#than to face the world bearing the horrors they inflicted

[anjasitdown]

When Megumi said to Sukuna, "The world is full of people besides myself. Once more, I think I'll live for others." And when Yuuji said to Sukuna, "Let's do it again. Not to curse someone, but to live with someone. Even if no one accepts it, I'm willing to go on living with you."

[lokischocolatefountain]

Savior

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO) Pairing: dark!Joel Miller x captive reader Rating: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat Warnings: I repeat, DDDNE. Kidnapping, non-con, dub-con, face fucking, bondage, objectification, dehumanisation, captivity, drug and alcohol abuse, boot licking (literally), boot kissing, master/slave dynamics, name calling (bitch), loss of identity, Stockholm syndrome, really messed up dynamics, mention of spitting, mention of boot fucking, mention of watersports but not performed. Word count: 1.7k words Summary: Joel saves you from the horrors of the world only to inflict another horror on you. A/N: *slaps roof of this fic* This fic has everything (again, heed the warnings) I’ve been away for a while now and I’ll probably taken long to post my next fic. But I hope this is a fun read 🥺

The world was a big place and you knew nothing about it. You wanted to. You wanted to go beyond the walls of the QZ and inside those buildings people said were tall enough to touch the sky. You wanted to see the remains of museums. You wanted to see trees and sit on the grass and eat fresh fruits.

In a mockery of this daydream, the universe decided that not only would you never step outside but that you will be confined in a space smaller than the QZ.

You knew nothing about the world, but you knew everything about him. Many people passed by the doors of his apartment throughout the day. But you identified his strides. The heaviness of his boot against the floor, the speed at which he walked, how big his strides were. When you heard the grating sound of metal against metal, you knew he’d slotted his key in the door. You began trembling just at the sound of the door opening, your body fearing everything he would inflict on you.

Yet your cunt throbbed with anticipation. Your heart fluttered with joy. He was cruel, yes. But you knew he cared about you. He shared his food, traded to get you a few clothes, even got your medicines when you were ill. He was violent with you, but that was only because of the hard work he had to do all day.

As he walked in, you took in his appearance. Hands stained black, a thin sheen of sweat on his face and arms. He was tired again. He downed some of the brownish liquor he brought back a week ago and popped in a few pills. Sometimes he even shared them with you.

He put the bottle down and walked towards you. It was summer and you didn’t need to wear clothes. So you didn’t. He said he wasn’t going to waste time washing them when you didn’t have to wear them. With your ankle chained to the radiator, there was nowhere for you to go.

You smelled the tasks of his day on his boot as he stood in front of you, his boot dangerously close to your face. You willed yourself to not throw up. Not again, not again, please no, not again. They were dirty, too dirty. You did everything he asked you to, but you couldn’t bear when he made you fuck yourself on his boot until you came. And you did, every single time.

A sharp sting pulled at every nerve ending on your face as his boot made contact with it.

“Thought you’d died,” he said, unbuckling his jeans. You pressed your palms on the floor and sat up on your knees.

“Still breathing? Let me check,” he said, pinching your nose between his fingers. You gasped when he cut your access to air, breathing through your fuckhole to keep yourself alive. “There’s my bitch… Still alive.”

He took his cock out of his pants, large and intimidating, just like him. You opened your mouth instinctively. Happened when you got the shit kicked out of you when you didn’t keep your holes accessible. Happened when food and water were conditional upon how satisfactory you were as his stress toy. Nose still pinched, he unzipped himself and plunged his cock inside you. Your legs kicked around as his thickness restricted your breath, your cunt tightening around nothing as he let you struggle for a few moments more.

Finally, he let go of your nose, allowing you to see another day. You looked up at him, gratitude filling your heart that he would allow you air. It wasn’t always like that. In the initial days of your captivity, all you wanted was death. But eventually he taught you to be grateful for everything he did. Grateful he gave you a purpose, grateful he grabbed you from the street, that he fed you his scraps and trained your fuckholes to be useful.

You moaned uselessly as your throat burned from his size. Thankfully, he didn’t mind your noises. He was good, merciful. So kind to let you make any sound at all though you were forbidden from talking. He’d fucked that notion out of you long ago. Called your mouth a fuckhole as he did your cunt and ass.

A mouth was for talking and eating. He reminded you often that you didn’t have one. The hole on your face was a hole to fuck, a pit for his cum and spit and piss. When you’d accepted that, you found you had no need to speak.

The small room filled with Master’s grunts and groans, punctuated by the involuntary moans from your fuckhole. You always hated blowjobs, finding the act demeaning and avoiding it until whatever boy you were dating annoyed you into sucking him off. But this wasn’t a blowjob. You didn’t suck cock, you simply complied as he fucked a hole he owned. Still, you tried to be as worthy as you could with the little freedom you had.

He bottomed out inside you, your nose pressed against his belly. Your hair was in a tight grip in his fist, a handle to make you more convenient. But you tried with the little space you had, licking his balls. He moaned and thrusted though he’d fed you all that he had. An animalistic need to seek sexual gratification no matter how. One hand in your hair became two and he began his brutal pace that would leave your fuckhole bruised and out of use for a few days until he deemed it fit to fuck again.

Your face hit his soft belly over and over and his balls slapped against your chin. Your cunt thrusted up into the air, begging for something, anything. It didn’t have to be Master’s cock. His hand, a kick from his boot you so hated, his pistol. It needed to be used, just as the rest of your body.

It didn’t take long for his cock to leave your fuckhole, ropes of sticky white fluid coating your face. Your hole gasped for air and Master, generous as he was, let you have air and water.

No, not water, you realized as the strong taste attacked your senses. The glass bottle you took from was an old beer bottle, the label worn off but a hint of color reminding you of the brand. But it wasn’t beer. Something that they brewed in the QZ that he was kind enough to share to keep your nightmares at bay. You kept the final sip in your mouth and looked up, your throat straight to accept the pills he threw in. You swallowed, tears flowing down your cheeks. You would sleep well tonight, untainted by images of your loved ones turning, of your gun putting a bullet in their heads before they could rip you into pieces.

You bent forward and pressed your lips to his filthy boots, silent tears growing into sobs. You kissed and licked the filth, hoping he knew how grateful you were for this one night of mercy. For thinking about you, noticing how you suffered when night came and the memories of a past life flooded in. With each second of worship, you showed him how grateful you were for the freedom he gave you by chaining you up in his room.

When his boots were clean, you gave it one final kiss and hugged his legs. You rested your cheek on his boots, shivering when he bent down and petted you.

“I know, I know,” he said quietly, his voice soft and kind. He let you weep at his feet for what felt like hours but you knew was only a few minutes. Eventually your sobs died down and he pried you off of him gently. He placed a bowl of slop in front of you and filled the other bowl with water. Sustenance. And you didn’t even have to work for it. You were hungry, god you were so hungry it hurt. But you waited. You were just a useless bitch with nothing left but the base needs of your belly and cunt. But you still had manners. You didn’t take anything Master gave for granted. He placed food and water in front of you, but it wasn’t permission to take them.

He deserved your respect, your obedience. You knew he suffered at night just like you did. Outside, he did backbreaking labor so you didn’t have to. And he always kept you fed, took care of you. You couldn’t give him as much as he gave you from where he kept you so you showed absolute deference.

“Eat.”

And that was when you began.

“My name’s Joel.” He said out of nowhere from his place in his bed. He didn’t look at you for a response. Just spoke it into the air. You left your food and water behind and crawled to the foot of his bed, nuzzling your head against his boots with no other way to show gratitude.

You never knew his name until then. You didn’t know if he knew yours, but he called you Bitch. Useless bitch, stupid bitch, ungrateful little bitch. Good bitch. You responded to Bitch. And soon enough, you were Bitch even in your innermost thoughts. But now you had a name for the man who rescued you, showed you mercy though you were so difficult in the beginning. Because of him, you were no longer a zombie walking the QZ and laboring night and day just for food and clothing. He freed you from the burdens of choice, from the efforts of survival, the agony of humanity.

You didn’t have to throw bodies in the fire, didn’t have to clean officers’ floor on your hands and knees as they leered at you. You didn’t have to fear the FEDRA officers who’d put you in jail just to fuck you. Being human was the worst fate in this world and Master saved you from it. With him, you were safe. Nothing was under your control, so you were now free from self-blame. You didn’t have to fight to keep living a life not worthy of living. You didn’t have to watch others with their children and parents and friends and feel the agony of not having yours anymore.

