture. “I told you, I’m sorry. I know I need to learn to push myself more despite the pain when the stakes are high, but it’s…” You caught a flash of a new emotion you couldn’t decipher in his eyes and you looked away, scoffing, frustration flaring up again. “Why am I even telling you, what would you know about that, huh?”

What would the perfectly mighty walk-it-off Captain know about you peasants and your struggles. Ziltch. He was perfection personified, never wrong, never weak, never-

The sharp intake of breath had you snap your gaze back – and your heart stumbled in your chest. One brief glance at him and you regretted your words instantly. For one, you were too well-aware of the fact that they were bullshit. For two, you might as well wave a red cloth in front of an already enraged bull.

Steve Rogers bristled, teeth practically bared like those of an animal; he snarled like one too, but it was the tone that had cut you. The tone said so much more than his actual words and that message was like a muleta for you for a change.

“Is that what you think? You think I don’t feel pain?!”

“Maybe you don’t feel anything at all!” you snapped, throwing your arms up, gritting your teeth and closing your fists at the sharp bite at your belly at the movement. For fuck’s sake- “It sure as hell looks like it to me, to everyone! Especially since you’re yelling at me right now! I know I fucked up but it’s not easy on me either!”

The realization that he was acting like an asshole must have been quick – he froze for but a split second – but the fact he cared little for that was even faster, his counterattack coming in hot.

“Well, allow me to correct you, agent, I do feel pain – and I don’t have the luxury to switch it off when I snap back into my real body because I only have one!”

And you laughed. The burst of sardonic laugh tasted like hysteria on your tongue, actual tears burning in your eyes.

Switch it off. Switch it off as you pleased. God, that was funny. That was hilarious. So hilarious you wanted to cry. You pretended that the palm that you lifted to your face was to muffle the laughter and not to check whether some of your tears didn’t escape.

“Ooooh, ohohohooo, you think being me is so great, don’t you? Walk a mile in my shoes, Captain, we’ll see how you’ll like it!” you spat, laughing again. “But I’m sure you wouldn’t only walk, would you? You’d fucking dance en pointe and throw in a few grands jetés en tournant just for the kicks, huh? Because you are Mr.Perfect!”

Despite your challenging words, his demeanour changed in as if you snapped your fingers and the reason for that had your chest tighten in panic.

He noticed the tears. You could tell because he blinked, eyes suddenly roaming your face, his voice falling so quiet you barely heard it all of sudden; but perhaps that was only due to the ringing in your ears, the pulsing in your temples.

“That’s not--- I didn’t mean to--“

You cared shit about what he meant or didn’t mean at the moment. He saw you weak. Again. Not only you had failed, hadn’t handled the mission physically, now you were falling apart mentally right in front of him.

He was going to bench you. Worse, he was going to send you express to Coulson despite needing someone with your abilities and he would never ask you to join the Avengers again.

Fight. Show him you have the fire. Show him you’ve got what it takes. Don’t let him think you gave up.

“Well guess what, Captain, I feel pain too and I don’t have the luxury to heal in a few seconds!”

“I don’t heal that-“ he objected lowly and that was the last drop. The last drop and you cracked.

“I KNOW, okay?! You heal faster than anyone, but you still need to heal, because you can get hurt and you can get killed!” His eyes went wide and you gulped; he heard your voice break. Fuck. “Even if you don’t act like it, because you’re the mighty Captain, after all-“ you added quickly to divert his attention.

And the distraction worked. Too bad it didn’t work for you, words still spilling since the dam had been broken.

“Would you stop calling me-“

“Not all of us can be perfect soldiers, the ultimate heroes! Not all of us can do what you do, just push through everything! We fail, we hurt and we barely survive only to disappoint people like you!” you cried out.

It was the line about disappointment, you were certain – something in his expression shifted again and this time, all fight left your body for good, something inside you breaking. The new emotion on his face almost looked like compassion and you didn’t need that. You didn’t need the demigod amongst men and women to pity you and feel for you, especially not now. Not now when you didn’t deserve it because he was right and now this? You hadn’t been fast enough and strong enough – and he might have scolded you for in front of everyone, but now it seemed as if he regretted that because he needed to be the bigger person just to be fucking more perfect and you couldn’t bear it. You never could.

There was a reason why you always jumped to defence when he showed disappointment in you.

Your voice came out as but a whisper, but you made sure it was firm one. “I failed. I disappointed you and everyone else, I know. I’m sorry. I shall accept the punishment as you see fit even if that doesn’t make up for my failure.”

Nor blind nor deaf, Steve’s demeanour changed too; his eyes were suddenly as kind as his words and that was the worst part.

“I have no doubt you tried your best, Spectre, and that’s all we can ever do. The only punishment which will come is one for not following orders.”

You couldn’t help it. You should have, since you were already in such a mess, most of it of your own making, but hearing him utter those words, him of all people. The irony. You scoffed.

And like a charm, all of his benevolence evaporated in an instant; his back straightened, head held high.

“You’ve got anything to say?”

The words prickled at your tongue but you swallowed them. No. Don’t say it.

“No, sir.” Good girl.

“Clearly, you do,” Rogers opposed, eyes dark as they watched you sharply.

Well, then. Bad girl it was.

“Do I? Fine. You’re a big fat hypocrite.”