Here, he’d given you a place at his feet. He reduced you to Bitch, freed you from the humanity that came with the name people used to call you. The world wasn’t such a scary place anymore. After all, you were only his bitch and the world was your benevolent Master.

[dancingtotuyo]

Ivy (Joel Miller X Reader One shot)

Preface: @morning-star-joy made this mood board for me (on main) from a fun pintrest game and I just had to write something (Not sure I got the Cowboy- August & Getaway Car theme or not lol). I wrote this very quickly, not proofread lol.

Summary: Joel helps you escape

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Illusions to abuse (physical & sexual) & grooming, over all references to trauma and cannon typical violence & themes.

words: 1558

Author Master List

Songs I listened to while writing

-

The first time Joel Miller comes across your farm, he has to talk your husband out of shooting him on sight. You know about the Jackson settlement about 10 miles south of you. You’ve begged him to move you there within the safe confines of the towering walls. You’ve seen the lights on one of the more extended hunting expeditions. Elliot refuses to leave you at the cabin alone for more than a couple of hours. You’ve tried to run before. You weren’t able to move for days after he caught you. He’d been on horseback, catching you quickly. 

Joel trades his rifle and ammo for his life, eyes never leaving yours. Can he read the sadness in them? The horrors this world has inflicted on you over and over? 

You wear a dress. It’s tattered around the hem. Not something very practical. You look more like a captive than a wife. Joel thinks you must be in your late 40’s, but you’re actually 39. Elliot looks to be about 20 years your senior. Joel tells himself he’ll get you out because it’s the right thing to do. He ignores the tug of desire he feels when he looks into your eyes. 

He invites the two of you to Jackson. 

Elliot refuses. He doesn’t trust the Jackson settlement. 

Joel warns of a colony of infected trickling in. He watches the fear flash in your eyes, survival instincts kicking in as you look at your husband. 

Elliot says he can handle them. 

Joel speaks of electricity, heat in the winter, fans in the summer, and running water. A hot shower sounds delicious. You were 19 when the world ended. You can’t remember the last time you felt the hot water trail down your back. 

Only after Elliot chases Joel off does he realize you never uttered a word. 

The second time Joel comes bearing fresh vegetables and more ammo. Your mouth waters at the sight of red tomatoes. He ignores Elliot’s threats and hands the produce straight to you with a glowing smile. 

You thank him. You take a bite from one of the tomatoes like it’s an apple. It’s warm in your mouth. The acidic tang is like a summer’s night on your taste buds. The insides dribble down your chin, making you laugh. 

It takes Joel’s breath away. There’s a childlike joy to it, a spring bubbling up from the depths of the mountain in the springtime. He catches a flash of life return to your eyes if only for a moment. He knows it’s been a long time since any semblance of happiness graced your features. 

Joel fights the urge to wipe the juice from your chin. 

“You’ll stay for dinner.” It’s an order, not a request, and the first words he’s heard you utter.

Elliot protests, but you cut him off. “He’s staying for dinner.”

You know you’ll probably pay for it later, but you don’t care. You haven’t seen another face in years. It’ll be worth the conversation at the very least. 

Elliot is out hunting a week later. You’re hanging the laundry on the line when Joel emerges from the woods. He’s on foot this time, different from his previous visits on horseback. It must’ve taken him hours to get here on foot. 

“Howdy,” He smiles. 

You raise an eyebrow. “My husband isn’t here.”

“Didn’t come to see him.”

You stop. He rests a hand on his hip looking across the small clearing that houses the barn and small farmhouse. “You’re too exposed out here.”

“Joel-.”

“I like the way you say my name.”

Your heart stops. Your palms sweat. You’re not blind. You’ve seen the way he looks at you, smiles at you. You remember the soft brush of his hand on your back in the kitchen during his last visit. You remember it too often for a single moment in time with a man you hardly know. 

You square your shoulders. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.” 

He cups your cheek. You flinch away out of habit. Anger flares in his eyes. You’re used to seeing it in Elliots, but somehow you know that for once, it’s not directed at you. 

Somehow you know what he’s going to say before he says it. “I’m going to kill him.”

“You can’t.” The words leave your mouth before he’s finished. 

He looks surprised. “He hurts you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

You can’t. You both know that, but how do you explain to Joel that he can’t kill your abuser- your captor- your one last connection to life before Cordyceps?

“You’re not wrong.” You swallow the lump forming in your throat. “But you can’t kill him.”

Joel knows better than to ask, but if he did, you would tell him. You would tell him that Elliot had been around your entire life. He’s your father’s best friend from college. He saved you on outbreak night. He wasn’t always like this. You loved him once, or at least you thought you did. You wonder how much of it was manipulation now. He was nice and kind in the beginning. He didn’t touch you until well after your 22nd birthday. The two of you settled on this farm years ago with a horse, a few cows, and a couple of chickens. Elliot loved the seclusion. He wanted a family. The longer you went without one, the meaner he got, but you think regardless, he’d have turned into the person he is now. You could see the signs in hindsight. 

One day, you would tell Joel about it all, but not today. 

“I’m taking you to Jackson. This place isn’t safe. He isn’t safe.”

You want to go. You wanted to go long before his demand. “Not on foot. He’ll catch up. He’s got the horse.”

When Joel grabs your hand, you hold onto it tighter. He pulls you down the soft slope of the hill to the old barn. His hand is rough and calloused, but you can’t help but feel like it’s the softest thing you’ve ever felt. The breeze plays in your long hair. Joel’s free hand glides along the warped barn until he finds a deep notch. 

“Check here every night after dark. I’ll leave a note for you when I come for you with directions on where to meet me.”

He cups both of your cheeks. “Every night, you understand?”

You nod.

For a minute you think he might kiss you. You’ve thought about that too as you lay in bed awake and listless for hours on end.

He drops his hands. “Show me where.”

You quickly find the notch. It’s deeper than you thought. Your fingers brush up against a piece of paper. You furrow your brow looking up at Joel as you fish it out between two fingers. 

“Good girl.” He smiles. 

It’s only four words, but it’s all you need. Every night. I promise.

“I promise.” He repeats to you. You don’t doubt him for a minute. 

You wish you could let him kill Elliot. It would make things easier. You could go with him now and not worry about anything else. Would he kiss you now? Or wait until you’re safely within the confines of the Jackson walls.

“Every night.” You tell him. 

He kisses your forehead before he leaves. It gets you through the next two weeks. 

You make sure Elliot is asleep just as you have every night since Joel’s last visit, but something feels different tonight. You can feel it in your bones. You take a small bag with you, lantern lighting your way to the back of the barn. An owl hoots in the woods, and the crickets sing with the dying heat of summer. The nip of autumn is already in the air. 

You ease your hand into the notch. You panic when you don’t feel the note immediately. You got it wrong. You’ll have to live through this another night- and then you feel it. Your heart leaps. You can hardly comprehend the note. It takes you three times through before you finally do. You know exactly where he is.

You abandon all caution and run for it. You can be there in under 10 minutes. Your hair flies behind you. The underbrush of the woods crunches under your boots. You catch your dress on a couple of brambles, one scratches your cheek, but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything but freedom surging through you. 

You catch sight of Joel in the small clearing. The full moon illuminates his figure. You recognize it, already committing to your memory. Joel spins around, rifle ready until realizes it’s you running toward him. He barely sets it down before you’re in his arms. 

You’re strong around you. They feel like safety and promise. He chuckles. “Glad you made it, Sweetheart.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. It’s not funny, and you should be more cautious, but you simply do not care. You’re free. You’re so close to a hot shower and fresh tomatoes and you’re in Joel Miller’s strong arms. 

Before he can say anything more, you press your lips to his. They’re warm, slightly chapped, and eager against yours. You never want to stop, but Joel eventually pulls back, panting. He tucks your hair behind your ear. 

“Let’s go home, Sweetheart.”

[icycoldninja]

Perchance a canon-typical V/reader angst scenario in which V’s body is physically failing him and he is agonisingly aware that he doesn’t have much longer to live, and reader holds him for one last time 🥲

Ok!! BRING ON THE ANGST! LET ME SEE YOUR TEARS!

Please hold me (V x Reader angst)

V stumbled along the stony pathway, walking stick irregularly tapping against the ground as he moved. You walked alongside him, eyeing him with concern. V could feel the apprehension in your gaze and felt the knot of anxiety within his own stomach tighten. He was painfully aware that his body was failing him and that he didn't have much longer to live, but he chose to hide that fact from you, to spare you the pain.

He knew you loved him; he loved you too, more than anything in the world, and as such, knew the heavy emotional toll news of his impending death would take upon you. He didn't want you to go through that pain; he didn't want you to suffer any sooner than you had to.

And so, the man pushed on, gritting his teeth and bearing the pain as he struggled to keep his balance despite his wavering strength and fatigue. It was wrong for him to be so tired; he'd only just awoken from a nap a few hours earlier. Reaching up to his cracked, disintegrating face, V rubbed his exhausted eyes with trembling fingers, briefly becoming unaware of the path ahead of him and subsequently tripping over a rock he hadn't noticed before. With a yelp, V tumbled to the ground, thankfully, you caught him before any more damage could be inflicted upon his already fragile body.

"Easy there, Mr. Glass," You joked, helping him sit down as comfortably as possible on the gravelly earth. "You alright?"

"I do not require rest," V insisted for your sake, weakly attempting to stand, but tragically failing.

"I don't think so," You said, shaking your head, "I think you should rest here for a while. You've been awfully tired lately, weaker than normal....anything I should know about?"

"No," V sighed, feathery voice softer and feebler than you were used to. He wanted to deny he was dying; wanted to wait until after the mission before scurrying off somewhere to die quietly, so you wouldn't have to endure the pain of watching the life leave his eyes, but it seemed he wouldn't last that long. "Well...perhaps there is," He added, reluctantly.

You could see the distress on his worn-out features; the fear and perturbation in his inky green eyes. You knew whatever he was about to tell you was of extreme importance, so you took his bony hand in yours, rubbing the cracked, but still soft skin gently.

"Tell me."

V was silent for a moment, then let out a long sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body before speaking again.

"As you can see, my body is failing me...I do not have much longer to live...I can feel it."

V watched in pure misery as horror washed over your features, twisting them into the terrified expression he'd worked so hard to avoid.

"I apologize, Wanderer," He offered, softly. His voice was brittle; shaky. It was clear he was as close to tears as you were. "I never wanted you to witness this."

"No, no!" You shouted, all in vain. "You can't be serious, V, you can't die...you can't. I-I'll be all alone...and lonely...I need you, V. Please..." Even if you were pretty tough, you eventually broke down into tears over the realization of your love's inevitable death. You just couldn't stomach the thought of losing him. You loved him, you needed him, you simply couldn't imagine life without him.

You paused your hysterics for a moment, catching sight of V's crumbling face, and the tears that silently rolled out of his bloodshot eyes.

"I am sorry," He croaked, saddened more by your tears than his situation. "I had hoped you would not have to see me die."

Another choked sob left you, but you managed to pull yourself together enough to be capable of speech. If there was no preventing this, then you wanted to help him, however you could.

"Is...is there anything you want?" You asked, hoping to be able to do something to soothe him.

"Only one," V replied, sounding more drained than you'd ever heard him. "Please...please hold me."

This one, heartbreakingly simple request, combined with the innocent way he held his thin arms out to you broke you completely. Wailing like a banshee, you flung yourself at him and wrapped him up in your arms as tightly as you could, trying to smother him with your body, as if you could transfer your life force through embracing him. Needless to say, if you could, you would.

"Thank you, Wanderer," V mumbled into your shoulder, chill and shaky arms reaching up to return the hug with what little strength he had left. "I wanted to be protected and loved. You loved me, you protected me, and I will always be thankful for that."

Tears streamed down your face, soaking V's thin coat as you grabbed at him further, in a desperate and futile attempt to keep him alive longer.

"I love you, V," You told him, voice creaky and unevenly pitched. "I'm always gonna love you...no matter what. I love you. I love you!" You buried your face into the side of his skeletal neck, still sobbing as you repeated those three words over and over again until they seemed to have lost their meaning.

"I love you too, Wanderer," V muttered, barely even audiable. "Forever."

V wished that you didn't have to feel his arms go lax and fall at his sides; that you didn't have to experience the ghostly cold that comes with hugging a corpse, but at the very least, he could take comfort in the fact that you didn't have to watch the life leave his eyes.

[valentine-cafe]

More weapon!reader x Yizé 9948e (featuring Yué méng yaó)!

This one is a bit horror like so I hope you don't mind writing for that!

[ Fem/Afab reader ] (written in 3rd person view for easier reading)

After the Zhao family kept her under captive, the infamous killer of grim reapers were in their grasp. The Zhao family were still discussing about fate of this cold-blooded killer. Should she embraced death or let her escape it?

Zhao Yizé and his mother, Yué méng Yaó took guard at the killer. The weapon was sleeping after a gruesome fight with Yizé.

Yizé watched her, torn apart by the fact he fought his highschool best friend to learn what has happend to her. Wished that he had her suffering that she did.

He turned to his mother who was writing onto a notepad, eyebrows furrowed.

“Is she going to get executed?” Yizé quivered, knowing the answer.

“We are still discussing about this, love,” Yué méng yaó began, turning towards her son, “We just need more time to have a meeting about this.”

Yué méng yaó pulled out the notepad, silence was deafening as Yizé began to read the notes on it.

[ THEY ARE WATCHING AND LISTENING US THROUGH HER ]

[ THE HUMANS ARE BORROWING HER EARS AND EYES. ]

[ BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY AND DO. THE HUMANS WILL KNOW OUR PLAN. ]

[ IF THEY KNEW WE ARE KEEPING HER ALIVE, THEY WILL KILL HER. ]

the rest is up to you :3

— 🎨

. ˚◞♡ 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒎 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒙 fem!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ⊹ ۪

⊹ ۪ ࣪ ᥫ᭡ verse 9948e yizé

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🧋 ꒱ ⊹ ۪ ࣪ grim reaper x reader, mercenary x reader, cw: reader death, heavy angst, soul reaping.

A heavy, heartbroken sigh escapes Yìzé at each paragraph read and burnt into his mind. He could almost hear his mother speak them to him verbally.

You really aren’t making it out of this alive, are you?

With guilt so overbearing and too much to handle, his heart crumbles. It sways with the curtains in the room that float gently, as the wind tugs away at it.

The soft breeze was going to go still at some point as your heart would.

Well. . .

At the very least, you would be a place of peace, of care. He knew that much about the mortal afterlife. No more sorrows and no more hurt inflicted upon anyone. Just peace.

What more could you ever ask for than peace?

Deep maroon eyes wet with crystalline tears that threaten to spill over the waterline and glide their way down his face, land on the floor with the smallest of taps. The same way that your blood had. Earlier.

Splattered across the concrete ground, in some alleyway in the society of shades. It would have dried by now. Or maybe washed away. By some confused but unfazed enigma, or otherworldly of which resided in the neighborhood the fight went down.

Depressing, it was all so depressing. From the cold air of the room, to the atmosphere that haunted the entire estate.

He wanted you to be free.

Free of this control you were under.

Free to breathe, free to live.

But that was not the reality you were going to face and it hurt like nothing he had ever felt. Loss truly was the cost of love.

‘This is why reapers are taught not to love mortal souls,’ he recounts bitterly within his very own mind palace. A place he never visits. If he is able to disregard feelings, he can work effeciently. Feeling, that is something for later.

With his eyes now closed, and the world around him quiet. As he and his mother sits and simply watches the time waste and rot itself away in your sleep. He sits and recounts more of the lectures he has been taught.

‘And should one fall for a mortal, may the heart distance itself and a head be turned. Lest the heartbreak kill the vulnerable heart we bear.’

The touch of a staff, the smallest tug at it. Dragging a large blade with it in it’s tug. Painfully ironic, the hand finds the scythe before it finds yours. His soul knows his purpose but his heart and brain screams for him to stop.

With the smallest of glance cast his way by his mother. All she can do is sigh, and eventually look away again. What efforts is there to make when he simply wishes for your peace? You were a mortal, and your soul was long overdue. A crinkling pocketwatch told her as much.

“Shall I leave?” She murmurs quietly. Breaking the silence that previously covered the room like a rug attempting to suffocate all living things within the area.

Her eyes meet with his face that grows ever sharper than it previously was. Formations of the purest of quarts scattering across her son’s cheekbones and down his throat, his arms, and leaving no skin to be seen on his hands.

Fat tears plap down on the floor as the reaper you have known since you were a kid raises his scythe at you. Once again today, has he raised blade. And for the last time today is it with the means of taking away your soul and sending it to solace and solitude.

There is no saving if you are this far into everything. There is no comfort.

As much as that may be what the wooden planks of the floor that has greeted you with groans and creaks each time you have walked upon it, wishes to be. As much as the trees of the garden may cry themselves to death and disease as you go—

It has to be done. And you have to go.