You might have as well stuck a bar into a bee hive and poked around, aiming for the queen. Rogers went from slightly annoyed to ballistic in a split second, back in your face.  

“Excuse me?!”

“Excused. I bet you were aaaaaaall about following orders in your time, weren’t you?” you mocked him, knowing you were so on point it had to burn him – that was, if he took a moment to actually consider your words, the words of the inferior, painfully imperfect being. “Even now. Never reckless, never out of line if you feel like it’s the right thing to do. Never pushy with your superstrength, never just removing people who stand in your way, because you can and you will get away with it, because you are the saint who does no wrong, not at all-“

It was his turn to scoff, his eyes burning with bright blue flame of righteousness – and disdain.

“You think being me is so great, don’t you?” he threw back your earlier words, bitter, clearly regretting the sympathy he had found for you earlier. He crossed his arms on his chest again, shaking his head, a sardonic smile on his lips. “You have me all figured out.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. So I know you’d do the same in my place and I know that’s why you’re so angry with me. We always get mad when we’re offered a mirror, don’t we?” you pressed, mirroring his bitter smile indeed.

Something flashed in his eyes, voice dropping low. Dangerously low. “I am angry. You have no idea, Spectre.”

Good. Then you had at least something in common.

“Well, so am I. You have no authority to decide when I have enough-“

“As your captain, I actually do-” he interjected, raising his voice again and you just rolled your eyes.

You were insanely grateful for the familiar sensation of slight popping in your ears, the gentle swing of the floor under your feet. You’d be more grateful for it if you didn’t have to stifle a cry, when your body naturally attempted to balance it out and didn’t feel the burn in your abdomen, but you couldn’t always get what you wanted, could you?

Case on a damn point.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, right,” you said, looking straight into your captain’s eyes, sticking your chin out defiantly, saccharine voice of obedience dripping from your lips, heavy with sarcasm. “Well, if you, sir, have anything else to say, say it now, because we’re landing and I’m about to take a shower and sleep for a week. That is if I am allowed. Or do I need to submit an official request?”

You couldn’t tell whether he wanted to shout again or do exactly what you suggested you would do; because suddenly he, too, seemed dead tired, as if your shouting match exhausted him more than the mission or your failure. He stared at you, silent, for a few long moments – a few too many, almost enough to make you feel guilty again for calling him out on his bullshit, enough to make you consider apologizing for that.

Then he sighed. “No, you don’t, Agent. I hope you’ll rest well.”

You blinked, your heart skipping a shocked beat. His voice was surprisingly soft and sincere, his gaze roaming over you head to toe, seemingly concerned.

Did you just break him? Kindness was far from uncommon in him – once you’d calm down, you’d be more inclined to believe that again, you knew as much – but the sudden change genuinely startled you.

“Uhm… thanks,” you muttered, too taken aback to talk back as you walked backwards. He truly looked worn down to a bone, his brain no doubt racing, already figuring out how to fix the mess you had left behind. He looked like he needed a goddamn nap himself. Except you didn’t think he’d take it; that was part of his problem.

Hypocrite.

You swallowed the you too and simply nodded sharply before you walked away, emotions swirling wildly; and at the centre of them all, remorse and puzzlement, wrapped in a familiar sensation of agony.

Winter Soldier was a moniker Steve Rogers loathed; but the reputation which came with that name was not unearned.

When Bucky appeared behind his shoulder out of nowhere, no sound having been made, Steve nearly jumped out of his skin; and it was a true testament to how upset he was that he hadn’t heard Bucky sneak up on him despite his slightly enhanced senses.

“Well, that went spectacularly,” Bucky hummed, instantly making Steve groan internally.

He did not want to deal with this – he wanted to forget about this whole ordeal. The fact itself that Bucky was cheery about a sleeper Hydra cell simply because he had an opportunity to tease him about what had just gone down only added to his annoyance.

He was tired. He was mad. He was confused. He was disappointed – both in you and himself. He was… frustrated. So frustrated; then again, those emotions and the last one in general were no news in your presence, much like many others, but those in particular he wanted to ponder over even less.

“Bucky, don’t,” he warned his friend lowly, glancing at him from the corner of his eye as they made a slow way out of the jet.

It was a waste of words, really: Steve didn’t know what he was thinking, believing the warning would actually discourage Bucky from speaking.

“You know, maybe if you told her that the main reason why you’re so pissed-“

“Buck-“

“- is the fact that she’s challenging your authority which makes you question yourself, and that you’re terrified every time she gets hurt or loses consciousness, be it her projection or, god forbid, her real body, because you care juuuust a little too much for her, then maybe… “

Steve loved his best friend; but if looks could kill, the one he shot him at the verbalized implications, however truthful, could have murdered him on spot.

“Just saying,” Bucky said, shrugging as he kept up with Steve’s sudden strut, a grin audible in his voice. “Communication is key.”

“You need to stop hanging out with Sam,” Steve grumbled. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bucky snorted, causing Steve’s head to whip in his direction in annoyance. Didn’t Bucky have a lady to tend to? Why did he have to stick around and poke around Steve’s already exhausted brain and feed the already messy whirlwind of emotion? Oh right. Bucky would say it was payback for all the years Bucky spent saving Steve’s puny ass from the back alleys.