Maybe next spring will be better. The leaves blossming a bit more with the kindness that you carried. The flowers fragant thant ever.

One day you will be able to understand why he did it. When you are in the afterlife and you have been helped to peace. You will understand.

This was an act of love and not one of resent, nor repulsion.

And the blade swings itself through your sleeping form. Cutting through your body, but only collecting your soul.

No harm is truly done, and you still lay there. With a newfound tranquility roaming each and every nerve and sense. the bed sinking a bit more as your body turns off. You feel just as alive as you did when he last reaped your soul. It is freeing.

It is quite tragic, you never heard the scream he let out as he had to send you off. No soul ever truly does.

But you were free.

And his grieving, shattered heart will mend with that knowledge. Next spring, he will find himself at peace again.

You did not deserve to go through execution awake. A soul with forced taint, and forced violence. You deserved a peaceful passing. Even if that means he will get in trouble for doing what he has done.

Alas, he has his mother with him the entire way.

[evolutionsvoid]

Though this world is built from the countless celestial corpses, there is much life and blessings to be found in this great graveyard. For the people of this land, the death of the gods means more resources and precious fluids, such is the life of scavengers. To dig through the petrified flesh and find a treasure trove of ivory, keratin and Ichor. To tap into reservoirs of sacred fluid  to fuel and fill the needs of entire communities. To everyone, the carcass of a god is a wondrous and precious thing, worthy of celebration when miners discover a new untouched corpse deep beneath the surface. Surely the blessings will flow! But not all divine flesh bears wondrous gifts. Of the countless deities whose ancient dead bodies birthed this world, some met ends far more foul and rotten than most. Not a death inflicted by violence or fading ages, but of something festering deep within. Time and many layers of petrified flesh has buried these sickened beings in this planet, but such vileness does not perish with their host. They do not fade or die, but merely wait in slumber. The godly corpse may be their tomb, but in a world of scavengers, it is merely a matter of time before the doors are opened...

The nightmare that plagues this world was not always here, for this madness started when the Years of Feasting were coming to an end. As the times of plenty and excess were starting to fade away and the people noticed their near empty coffers, efforts were made to find more riches down below. Surely the world was not depleted of its blessings, surely there was more to be found that would fill the void their lavish ways created. So the mines went deep, the hunts went longer, all in search for more flesh and fluids. One group of miners struck a massive carcass down below, and excitement filled the entire mine. A untapped corpse of this size would flood the entire region in wealth and materials. All hands were on deck, and they tore into the grave with rabid glee. However, as they bore through its flesh and walked through its desiccated veins, they found no treasure, no riches. The flesh was horribly rotted, the bones brittle and useless. This corpse had festered for a millennia with some unknown rot, reducing its body to a wretched husk. To the miners, this find was a dud, nothing was to be gained here. Yet, this corpse was not truly empty, as it did carry something within its putrid flesh. The miners did not see it, but they awakened it. When the petrified hide was pierced, fresh air flowed into this hollow body. When the miners scoured the corpse, the warmth of their lanterns filled its halls. Though few would think twice over simple things like the introduction of meager air and heat, great things can come from the mundane and small. Much like how a handful of hibernating eggs can soon multiply into hundreds of horrific monstrosities...

It wasn't long after the corpse was opened that the first encounters occurred, and what soon followed was the abandoning of the entire mine as it was overrun. The stories of what happened in those mines are still told to this day and, sadly, they grow more common with each passing year. The sound of screams and wretched gurgles echoing through the tunnels. The subtle rumble of the earth as a rabid horde pours through its veins. And the sickly heat and haze that rises from the caverns and holes, as infection takes hold of man and world. What was born that day has spread like sickness, and the stories of their horrors travels upon many lips. The people often call them "Devil Bugs," but there is one true name for the rot and madness that now seeps into this earth: The Arimakki.

Describing the Arimakki is a difficult task, for they come in many shapes and sizes. Their colonies are a host to countless abominations and writhing worms, giving a new face to the horror with each encounter. However, there are a few traits that all share, and they are the very same features that make them so vile to this world and its people. The first is the White Worms, featureless squirming things that fill their colonies and dance amongst the branches of The Vile Red Tree. These same worms infest the Arimakki themselves, stuffed into their innards and leaking out of every pore and orifice. When the Arimakki grow agitated, these worms squirm and bulge through their insides, filling them with even more maddened vigor. The second thing is the sickly heat they produce. All Arimakki exude a sweltering aura of feverish heat, the kind that burns within your bones and flesh as sickness ravages your body. Alone, a single Arimakki up close can make one draw a sweat on even the coldest of days, their gross warmth seeping into your pores. When banded together, though, a swarm of Arimakki can cook people alive. Their colonies are inaccessible to the unprepared, as the sheer blazing heat they emanate rivals that of a forge. All life must flee or perish when they begin to infest an area, for their hives will bake the surrounding tunnels and lands to clear away threats and make room for their young. Unfortunately, this sickly heat is not the worse thing they can offer.

Born from a sickness not of this world, the Arimakki are not bound to the usual fluids of this land. They do not have any allegiance to the Four Humors or the Godly Fluids, for they have their own wretched secretions. Dripping from their pale and crimson flesh is a colorless clear liquid, one that spits and hisses with a vile heat. The people of this world have called it "Feverish Sweat," as it is just as sickening as any other fluid born of illness. Feverish Sweat is a boiling element, scalding and searing any non-Arimakki who make contact with it. Those who are exposed to a mere spray of this nasty sweat will find their afflicted areas growing red, itchy and burning hot. Soon it will begin to swell at a sickening pace, bulging to ludicrous proportions as the skin becomes more crimson and unbearable. A horrid fever is quick to follow, and those struck by it are reduced to shivering, sweating creatures. Small amounts of Feverish Sweat can be soothed by humors and eventually driven from the body, but as the doses get higher, the effects are more horrible and inevitable. Those who get a good splash of it on their flesh will be gripped by terrible hallucinations and nightmares, their minds stricken by the horrid fever. Getting soaked by Feverish Sweat is a death sentence, as the whole body swells to a grotesque balloon and the unstoppable fever boils every fluid and organ. This agonizing fluid makes even a single Arimakki dangerous, especially since they all flail and writhe in a bizarre fashion constantly, spraying this boiling liquid everywhere.             

Ever since their first awakening, the Arimakki have spread throughout the underground, invading caverns and mines to turn into new hives. Efforts from the mine owners and Church have helped in slowing and diverting their invasion, but the current state of the world has allowed these defenses to crumble and for this rot to spread. Warriors armed with Yellowflame still scour the land in search of colonies or invading groups to torch, but their habit of burrowing and tunneling requires far more manpower and firepower to truly purge them.

The Arimakki come in many forms, these are just a few that can be found infesting these lands:

Arimakki Ude: A tottering, flailing specimen whose arms seem too long for even it to handle. It whips and waves its arms in wild fashion, unsheathing claws hidden within them. When prey is spotted, they let out a cacophony of excited babbles and blubbering before launching themselves at full speed toward the target, nearly tripping on their own flailing arms. They are quick to ensnare prey in burning coils and drag them back to the colony to feed the hive. Their unsteady gait and swaying ways makes them seem foolish and uncoordinated, but do not take this look as a sign of weakness. Even if tripped, they can squirm and slither across the ground at frightening speeds.

Arimakki Hara: A bloated, bulbous creature, this form of Arimakki is one of the most common. It is believed that this caste is so prevalent due to their versatility. Their many arms are good for digging, climbing and fighting, while their long "tongue" is perfect for snaring prey or reaching where limbs may fail. Their gross bellies leak large amounts of Feverish Sweat, which its pale tendril arms collect and lob as boiling gobs. Their presence is often betrayed by their burps and tongue noises, but everyone knows that Arimakki are not known for their subtlety. When not in pursuit of prey, they can be seen drumming their swollen stomachs, finding fun in the odd noises and beats they can come up with.  

Arimakki Sakana: Like a great maggot, this Arimakki spends most of its time burrowed into flesh or fluid. This specimen is found in damp soggy places, often swamps or flooded areas. Their bloated bodies are hidden below the surface, while their tiny heads peek out to keep watch for prey. When food draws close, its whole form bursts from the waters and it launches its stretchy neck forward. They seek to snare victims in a boiling grip, before drawing them close so that their swollen mass can crush them. These Arimakki like to blow bubbles in the fluids whenever it is bored, and are endlessly entertained by the splashing of their little fins. 