“Right. Just like you had no idea what she was talking about when she called you a hypocrite, because you wouldn’t do the same, try to deliver all the files you could even if it meant you’d bleed the heck out, right? Your real body, that is, because you only have one…”

Goddamnit Bucky.

“Bucky, that’s enough.”

“Nope,” his friend quipped, smiling charmingly at the group of agents they passed in the hallway and briefly, Steve imagined what they had to look like; a brooding Captain practically running away from the sunshine-like Winter Soldier. Clint would call them comedy gold; and Steve didn’t give a damn. Today had been a clusterfuck of disasters with you and him in the centre of it.

“It’s enough when I say it’s enough,” Bucky said matter-of-factly. Steve just shot him another glare as they rounded the corner, the corridor now blissfully empty. And sadly, endless with nowhere to hide. “Too bad, punk. You might be the Captain, but you’re still my friend. I’ll be bothering your reckless ass and call you out till the end of the line. And I’m telling you – you two need to get your shit together and make up. And maybe you should finally tell her you’d like to make out. But if I were you, I’d start with that apology.”

Steve stopped so abruptly Bucky nearly collided with him. The flare or anger – because goddammit was Bucky right in certain things and it was truly bothersome to hear those – licked at his gut. As he turned to give his most loyal and precious friend a piece of his mind in return, he found him with a knowing smirk on his face. Why were they friends again?

“Really? An apology?” Steve questioned, the idea absurd even as guilt had already joined the party a while ago. “For what exactly? She should have--- one of those days, she’s gonna-” Steve swallowed against the lump in his throat. He did not like the way the sentence could end. How you could end. But he’d scream at you again before he’d admit that; you brought out that side of him for some reason. You brought out a lot of things, most of them unpleasant. Most of them. “She should have followed orders.”

Bucky’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline – which wasn’t too high given how much he’d let his hair grow, but it still served the purpose of irritating Steve.

“Sure she should. And if you have always followed orders, I’d be dead.”

Steve winced as if he got punched in the gut, all flames of anger put out at once. Bucky just shrugged, unbothered by his hypothetical death.

“That’s a fact, punk. And here’s another: your mother would have boxed your ears for treating a lady the way you just did.”

And this isn’t you, Steve heard the unspoken words and with those he couldn’t argue.

The truth was, Steve didn’t recognize himself around you. He hadn’t more than once but it had never got as intense as it had just now. He felt almost possessed, an astral projection of his own, except he couldn’t control it as it raised its voice like that, in front of the whole team no less. And the worst thing was, it wasn’t a projection; the blame was entirely on him as he failed to contain the onslaught of emotion so sharp and large that he just let it all out. Almost all of it.

The one urge he tried to contain was the one to just slam you to a wall and scream the whole truth before he’d vent his frustration with you in a completely different way, with nips of teeth on that lower lip of yours, always pouting a bit when you got into one of your not so frequent but not so rare arguments, having you scream his name in ecstasy instead of defiance, a breathy whine of Mighty Captain without the snark. He was sure that would have raised a few eyebrows, but hopefully the room would clear in three seconds flat after your back would have hit the wall.

In all honesty, the whole scene had been surreal as it was; Steve had had trouble recognizing you as well. You had disagreed with him a few times, yes, you challenged his authority and questioned his decisions, yes; he had a pretty strong feeling that he was most definitely not your favourite person and more often than not, he didn’t quite understand you – but you had never so blatantly disobeyed an order. You had never endangered a mission or your teammates, never played this much of a Russian roulette, even if one might call you an overachiever which sometimes came with a bit of recklessness by default.

It was true that you could be unpredictable at times; one day you followed instructions to a tee, dutiful, meticulous even; another day, you stood firmly in opposition. One day you dotted on others in almost an overbearing quality, another day it was like you evaporated from the face of Earth, completely absent. But what came over you today, Steve had had no idea – you had been not only reckless, but to a great point, careless. Steve’s mind was blown, but not in the good sense.

That said, he was not pleased with himself either, particularly with the fact was that he had acted impulsively during the mission too. You were definitely right to call him out on it; but that didn’t mean he liked it.

He glanced at Bucky, who was watching him with one corner of his lips still raised knowingly, only fuelling Steve’s ire. Despite all that, Steve knew Bucky was right. And unlike when he was in your presence, he didn’t feel the need to deny that completely.

Sarah Rogers, god rest her precious soul, would have been profoundly disappointed in his behaviour and she would have let him hear it too, despite the infinite kindness and forgiveness she had carried in her heart.

“I know,” Steve sighed. “I shouldn’t have--- she’s just so- I-“

“I know, punk,” Bucky said forgivingly. “I know. That girl has some serious fire in her and she’s not the easiest to deal with, even if she means well, no doubt. Who does that only remind me of…?”

Steve glared at him, unimpressed – he was aware, thank you very much. Not only opposites attracted. Though he was quite certain this attraction was one-sided; and completely insane.

Bucky just grinned and patted Steve’s shoulder.

“Take a nap, Steve. We all deserve one, even if things didn’t go as planned. We’ll get them next time – as a team. Share some of that burden you strap to your shoulders every time to strap on that shield, would you? It can do wonders, believe me.”