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

"Arimakki"

It's Feverish February! The month where we celebrate by doing.....this! Yeah, it's totally a thing, and not just an excuse to dump all these wacky fellas on y'all. But honestly, been excited to post these guys for a while. Way back I was trying to think of some parasite or bug to work into a dangerous invasive force for Fall of Ichor, and I suddenly remembered Bogleech's articles on the Hara No Mushi. Absolutely perfect for what I needed, so here we are! My friend darksack100 helped come up with their name, which I really love. So yeah, expect to see a lot of these nasty buggers this coming month! 

[that-gay-jedi]

Dorian Gray in an Unjust World

The timing is bad (work, flare-up, life stuff, deadlines etc) but I need the thoughts I had on my last reread of The Picture of Dorian Gray off my chest.

Textually, Dorian's portrait is not alive. It may be an ever-updating record of Dorian's choices, analogous to what we now call a living document, but it's still an object. It's not a victim or even a witness, only a piece of evidence. He's done terrible things to so many people, but the portrait isn't one of them.

I can still read the book the way I first read it when I was much younger, when I went in already knowing to some extent the author's intent and what makes it a work of gothic horror.

Back then I knew that he wasn't writing about helplessness, but about a young man with agency choosing time and time again to make the most psychospiritually corrosive choices. Though the pain Dorian causes others is an important window into what is evil, ultimately it's a book about evil, not a book about pain. And it's a damn good book about evil.

Now, though. Now I have so much more experience with evil than I did when on my first read-through. Back then my one abusive parent was the only true horror I knew, but now I've seen the insides of so many caustic systems and rotten institutions and the people who collectively make them work that way. I've met dozens of Lord Henrys myself and probably read about another thousand or so in the news and the uncountable would-be Dorian Grays who channel them.

More importantly, I've seen the damage done, the pain that bears witness to evil. I've known the Sybil Vanes and Basil Hallwards of the world, and though I've seen plenty young and innocent in their graves just as in the book, I've seen so many more live to bear the emotional and psychosocial scars those wounds leave when they don't kill you.

And yes we're all a little bit Dorian, everyone's done something that would make their portrait sneer at some point, but we're all a bit Sybil too, injured by the wrongdoing of others. We're all a little bit Basil sitting in front of someone begging them to be better, to stop making choices that hurt others, and just like Basil more often than not all we'll get for our trouble is to be the next one hurt.

So on my latest reread, something sucker punched me: if the portrait had feelings, how much it would hate him for what's been done to it. And though the portrait doesn't have feelings, the real people Dorian makes an impact on bear his cruelties by proxy just as much as the portrait does.

Our most callous choices do not leave lasting marks on only our own selves. They do real and lasting harm to others: others' bodies and brains (which are really one and the same thing), others' hearts, others' lives. You can etch the lines into someone else's face or take the light of hope from their eyes without ever meeting or knowing them.

The supernatural forces which govern Dorian's portrait protect him from what he's doing to himself, but the emotional damage he inflicts on others is still visible in THEIR faces. He still leaves his mark on the world and on the people he's wronged.

We can almost draw a line through each of the characters from Henry down wherein each one's relative agency diminishes as their own goodness or innocence within the narrative increases.

1. Dorian had many, many choices, and with mildly coercive influence from Henry he made all the cruelest ones.

2. Alan (the chemist who helps Dorian conceal a murder) was blackmailed with a terrible fate, and he knowingly did an evil thing under duress.

3. Sybil's brother James didn't strictly NEED to swear revenge for what was done to his sister (indeed there's a lot of discussion about misogyny and the disposability of women who were seen as having "lost their virue" to be had, some of it potentially damning to James himself), but there was zero chance of anyone facing consequences for it any other way.

Just as we see so often in real life recorded history and in our own time, James' tale of revenge ends anticlimactically for him because he's a working class labourer, while Dorian's life takes the novel-worthy trajectory because he's of high enough social class for it to happen.

4. Sybil did nothing wrong, yet Dorian had the power to destroy her life, and he chose to use it. Her only share of agency was whether to live the life of suffering that remained to her or to die. Dorian may not have killed her with his own hands, but her suicide was a murder on many levels. Just as her brother could've been a protagonist in some other novel had he more status and means, she could've been a protagonist in some other story if her virginity weren't the sole cornerstone of her future.

4. Lastly, Basil actively tried to do the right thing, using what influence he might have had on Dorian to try to stem the flow of horrors, but was basically talking to a wall. Despite being of about the same social status as Dorian and Henry, Basil's voice had so much less impact on events than Henry's that you almost beg him to turn and run for his life instead.

The shock hit me the exact moment Basil asks Dorian to repent all he's done, because without realizing it, up until that point I'd been seeing myself as Dorian.

When I read Picture half my lifetime ago I did not put myself in any one character's shoes in particular, though at 16 I was perhaps even more egotistical than I might be now. The connection had nothing to do with seeing oneself as a main character or not; it was about seeing myself as having been warped by life.

"How can I repent sins that aren't mine?" I thought, and only then did I realize that wasn't a thought from the mind of Dorian, Alan, James, Sybil or Basil. I'd been seeing myself as living flesh and bone and brain that's been used the same way the portrait has.

Dorian's portrait ages prematurely from the choices he makes about his own body, but you don't have to be shallow or ageist to agree that it's ugly. Before any of the youth and conventional beauty captured there is ever diminished, the first change- the one that appears after his first cruel and selfish act- is to the expression he wears. The smile of a young man who hasn't yet crushed or destroyed anyone turns to the sadistic, leering grin of someone who has, and who leans into the power rather than into the potential for remorse.

The Machiavellian socialite of the portrait isn't me, but that sense of losing my innocence to someone else's choices is.

The parts of my personality that I find most unpleasant to look at- the tendency to take refuge in despair because hope is painful, the way I sometimes indulge in misanthropy so that the bitter truths of the world we live in can hurt just a tiny bit less to acknowledge- you can't cultivate those in a person who has as much power and privilege as Dorian Gray, but they have just as much potential to be used as justification for behaving in ways that protect or empower oneself at the cost of others. Simply having less access to the levers of power does not absolve us of our capacity for evil.

Maybe that's what Sybil Vane would look like if she'd lived to see her 30s, resentful and sad and, above all, defeated. Or if I'm being more honest about my place in the exploitative structures of colonialism wherein we live, maybe that stress-worn face of resentment and resignation in the mirror is akin to what Alan looks like after another ten years of desperately holding onto the secrecy that keeps him from being skewered by the deadly homophobic institutions of his time- bought at the price of complicity in murder.

The novel itself is the true portrait of Dorian- without seeing the lives of Basil, Sybil, James and Alan, we would have absolutely no way to understand the connection between the malevolent individual in the painting and the malevolent life this superficially beautiful boy has led. And in this way, each person he wronged is a reflection of his cruelty- a portrait of Dorian rather than of themselves.

[lost-jams]

Brushes And Beats chapter 13

pairing: JiminxReader

genre: fluff with a pinch of angst

trope: enemies to lovers

:ever thought of the past and wished to re-do it?:

Jimin's Pov

3 years ago,

December 20th, 2020;

We were shooting the music video for my latest single, we are currently on location with snow-covered mountains and sea beneath us. The cold air nipped at my skin, but it was nothing compared to the storm brewing within me whenever she was around. I must have gone truly crazy, to have my temperature rise in this cold weather whenever she was nearby.

What the hell is wrong with me? It was just an ordinary day on set, and It was pretty normal to have my makeup done by her, Why am I feeling this way?

I couldn't help but let out a sharp breath whenever I passed by her, catching a glimpse of her beauty reflected in the mirror as she focused on perfecting each stroke of makeup on someone else's face. Her presence was captivating, and I found myself drawn to her like a moth to a flame.

The sun was setting on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the snowy landscape, mirroring the warmth that blossomed inside me whenever I caught sight of her smiling face. All of us gathered around taking in the breathtaking scenery,

In the embrace of my thoughts, my hungry gaze fell ravenously on Y/n. She was but a silhouette against the horizon, bathed in the softness of the setting sun's goodbyes. The captivating sparkle in her eyes mirrored the cosmos, outshining the stars that the coming night was slowly weaving into the azure tapestry above. I was entranced, ensnared in the mesmerizing dance of twilight in her gazed-upon irises.

Cheeks kissed by the day's frosty lullaby were painted a shy rosé, warmed by the departing sun's final ballet of light. A touch of the same color graced her nose, glowing with an innocent vibrancy that sent an unspoken invitation to join her in the intimate communion with the sun's final sonnet. She was a silhouette of perfection, adorned in the last vestiges of grand illumination the world held onto.

Each soft tendril of her hair nonchalantly brushed aside, teased a melody in the temperate breeze. The last strokes of sunlight obediently traced each curve of her features. She was ethereal, as if an angel graced the earth with her presence, whispering a sonnet to the horizon.

I felt my heartbeats playing a symphony of longing, each beat whispering her name. The simple sight of her — absorbed, resplendent, enchantingly immersed in the golden goodbye — pricked at my untouched sentiments, each a couplet of a love poem waiting to be read. This perfectly framed vista of Y/n, serenading the setting sun, unleashed a profound fervor in my chest, a feeling so powerful, it threatened to consume me entirely. Her rapture in the sunset acted as a catalyst, alchemizing my longing into a feeling I can't explain — It was something you have to experience yourself

It's a Serenity

It is Magical

It's an Epiphany

One's Serendipity

A Euphoria

It is Passion.

2 months later,

"Birdy you thinking about flying?"

"Y/n?"

"Y/n get away!!"

Seeing Y/n standing at the edge of the cliff, my heart clenched in my chest. The paleness of her face haunted me; a stark contrast to the striking landscape behind her amplified by her despair. The wind whipped through her hair as she gazed into the abyss, a testament to how she must've been feeling inside. Anger surged through my veins as I thought about the pain that was inflicted on her.

Panic surged through me as she was very close the edge of the precipice. She was looking down, silhouetted against the chilling winds, her frame unyielding yet ominously fragile. My heart pounded in my chest like a wild drum, each beat ringing with enormous fear and unsettling anger.

Fear, because the mere thought of her plummeting into the abyss was a horror I couldn't bear. Her potential brush with danger stoked a protective instinct in me, stronger than anything I'd ever known. I was paralyzed by this sudden jump of adrenaline, my breathing came ragged and uncontrolled.

And anger, not at her, never at her, but at the world that had pushed her to teeter on the edge of despair. I was filled with a rage so potent, it threatened to consume me. My stomach churned with it, my fingers clenched involuntarily into fists. How cruel could the universe be, to leave a scar on someone as beautiful and kind-hearted as Y/n? The unfairness of it all made my blood boil.

"No..." I whispered, my plea carried away by the cold wind. I forced myself to move, panic lending me speed. "Not her. Not Y/n." That moment, the image of Y/n standing lonesomely at the precipice seared into my memory, a terrible echo of my deepest fears and anguishes.

______________________________________________________________

"Your recklessness wouldn't affect just you. It also affects the people around you. But you never think about it, do you?”

"Jim-"

"Save it, Y/n"

I snapped, my frustration boiling over. My words carried a sharp sting, fueled by the fear and anger that had been bubbling beneath the surface. It was an outburst I instantly regretted, but in that moment, the weight of my emotions overwhelmed any semblance of control. As the words left my lips, a heavy silence settled between us.

As we stood there, locked in a silence filled with tension and regret, I could see the hurt flickering in Y/n's eyes. Her expression softened, a vulnerable glimmer of pain shining through. My heart sank at the sight of her wounded gaze, and guilt washed over me like a tidal wave. It had me face to face with those parts of myself that I had tried to bury, to dismiss. And what’s worse is, in that moment, I realized that my outburst stemmed from my own insecurities and fears.

That year was undeniably the longest and most grueling I'd ever experienced. Time seemed to stretch into an unending void, each day filled with silence where once laughter and conversation had occupied.

Work, which I had once loved as an exciting escape, started to feel more and more like a cumbersome chain. The pressure to continuously perform and improve felt colossal, only amplifying the deafening quietness in my personal life. Every performance, every firm handshake, and smile gradually became harder to produce, the echo of Y/n's absence a constant reminder of my failings.

The ceaseless demands of my career began to weigh on me, a relentless movement of days marked by hectic schedules and sleepless nights. The glamour and fame, which once exhilarated me, now felt draining. And Y/n's absence hung over me, a specter that was invisible to others, but painfully evident to me.

Regret was a constant sting, gnawing at my calm, reminding me of the words I should've said, the solace I could've offered. Y/n's face would uninvitedly creep into my thoughts, her glossy eyes shimmering with withheld emotions and hushed sighs. My heart would turn into a turbulent sea besieged by a surge of regret and self-reproof. I had let my fear, cloaked in anger, push her away.

Loneliness — my forever friend — had cast a daunting shadow over me. Surrounded by throngs of fans and yet, an unsettling hollowness prevailed, rendering me isolated in a crowd. That's when I realized the intensity of my feelings for her. Her absence wasn't just a missing friendly face; it was the missing piece of a puzzle that completed me.

The dread of losing her even as a friend, the heart-wrenching despair of not being able to help the person you care about began eating away at me. It was a painful lesson learned

in the harshest way; a year of harrowing solitude and introspection, interspersed with rigorous work demands. But within all of it, a realization hung heavily - I loved her, no I love her. And that love enveloped every strand of my being, defining the extent of my sorrow in her absence

One year passed without much interaction between us. She needed her space, and I had tight work schedules. The occasional glances we exchanged were often filled with unsaid words, and unexpressed emotions. Looking back, I should have pushed aside my professional commitments a bit more. I could have been there for her in a way that was more than just professional. I would have held her close and told her that it was okay to fall apart because she was not alone.

She never was.

to be continued...

chapter 12 || chapter 14

[elfcollector]

it’s cold & it’s quiet

rating: teen

relationships: felix / the detective

warnings: mentions of neglect

summary: It’s hard, looking at Felix, for the Detective not to wonder how much of the worst parts of their mother are echoed in them.

Vampires heal so fast, and Quinn is glad of it.  They’re glad that the pain doesn’t last too long, they’re glad that so many of the people they love can survive so much and only ache for a few hours or a few days.  They’re glad, whenever they glance at Felix, that he’s smiling, free of pain, that the horrors the Trappers inflicted on him haven’t left scars.

Quinn is glad that Felix isn’t suffering.  But it seems unfair, somehow, that Felix’s healing means that Quinn got off easy, too.

It’s too easy to forget, or for Quinn’s always-guilty conscience to push the memories away, when they look at the man they love more than anything in the world and the wounds they all-but inflicted are disappeared as if they never were at all.  But their battered mind can’t forget — won’t forget — his fear as the Trappers cornered and hurt him.  The pleading in his face, save me, save me, don’t leave me.

And their battered mind can’t forget that they left him, anyway.

It worked out — Felix survived, safe and, after some time to recover, no worse for the wear, and they still saved Sanja, cementing the treaty — and it feels so selfish, that Quinn could do that and have there be so few consequences.  Felix should be angry with them.

The thought alone has their shoulders hiking beneath their cardigan.  He should be angry, but they’re not sure they could bear it if he was.

Felix, as though sensing their gaze, glances up from the papers he’s bent over with Nat, a smile stealing across his mouth when his eyes land on Quinn.  It falls a moment later once he processes their anxious expression.  He says something to Nat, too soft for Quinn to hear, who glances up at the Detective, also seems to take in their look, and then nods to Felix.  Felix shoots her a grateful grin and then makes his way across the living room to settle at his partner’s side on the couch.  Quinn smiles weakly, but doesn’t make to lean on him or take his hand the way they might normally.  They just watch Nat across the room, studying the documents in front of her with a focus that Quinn would admire in another situation.

They wonder if she’s angry at them, for endangering her family.  The thought prompts Quinn to draw their legs closer, knees to their chest.  Their arms drape loosely around their legs, fingers tangling against the fronts of their ankles.

There’s concern heavy in Felix’s voice when he asks, “you okay, babe?”

Quinn’s heart is too huge and open for lying to loved ones to ever seem to work, but they murmur, not looking away from Nat, “Mhm.”

There’s a hand against their chin, Felix tucking it gently between his thumb and forefinger as he turns their face towards his.  Guess it didn’t work this time, either.  “C’mon.  You’re usually bursting at the seams with cheer.  Or at least chatter.  What’s going on?”

His hand drops from their chin and settles on their leg.  Felix is too kind of blame them, but Quinn’s so — so hurt, now.  So fragile.  It’s not a lie when they say, “I’m just — thinking about my mom.”

His eyes widen.  Felix has never really meddled in the relationship between Quinn and Rebecca, which Quinn appreciates; things between the two of them are complicated and messy enough.  Quinn barely understands what they want from her; one minute they want to get closer, they really do, and the next they look at her and just seem the faceless woman who abandoned them.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

And they do.  They do.  They can’t bear to.  “— There was this birthday I had once,” Quinn mutters, head lowering until they’re practically talking into their knees.  “I guess it’s the same story for all of my birthdays, though.  I was turning six or seven or something like that in this one, though, and she’d promised me that she’d make it to this one.  She missed a lot of birthdays — she’d show up, sure, but only for a few minutes before I’d get shuffled off to this or that nanny.  I knew it was for work, and I — I hurt and I hated her so much.  For always choosing the mission over me.”