“You really do need to stop hanging out with Sam and spend more time with Nat,” Steve uttered, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Shut up, punk, you love me mental health conscious.”

A full grin attacked Steve’s lips now, troubles forgotten momentarily, unlike the fact why Bucky Barnes was his best friend.

“Jury’s out, jerk” 

Even as you felt the fire of rage slowly dying, you tried to feed it; because it kept you on your feet. You had not in fact went to lie down, even as you felt those feet dragging more than walking to Natasha Romanoff’ office. She didn’t spend too much time in it, always having better things to do than paperwork, but you knew she’d want her report to be done as fast as possible to move on exactly to those more important things.

And you knew that as long as she was there, her office was conveniently the best place to talk, the camera system disabled.

“Well, hello,” the redhead hummed as she had Jarvis let you storm in, breathless for more than one reason.

Your abdomen was throbbing, but you didn’t have time for that. It wasn’t like you were going to bleed out from a non-existent wound.

“We need to go back there and fix it.”

The infamous Black Widow only raised her eyebrow at your dishevelled state and frantic words, leaning back into her chair. You admitted you had to be a sight to the devil himself since you probably looked like hell, but you rarely let that stop you.

“Water under bridge, Spectre. The base is blown so there’s nothing to go back to and the rest of them will go deep under-“

You shook your head, stalking to her desk, leaning onto your hands, fingers spasming at the bite of pain. Bad idea. And bad phrasing.

“No, Natasha, we—” She scanned you head to toe, her other eyebrow arching as well as you had boldly invaded her space, practically asking to be removed. Violently. You didn’t have the energy to lean back, not right away. You weren’t friends, so you had no right to be so close, but she’d get over it, you were sure. The worst thing to happen would be her breaking off your wrist or something. “What I mean is that we have to act now and get those files. All of them.”

Her gaze zeroed on your face, unnervingly searching and seeing, head tilting to side in genuine curiosity.

“What exactly was in those files that it made you hesitate? You rarely ignore orders,” she stated matter-of-factly, causing you to retreat and step back. Oh. Crap. Black Widow in offensive. She walked around the desk, leaning her weight onto it, crossing her arms over her chest. “What did you see, Spectre?”

You gulped; there was no way around it, even as panic made your breathing even harder. There were so many things wrong with what you were about to say and you had no capacity to analyse why you felt the way you felt about it, let alone why you felt even worse about the fact you were the reason why you hadn’t got the intel to others.

“Steve’s initials.”

Even as her brows had smoothened, they arched again now, eyes growing wide. You swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“I tried to copy it and just opened it for a bit, too immersed to notice the unfriendly. Naturally, I got the bullet for my trouble before I neutralized him, but that’s beside the point,” you said, not missing the corner of her lips twitching. “They were… Natasha, they weren’t just some photos or whatever. Those were… they were inventing some shit. It was physics, chemistry, half of the things I didn’t understand, but I don’t think they were replicating the serum – I think they were trying to neutralize it, neutralize Steve specifically.”

And there was no way I was going to leave that there, was left unspoken, but she heard it. Of course she did; this was Natasha Romanoff you were talking to. She didn’t need you two to be friends to read between the lines of what you were saying.

“I see,” she said slowly, the damn intensity of her gaze not relenting. “And you didn’t tell Steve that when he was yelling you down, because…?”

“It was irrelevant.”

“Bullshit.”

“He wouldn’t believe me.”

She scoffed, glaring you down. “That’s bullshit too and you know it.”

Okay, that was fair. But believing was a lot different from taking action. His damn pride would have still had him snapping you back to your real body even if you had yelled at him through the comms what kind of intel you had been carrying on the drive before he messed it up for you – and him. What the heck had he been thinking, breaking your concentration like that? The utter confusion at his actions – because surely it couldn’t have been he had been so angry with you to endanger the mission – only made the matter of your fight worse.

Natasha was right, however – that was just water under bridge. You sure as hell weren’t about to go ask him what possessed him to be more insufferable than normal and you could hardly fly to the pile of debris you had left behind when the place blew up to search for scraps of hard drives.

“Fine. I didn’t think he’d take it seriously,” you admitted at last.

“Now we’re talking,” Natasha said, nodding, a small smirk appearing on her lips, making you frown.

She sure was taking it in stride all of sudden, almost as if--- was she amused? You hoped that was only a mask and in her sharp mind, she was already building a battleplan. She had to. She was one of Steve’s closest friends, real friends, you knew as much. Sometimes her nonchalance truly irritated you. Would it kill her to show more emotion?

Hypocrite.

“But that’s not enough,” she added. “Steve, bless his heart, can be an ass, but not a complete idiot. Any other particular reason why you’d keep it from him?”

Your face was a mask of neutrality. Or you hoped so.

“Nope.”

Natasha watched you sceptically and you swallowed against the lump in your throat.

Naturally, there was a plethora of reasons and on top of them sat the fact that he’d know. He’d know how much you cared. He probably figured out anyway and maybe he wasn’t one to make fun of you for that – scratch that, he definitely wasn’t, he was too much of a good guy for that – but that meant nothing. Caring for people was dangerous; caring for people when you failed meant they’d be taken away. Having people to care for – good people – was a privilege, a reward, one that could easily be confiscated unless you reached perfection.

And yes. You knew Steve Rogers was a good guy, even when he decided to yell at you in front of everyone and challenged you and made you want to smash him against the wall and bite into his stupid plump lower lip and then cuddle him and tell him he didn’t have to be so strong and that people cared about his safety too. Of course you knew he felt pain, but he just never showed it, and it was just so damn irritating, because you needed him to be only human too, so you wouldn’t feel so pathetic despite your powers, so you’d feel a little more worthy. You were well-aware that your way of thinking wasn’t healthy, especially since Steve was a person you could never and should never compare yourself to because that standard was just impossibly high, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t try to meet it. That didn’t mean your family hadn’t set the standards just as high. Perfection was not an unreachable standard, even as it always seemed to be out of reach for you.

However, knowing that precisely that was one of the main reasons why you admired Steve as much as you wanted to punch him to his perfect teeth didn’t help you coexist with him or stopped you from acting like a five-year-old in his vicinity.

On top of that, you were fully aware of how disappointed he would be in you for failing in one particular task which you were sure he considered the most important one: to have your teammates’ six. And you wouldn’t handle that; you were selfish even to that point. To have Captain Rogers learn you hadn’t been strong and fast enough to retrieve data which increased the chance of keeping a key member of your team safe and watch his reaction up close would break your damn barely patched up heart.

Natasha continued to watch you as you zoned out, her smirk growing. “Right. No other reason at all then.”

Oh, she knew about it all, alright. You had no doubt. She might not show much emotion, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t mastered reading other people’s tells. If you had any emotional capacity left, you’d be ashamed at how your face burned under her watchful gaze.

“Will you please tell the others about the files?” you asked instead, causing her to tilt her head to side a fraction again.

“I will, but why should I? Why, when you can be the one to do it? If nothing else, you should tell Steve,” she said, almost motherly you supposed – not that you’d know. “Those were files about him – he deserves the truth and to hear it from you. I’m sure he’d be less angry with you too.”

Somehow, her last suggestion was even more terrifying than Steve Rogers being all in your face and snarling. You attempted a smile, masking the anxiety curling in your gut by exhaustion.

“Maybe. I just… it might be childish, but I don’t… I don’t have the energy for that now. Tell me what else I can do and I will, but not that.”

She watched you silently for several long moments, a small smile curling up her lips – almost a compassionate one. What was it with people and their damn compassion today? You had fucked up. Why was Steve the only one to acknowledge that and why was he relatively nice about it in the end, just like Natasha now? Frankly, as much as you preferred not being completely on Black Widow’s bad side, earning her pity was exponentially worse.

“You know, most things are not going to go away just because you pretend that they don’t exist. Least of all feelings.”

It’s been working out pretty well for you, you wanted to throw back, but Bucky Barnes, the love and the lover who was one of the few people who could slip under the hard shell of Natasha Romanoff, would probably argue with you that it worked for her the best when she did let someone in. But unlike you, Natasha Romanoff did not make mistakes and was an epitome of perfection herself so she could afford that. Natasha Romanoff was terrifying; you’d like to watch someone try to mess with her.

You, on the other hand, were no Black Widow. You could and even had to keep pretending in order to exist.

“Just watch me.”

She sighed, letting her hands fall to her sides. “Go to bed, Spectre. I know you still feel that gunshot wound.”

You froze.

Your heart skipped a beat – several beats, you were sure – because your chest suddenly hurt, panic clawing up your throat anew.

She knew. She knew.

How did she--- how? You always fought so hard to hide it, as much as of a pain that was; horrible pun included.

Yes, you sure as hell still felt the gunshot wound. With every move. With every breath. Every time you had strained your muscles to yell back at Steve.

The pain of whatever injury your spectre sustained alwayslingered. Ironically, it was only thing you actually were able to carry when you snapped back. It stayed with you for a while; not the whole time that it would take for the wound to heal, but it still took days sometimes, days of pain whose intensity slowly faded away. An invisible aching wound – like a pain in a phantom limb. There was no evidence of an injury in your body, but your brain still registered it. No therapeutic approach had worked when you finally accepted that despite what you had been taught, this wasn’t normal; only for having to accept that with no solution in sight, it actually was normal. Then again, what was normal when you only had one sample to examine?

“You mostly hide it well, don’t worry,” Natasha’s voice snapped you from your dark thoughts, uncharacteristically soft. “Your secret is safe with me. But that doesn’t mean it should.”

“It definitely should,” you said in at instant, eyes hard despite the tell-tale burn of tears you felt. If anyone knew – anyone else, that was, apparently – you’d be done. Benched forever.

I do feel pain and I don’t have the luxury to switch it off when I snap back into my real body, Steve had thrown at you. If he hadn’t noticed, you were good; you had indeed hid it well enough and that was all that mattered; despite bickering and yelling, he was still willing to work with you. But that would change very quickly; and he had the authority to kick you out of this team and this business completely.

Sure, Natasha had the power to bench you and even fire you as well, but judging by the way she was looking at you now, no matter how disapprovingly and somewhat proud at once, she wouldn’t. It would be okay – as long as she’d keep her mouth shut about it just as Andy had. Andrew Garner, the only person who had known your painful secret and encouraged you to engage with various therapy approaches to rid you off your burden. He had taken the secret to the grave, never having told nor Coulson, nor the rest of his team.