“Babe, I’m so —”

“And I’m realizing what a hypocrite I am.”  There’s a bitter laugh on their mouth and more bite to the words than they’d intended.  Felix stiffens, eyes widening, and Quinn does the same — they’re typically trying so hard to be cheerful and hopeful, if only because looking their terror in the face would break them, that it feels strange to hear the alternative in their voice.  Their eyes squeeze shut as their head starts to throb, head ducking, teeth gritting.  They feel Felix’s hand leave their leg; instead, it wraps around their fingers, gentle.

“You’re not a hypocrite for being hurt that your mom wasn’t around,” He says, voice soft.  Their head shakes.  When their eyes open, Felix is looking back to Nat — Quinn glances over just in time to see her leave, either done with her work or just giving them privacy.  Quinn feels another splice of guilt as they look back to Felix.

“But I —”  They inhale shakily.  “I’m just as bad as her.  Or worse.  I chose the mission over you.”

Felix’s eyes search theirs for a moment, not understanding.  Realization strikes a moment later, and those gold eyes widen, lips parting.  He looks dazed.  Quinn can hear their words babbling, too fast, out of their mouth before they realize they’re speaking.

“I saw — I saw how scared you were, how much you wanted me to help you, how much you needed me, and I still — I still abandoned you.”  Their voice breaks.  “I still saved Sanja over you —”

“Babe — Wynne, hey, shh...”  The words are sincere but a little rote, like he can’t quite get back into this moment, like he’s confused about what this moment is at all.  He tries their name instead of their nickname this time.  “Quinn, look at me.  You were just following your —”

“My mother was just following her orders, too!” Quinn says, voice and heartbeat going louder with their pain.  “You were scared and alone and I abandoned you, and I — I’ve got no right to be mad at Rebecca when I’m worse than she ever was!”

“Hey, hey,” Felix says, and he seems to focus properly, hands moving to gently cup their cheeks.  The contact is enough to halt Quinn’s speech, but it also pushes them over the edge; when they blink, guilty tears fall down their cheeks.  “Breathe.  Wynne, stay with me.  Take a breath and look at me, okay?”

“And now I’m making you comfort me even though you should be angry at me —”

“You’re not making me do anything,” Felix interjects, heart breaking.  He doesn’t know why he’s surprised; why it never occurred to him that the same detective that always prioritizes others’ safety, that so often blames themself for others’ hurt, would feel guilty like this.  Quinn is so bright and so kind and so good — it hurts, to see them miss that kindness, darkening their own light with unearned accusations of cruelty.  He says, “Listen, first of all, I get to decide how I feel about you, not you.  You’re not making me comfort you and you can’t make me hate you.  I’m in love with you, and that’s never gonna change.”

The detective’s eyes squeeze shut as if they’re in pain.

“And, like — you’re the first person who’s ever — it’s just understood, that everybody prioritizes the mission.  Some of us are better at it than others, but none of us expect anything different.  Just that you wanted to save me instead of Sanja is already — nuts.”  He doesn’t get the chuckle out of them that he’d hoped.

“It was — cruel and selfish,” Quinn whispers.  “You give me everything and I —”

“Y’know what’s really cruel and selfish?  That I’m glad, deep down, that this hurts you so much.”  Now Quinn’s eyes snap open, staring at him with confusion and almost-hope.  The hope aches in a way that’s physical, and he’s quick to strike down their desire for him to be angry with them.  “Not because I’m mad, but because if this hurts you that much, you must really, really love me.”

Quinn winces, head dipping again, but they shift a little closer, their hands raising to perch gently on his wrists.  “I do.  I do, so much.”

“I know.  I never doubted that, Wynne.  And I love you so much.”  He rubs his thumbs across the highs of their cheeks, over the freckles he loves kissing so much.  “— It was scary when I realized you were going for Sanja instead of me.  But I didn’t feel like you were abandoning me.  I felt like you were just trying to protect people, like you always do.  And if we’d lost Sanja ‘cause you saved me, I’d feel pretty shit then, too.”

Quinn’s head shakes, but he can see the panic ebbing, just barely.  He’s gotten good at looking for it.  “I shouldn’t have left you,” they whisper.  “I never want you to come second to the mission.  I’ll never, ever do that to you again.”

Felix smiles gently, hearing the catch in the voice.  That’s a declaration that might make Ava stiffen, but he’s never doubted that whatever Quinn does is the right thing.  “I believe you.”  They nod, barely.  “And I don’t know enough about Rebecca as a mom to give any insight there, aside from knowing that she missed out on the chance to raise the great person you grew into.  But you’re you.  Not her.  You’re good.”  Their head shakes in his hands, but only barely.  “You’re good.  And we’re okay.”

Quinn’s stiff in his arms, but he’s patient, and used to the way they freeze when they feel too much, used to helping them off the cliff of their fear or guilt.  He just wishes the guilt wasn’t about him.

He gives them a few minutes, thumbs brushing away the tears, until their breathing evens out and their shoulders have stopped shuddering.  Then, carefully, he pulls them into a tender hug.  They return it, after a moment, hands resting against his back.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn says, softly.

“Uh-uh, none of that.  You didn’t do anything wrong.”

They’re silent for a beat.  “I...I mean it, when I say I’ll never do that again.  You’re the priority, okay?  You’re always gonna be my priority.”

His heart sings and swells at that, despite the morbid topic that prompted it.  He’s never been anyone’s priority, let alone the best person ever’s priority.  His hand rubs up and down their back.  “I know.  I love you.”  Again.  “We’re okay.”

Another shuddering inhale from his detective, as if they’re gathering strength.  “—— Thank you.  I’m so in love with you.”

The declaration makes his heart sing, too.  His head tilts to press a kiss to their hair.  “No problem, babe.”

[faneposting-my-beloved]

Faneposter Fanfiction Tangents pt 2 (written on a phone in a train to distract myself from the horrors of destination)

I talked about Elane fairly extensively, and in close future, I ought to talk just as extensively about Vermil too, but for now we'll just lick the glacier instead of digging in since his arc is not yet fully set. So instead, let us discuss the overall, what I'd call in Polish, storytelling tissue those characters exist in.

I am Polish, and so my first real contact with literary works had been through the Polish education - that surely likes its (emphasis on alienating its) classics. To also add to this, Poland has quite unfavourable opinion on anything fantasy - schools especially seeing it as inferior to any of other genre.

With that in mind, I must admit I used to be the class weirdo who generally enjoyed the assigned reading list, especially anything revolving round Polish romanticism.

With biases and starting points out of the way, let's look at the fundamentals upon which I built 'Song of Infinity' (and partially Gold Tarnishes Quickly tbh)

To paint the picture roughly; the themes of SoI revolve around themes I fear the most and clash them with stances I admire.

1. The World - The Fatum

Starting with the classics. When I read Oedipus and Antigone, as well as snippets of Troy and Oddysey - the god-centric chain of events filled me with a sense of dread. With Oedipus or Edyp in Polish (let me stick to this version, it's easier to type) the events are very much set in stone from the very beginning according to the in-world chronology. The prophecy had rang out ages ago - and unknowingly, terrifyingly has fulfilled itself. Fatum is the fate spun by gods, and mortals are helplessly doomed to follow it. It leads one on like a curse that there is no saving from - it's your fate. Antigone's fate was cruel, yet needless, yet just, yet heartless, yet lawful. The tragedy of it all is the inability to outrun one's destiny, digging into deadly truths against all reason, but in accordance with conscience. A gradual self-inflicted self-destruction.

In the longer texts like Troy or Odyssey, Gods sit above on their golden thrones and dictate mortal or immortal lives on a whim or principle. The motif of Theatrum Mundi is beautiful and terrifying in and of itself. World is Gods' theatre (they themselves had built for amusement). A hand pulls on a string, and all ought to follow. On the same note, Gods offer advice, weaponry and armour to keep the conflict going in their favour. It ties into the Fatum, everything is set, yet one can live the hope that with luck/help/divinity - they will be the one to write their own history. History that is nothing more than a page in a grand screenplay.

Seven are the puppeteers and Rivellon is their scene...but are they really? It was not Seven who set the Veil in place between the Void and the World. The curtain raises. The real screenwriters are yet to show themselves.