The one person who had known about this was dead; and if that wasn’t a clear enough message that no one else was supposed be trusted with this, you didn’t know what else would.

“It should,” you repeated, inhaling and instantly regretting it. You swallowed as Natasha didn’t miss the tiny hitch in your breath. Dammit you needed to get better at hiding it. And you would. “Please. Tell me what else I can do.”

Perhaps it was your true superpower to make people sigh, not to project into another room, because the redhead observed you for another long moment before sighing again.

“I meant it, Spectre – go to bed. After I’ll tell the others, we might need you. Rested. With as much as you can give.”

One corner of your lips rose in a tired defiant smirk. “I can give everything.”

The look Natasha gave you before you spun on your heels told you that precisely that was both the blessing and the problem. But you didn’t need to be told more than twice to go to bed.

As you walked out, trying your hardest to walk completely straight and not hunch over even a bit, you heard Natasha’s completely exhausted sigh.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Alright folks, life's been quite busy so this was born through sweat and tears and I don't think it will get better any time soon, but hopefully the result will be worth it 🥰

There are and will be a few distant references to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. I think you should be fine whout having watched the show.

Thank you for reading 🥰 As always, if you have he time and energy, I'd greatly appreciate your reblogs and feedback, be it even a key smash or yelling at me should the need arise 🤭

[lick-me-lennon22]

How they'd comfort you after you've been betrayed by your friends

(requested by anon, who's recently experienced something that would be difficult for anyone to cope with 💘 I hope I'm able to provide you with some comfort during this rough time 💕)

John

when you share this news with John, he reacts with a mix of empathy and righteous indignation

he is gutted for you and vengeful, channeling his protective instincts and offering to confront the betrayers on your behalf

he recommends some of the outlets he uses to handle his anger (most of them aren't exactly healthy, but he means well)

he suggests writing a song together as a form of catharsis, spouting silly lyrics full of jabs at your "friends"

John would plan a date and take you out to the pictures to see a nice feel-good film

he records your favorite songs and some affirmations (as well as a few silly jokes) on cassette for you to listen to on particularly rough days

You know what? Screw 'em. You're too good for that kind of nonsense. You're a gem and anyone who can't see that doesn't deserve a spot in your life. It's their loss - not yours. Those so-called mates don't know what they're missing. And if you need me to kick some arse on your behalf, just say the word.

Paul

when you explain what's happened, Paul invites you to vent your frustrations over a few drinks or a cuppa

he adopts a gentle and reassuring tone, validating your emotions and reminding you of your strengths

he reassures you that what happened isn't your fault and that you've done nothing wrong

Paul would offer to arrange a small gathering or cozy night in with some friends and the other lads, complete with homemade food and lighthearted conversation

You invested a lot of trust and time in those relationships and you don't deserve to be hurt in such a way. It's beyond me how people can be so cruel, especially to someone as wonderful as you.True love, true friendship, they're built on a foundation of honesty and respect. Chin up, my dear. You're a beautiful soul with so much to offer. They're missing out on something truly special.

George

after you divulge what you've just been through, George shows you to a secluded spot - one where he often meditates - so you can vent in the privacy of nature and without feeling judged

has to tamp down his own frustration on your behalf - he knows people can be pretty unreliable, and he wants to guide you towards growth instead of resentment

he offers a reflective and philosophical perspective, telling you to have patience with yourself and set boundaries that honor your worth

he reminds you that sometimes these painful experiences can serve as catalysts for profound growth and self-discovery, and that karma has a way of taking care of things

George suggests exploring creative outlets and introduces you to some literature that will foster healing and help you take on a different perspective

Betrayal cuts deep, but it also reveals the true nature of those around us. You're not defined by the actions of others. The right people will be drawn to your radiance, and you're better off without that drama in your life. Trust that the universe has a way of aligning things in your favor and know that you're worthy of nothing less than genuine, unconditional love.

Ringo

as you vent your frustrations to Ringo, he offers a listening ear and shoulder to lean on without judgement

he provides constant reassurance and reminders of your worth and strength, making sure you know that the behavior of your "friends" says a lot more about them than it does about you

he tells you to focus on the present moment and emphasizes the importance relationship of self-care when it comes to healing

he'll lend his help with practical support such as running errands and helping with daily tasks, allowing you space to recover and take time for yourself

Ringo would suggest a spontaneous day trip or adventure to lift your spirits and create new memories

I know you've had a bit of a rough go lately, but you've got me to lean on. And I'm here to listen, to comfort, to support you in any way I can. You're strong, you're resilient, and you've got a whole lot of love to give. Rise above it - keep shining your light. Life's too short to give those pricks any more of your time. You're a treasure, love, and don't you forget it.

[angryteapott]

Li Lun and Zhu Yan and hypocrisy

I've seen a couple of posts about how infuriating it is that Zhu Yan easily forgives many others for killing (humans in general come to mind like Bai Jiu and Zhuo Yichen, but Ran Yi certainly doesn't fit this mold and Zhu Yan doesn't seem to have that much of a problem with him) and also kills people in a manner that seems hypocritical with this anger (guard at demon hunting bureau, BABY PAGODA DEMON) but nonsensically minds when it's Li Lun, but I think it actually does make a lot of sense.

Imo Li Lun gets a double standard because he's Zhu Yan's ex, not in spite of it. The closest people to us can be the hardest to forgive, especially considering the sort of relationship Li Lun and Zhao Yuanzhou shared. To me, it's more a matter of starting point.

Sorta like a person will feel differently after gaining a dollar when they have none and losing a dollar when they have two because despite ending with the same amount, the starting point matters. For Bai Jiu, Zhuo Yichen etc, he was expecting prejudiced humans, which is why he's hurt but unphased by Xiao Jiu and pleasantly shocked when Zhuo Yichen shows any decency towards demons. Wen Xiao is a condescending bigot which makes sense as shes the demon supercop but she has a sense of compassion. For Zhao Yuanzhou, these relationships are a pleasant surprise, so he sees them in a positive light. Essentially the standards are on the floor.

But Li Lun was someone he saw as being in perfect sync with him, the sort of romantic delusion that gives birth to all sorts of unhealthy dynamics, so it is a betrayal from Zhu Yan's perspective when they're not in sync and Li Lun kills random people. I'd also argue that it's also a matter of opposing people vs unrelated; he doesn't seem to have much of a concept of complex morality and seems to see those opposing him as fair game (guard, BABY PAGODA DEMON) vs those not going against him (people at the clinic). I'm being generous to the writers here because he doesn't seem against Ran Yi who commits pretty similar crimes to Li Lun, but again, I'd argue he holds Li Lun to a higher standard BECAUSE they're close.

I'd also say that he talks big like an ex does and defends Li Lun like an ex does. Like he basically tells Li Lun to die and refuses to explain himself because Li Lun should've known he'd never mean it like that and saves Li Lun's life right after he killed Ying Lei (who is only in that fight because Zhu Yan refused to explain himself LIKE HE ALWAYS DOES because he's got the worst kind of self righteous victim complex im killing him with hammers). Peak ex behavior. Toxic as hell. But i don't agree with the read that he cares less about Li Lun than others.

Also Li Lun is a person who is causing death to his own people. He was going to destroy his homeland to what, force people into revolution? Zhu Yan is hypocrite who causes massive issues through his ego and refusal to communicate and takes the side of the oppressor etc etc but he is not committing atrocities. Now as a writing choice it gives producers said we must show fighting discrimination as too radical but in the context of the text Zhu Yan is more pro demons living than Li Lun, and Li Lun is a massive hypocrite for minding demons being harmed but taking actions that would harm more demons. Both make terrible self-centered choices because they can't see past their own pain. Love them ❤️

[zairas-realm-gateway]

ZoSan Scenario

I think a lot about how it really wasn't that many days between escaping WCI and meeting up with Zoro again. I think it was technically less than a week but I find that hard to believe.

Anyway, I think a lot about a reunion between Zoro and Sanji after they save Toko.

Later that evening once the two are alone, the two have an argument. Zoro is angry that Sanji left, that Sanji didn't trust them enough to come get him. He just keeps yelling, close to tears. The fact that Sanji is just taking the scolding, not giving explanation or excuses, is making things worse for Zoro.

Suddenly Zoro grabs Sanji by the biceps to shake some sense into him only to have Sanji cry out in pain. Zoro immediately lets him go, scared he'd actually hurt him by gripping too hard. But Sanji's holding his arm with a pained expression. Silently, Zoro pushes down Sanji's robes to take a look.

Sanji's arm is bandaged. The cook explains he got shot getting Luffy back to the ship on Whole Cake Island. And if that didn't make things bad enough, with his robes down around his waist Zoro can finally see all the damage on Sanji's body. there's an ungodly amount of bruising around his ribs, abdomen, and back. There's new cuts and scars marring his skin and possibly fractured ribs that definitely weren't there the night they spent together before Dressrosa.

And sure some of the wounds are from Sanji's battle on Dressrosa...

But Zoro knows the difference between combat wounds and wounds taken when one does not defend themselves. And all of the most recent wounds and bruises say that Sanji didn't put up a fight.

Confusion and the deepest righteous fury burn through Zoro. "Cook, what the hell happened there?!"

Sanji doesn't say a word. He just bows his head, taking Zoro's anger.

Guilt heavy in his chest, Zoro tries again. His hands come up to cup Sanji's face, ignoring how his lover flinches from him. Zoro fights the fury inside and speaks softly, "Sanji, it's okay. I have you. Tell what happened to you."

Sanji can't help it anymore. He grabs onto the swordsman and collapses again his strong chest, sobbing his heart out. Words so strangled with tears that Zoro can barely make them out.

[gwinaesfer]

Tell me anything and everything you want/can about your spirit of destruction rook please. I'm neckdeep in lore making my own I wanna hear all thr variations everyone has

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS I know I can always count on you to freak out about this JFIOSAHJIOFSAJIDHNSAOJDSAUIO also I hope this helps you and anyone else that wants to write a Spirit!Rook, I promise it's really fun to think about!

I guess a good place to start would be how she came to be (as a flesh person not a spirit person) because I did some research that I found really interesting. I'm gonna put this under a cut because it may be too long and I'll yap a lot lmfao.

Based on what I read, if a spirit's will or purpose is strong enough, they won't die entirely but remain lingering in the Fade as an aspect of what they were, I think it would be the strongest aspect of them that remains (based on this reddit post and the first answer).

We also know that Cole keeps some memories of the Fade and some of his original abilities/powers (depending on how far he'll go into "becoming flesh" or not, Cole's been in the material world for a few years? something like that). So these people can be really powerful depending on what they were in the Fade. Mythal herself gets killed more than once and still exists as fragments of who she was (and retains a lot of her original power).

So, for my canon, Disruption lived and fought in the revolution against the Evanuris exactly how we saw it in game. They lead the charge through the citadel and died a painful death like everyone else there. They remained a wisp of defiance fueled by righteous anger, for thousands of years, watching from the Fade as the world moved and crashed and changed, reliving the day they died as a reason to try and be something else. They weren't strong enough to change into something more just yet.

We know spirits and demons are drawn into the material world by raw emotion. So one day, somewhere in the Dalish clans of Arlathan Forest, a mother gives birth to a stillborn child. She cries and begs and curses her gods to bring her daughter back, she deserved a chance to live, to defy all odds and live, and something answers. Still Defiance and ever growing Disruption answers and takes over the child, losing what memories kept them alive in the Fade but gaining a chance to exist again.

She grows up loved and cared for and is no less of a person than anyone else around her. She has a knack for getting herself in trouble and even more so for getting herself out of it. She has strange abilities that people assume is just mage blood in her veins, but her elders say not only does she have a connection to the Fade, she has walked through it before. She doesn't remember anything, but she carries a grudge against something she spends her life looking for, and a longing for people she hasn't seen with these eyes just yet.

[angelsworks]

Hi, I love your work. I have a kinda weird ask so if it makes you uncomfortable then that is a-okay just ignore me. I was wondering if you could do a headcannon on maybe what it would be like to get in an argument/anger toxic!Elijah? Maybe emotional whiplash to if your okay with it. This is a weird ask so ignore me if it makes you uncomfortable

-ph

Toxic!Elijah Mikaelson x reader - Headcannons

Summary: A few brief ideas of what Toxic!Elijah would be like.

Warnings: Toxic relationship, abusive themes, Toxic!Elijah, coercive behaviour.

• Toxic!Elijah who love bombs you during the first few months of your relationships.

• For those first few months it felt like magic. Like you’d met your price charming and were about to ride off on a white horse into the sunset.

•Elijah treated you like a princess. Like the most precious thing in the world.

•You felt so special. Having the attention of one of the most powerful vampires in the world. Having his protection, his love.

•The thought lingered briefly that it was too good to be true. But every gentle kiss Elijah placed on your skin made those thoughts float away.

• Toxic!Elijah who begins to ignore you for days at a time. He claims that he’s busy helping Klaus but one time when you show up at the Original family home you catch him in a lie.

• Toxic!Elijah that lacks any sort of accountability for his actions or wrongdoings. He feels like the righteous original and thinks he can do no wrong. So when you try to bring this up with him he blames his siblings, witches, any other force in the supernatural world that’s keeping him busy.

• Toxic!Elijah who gets tired of your questions, growing angry and violent. He throws anything he can get his hands on, shouts at you, swears then finally he stops.

• Toxic!Elijah who tells you you’re just too young for him. Making you feel as if you would never be enough first a 1000 year old original vampire. Making you doubt the very foundations of your ‘relationship’. Someone so young could never understand your problems.

• Toxic!Elijah who watches as you leave his house crying over your lost ‘love’. You go home to mourn your relationships. Crying into pints of ice cream over the next week.

• Toxic!Elijah who visits you after a week and a half. He whispers sweet words to you. Tells you how he loves you and despite how he knows it wrong to be with a mortal who doesn’t understand his world but he just can’t ignore his heart.

• The words win you over and you’re soon back in his arms. Enjoying the attention you got from him in the first months of your relationship.

• What you don’t know is that the cycle will continue. You might argue about his control over you, how he makes you feel small when he describes you as just a mortal. Or maybe you argue over how he lets various women throw themselves at him.

• All these arguments lead to the same result - Toxic!Elijah getting angry, threatening to break things off, letting you leave, taking you back and going back to treating you like a princess.

• It’s possible that at some point in the future the constant cycle begins to repeat too much for you. It becomes overwhelming and degrading. You see yourself going through the same motions whenever Toxic!Elijah does something you don’t like and you argue.

• During one of these cycles you refuse to take Elijah back. He comes to your door trying to fix things with you. Only you refuse to see him. Claiming this was the last time you do this with him. You throw every piece of jewellery he’s ever given you at him and slam the door.

• Toxic!Elijah who now has to think of a way to get you to come back to him.

•Toxic!Elijah who compels a random vampire to stalk and attack you one night. This vampire almost drains you dry, making you weak, causing you pain.

•Toxic!Elijah find you and plays the hero. He feeds you his blood and claims it’s the only way to save you. You’re so far out of it that you don’t feel the pressure he’s applying to your neck as he holds you. Your breath wheezes out of you for one final time.

• You wake in transition. Alone in a bed you know is Elijah’s. Your throat aches for something. Your head pounds and you begin to feel sick.

• Toxic!Elijah who uses this to take control once more. Now you depend on him to help you through this. You have no choice but to turn back to the man who set this all up in the first place.