So yes, I had painted a rather bleak picture where mortals, demigods, ancient dragons even (!) are actors - puppets - thrown out of their sack and into a spectacle where they are led to believe their choices matter - whilst they follow a static or altering script. But the changes are not the result of their own agenda.

So, would that be all? We did discuss Gods and Fate, but what of their subjects?

Unde malum is a Latin phrase wondering where did evil come from. Albert Camus in his 'The Plague', or my vastly preferred native title Dżuma (mostly because it sounds more ominous, and is the actual common name for the Black Death) puts a grain; a speckle; a bacteria of evil/plague in everyone. Fundamentally and regardless of symptoms everyone bears the Dżuma within. One can either succumb to it(the innate evil) or oppose it, never let it manifest. This is explained quite late in the book proper but once it properly sits within the given context and beyond, it proves horribly correct.

So we face what is an eldritch, uncontrollable and antagonistic world with rotten, power-hungry, sinful Gods and their choices - and who stand against them?

The Valiant - Winkelried and Wallenrod

Your usual knight in shining armour...on the inside. His motives are noble; his actions more than often not as much. I've based my second custom origin on chosen romantic tropes in Polish literature - Kordian and Konrad Wallenrod. Those two are proactive heroes, fighting for what they consider to be right with swords and schemes, even if they sometimes fail to execute their plans till the end. Cordian - a young man seeking a way to free his country from under the tsar's shoe (period of 100-year-old Russian occupation in Poland) adapts the position of Arnold von Winkelried in a schemed coup - one of self-sacrifice leading to the long overdue tipping of the scales. Konrad Wallenrod - a Lithuanian boy kidnapped during one of the Teutonic raids on Lithuania - becomes a Teutonic knight, while still being taught about his origin by a bard residing by the knight that took care of Konrad. Fast forward, Teutons are threatening to overcome Lithuanian forces completely, so Konrad (not his real name) returns to the Order after a few years of absence and gains the title of the Grand Master - solely to wreck confusion in Teutonic forces. He succeeds at the cost of his life, and a crucial battle is lost for the Teutonic Order.

Vermil encapsulates both of these approaches, a man with a good heart and blood on his hands, spilled in the name of a better tomorrow.

2. The Mad, The Rebel - Dziady and Balladyna

I spoke of inspirations for Elane already, but what is important to note, I do paint her actions through the lenses of (Polish) romantic Rebellion. There's not as much Werther in her as there is Konrad (but the one from Dziady pt. 3 not Wallenrod). Polish romantics are megalomaniacs, of noble intentions but with heads so high up in the clouds that they;ve completely lost the plot. Konrad is a hair's breadth away from heresy (in a heavily catholic environment) during his solitary monologue where he calls God indifferent for the miserable fate of his people and argues that he, Konrad - an artist- is an equal to the God in the act of creation. Megalomania meets God Syndrome - with no muscles to pull any ultimately - because Konrad's Great Improvisation is spoken inside a cold prison cell and his body faints before he gets the chance to even finish it. In the end, nothing is changed and nothing is gained.

Elane follows in the mindset of no gods and masters but myself, and yet she struggles in the bonds set by the world. She's set on challenging the status quo by any means necessary. She did commit the Wertheran suicide that ultimately was a rebellion from unwanted existence - just that this was not the end for her. For her - the scene gets reset; the curtain raises again, and the show must go on. There is also a speckle of Balladyna in her; as she is willing to line her way with corpses if it means she can achieve her goal later on - and her goal she must achieve because of the oedipean self-destructive urge to know. I just noticed that even appearance-wise the two women are unsettlingly similar.

Aaand with that we'll put a stop to this ....... flood of words, both familiar and unfamiliar to you. I, eh, hope that at least you learnt something new? Or that it at least was an interesting read. Polish literature class to boot. Faneposter, if you will, out.

[reginrokkr]

» @avaere asked: ❝ i made sure the people who left marks on me wouldn’t get the chance to do it again. ❞ is wriothesley bragging ? is wriothesley just being informative ? we may never know

It takes a blind man to not notice scars that litter His Grace's body in places where he allows others to see, whom knows if not exceedingly more that only he may know like the back of his hand. Scars of varying length and width, of differing depth and in places where no man would desire to have merely out of unwilling mental exercise to understand the implications of even having them there to begin with. Like a very noticeable scar that runs down his trachea, sufficient to make any man cower at the thought of having one's neck dissected vertically like it perhaps would in forensic studies post-mortem.

Dáinsleif will never forget the impression left on him upon seeing that scar, he of all people who once was captain of the royal guard of a country long buried. It begged the question if the Duke ever was a soldier of these scars and marks that litter his body are consequence of a life he had to fight in order to gain the right to live without a concern, all in a short life span that not even long-living gods would acquire such grave marks to defile their oh, so holy body.

His Grace's words denote acknowledgement of Twilight's notice on what little can be viewed on patches of skin he reveals on purpose and so sapphire irises raise to meet icy ones before they become lost in thought. It would be no exaggeration to think that these scars are compatible with death —premature in his eyes, for how young the fortress' warden is— and that, were they inflicted on others less fortunate than him to be standing here to this day breathing, they might've found the fate expected onto the man before him by the barbaric men that did this.

To impede their action from festering further to other people would be tantamount to inflict upon them that which they sought, he knows.

And despite the underlying darkness of this claim, there is that glint in icy eyes His Grace displays, a curl of the corner of his mouth as if standing in all pride for a praiseworthy achievement that won't be spilled from Dáinsleif's lips when his mind cannot help but wander towards his own marks. ◜Your courage is deserving of praise, Your Grace.◞ Courage, not luck as the Bough Keeper would've desired on himself to do the same— so no others would have to suffer what he did as a result of a curse cast by inclement gods, and a rotting corruption that in essence are two drops of water. For it is not by luck that he made it this far, but by strength and bravery to face the darkness he must've encountered in those individuals on his own.

In a world where there are those whom are fortunate enough to bring justice on his own terms so no more will suffer the same, there will also be those who cannot— or rather, that won't have it nearly as easy. For what should Dáinsleif do to cease this perpetuation of curses that do not discriminate betwixt innocents and evildoers? Kill the gods as the Abyss Order seeks? Naught in this world is so easy to understand as it is white or black, it is a whole spectrum of greys that need a more comprehensive understanding than that. For instance, the fact that this world needs divine entities as much as it needs of human intervention.

Nevertheless, opposite as Dáinsleif is to the Duke in terms of bearing pride that is nonexistent in his heart for markings that are everything but a source of pride, ashamed as he is for even wearing them— there is newfound invigoration to continue his pursuit and tip the scales in the right direction once and for all. Thus albescent lashes flutter close, his head lowers in a curt bow out of gratitude His Grace may not understand— which is fine. He needn't understand the reason why in order to extend his thanks. ◜I owe you my gratitude for your valiant work.◞

For those who will not face the horrors of being subjected to the same situation as you must've been... and for teaching me that it is possible to avoid others from suffering injustice brought by the hands of others.

There might be no honor to be had in this body of his, all of it tainted by darkness that ought to be better exterminated than leave unchecked. He might not feel the same way the Duke does, were he be able to achieve what he did by treading a more difficult path... but there is one thing that is undeniable: and that is a new tomorrow for people to choose however they want to live without fearing the illogical rage of the gods knocking at their door.

[delusion-of-negation]

"I was a witness of the execution at Horsemonger Lane this morning. I went there with the intention of observing the crowd gathered to behold it, and I had excellent opportunities of doing so, at intervals all through the night, and continuously from daybreak until after the spectacle was over. I do not address you on the subject with any intention of discussing the abstract question of capital punishment, or any of the arguments of its opponents or advocates. I simply wish to turn this dreadful experience to some account for the general good, by taking the readiest and most public means of adverting to an intimation given by Sir G. Grey in the last session of Parliament, that the Government might be induced to give its support to a measure making the infliction of capital punishment a private solemnity within the prison walls (with such guarantees for the last sentence of the law being inexorably and surely administered as should be satisfactory to the public at large), and of most earnestly beseeching Sir G. Grey, as a solemn duty which he owes to society, and a responsibility which he cannot for ever put away, to originate such a legislative change himself. I believe that a sight so inconceivably awful as the wickedness and levity of the immense crowd collected at that execution this morning could be imagined by no man, and could be presented in no heathen land under the sun. The horrors of the gibbet and of the crime which brought the wretched murderers to it faded in my mind before the atrocious bearing, looks, and language of the assembled spectators. When I came upon the scene at midnight, the shrillness of the cries and howls that were raised from time to time, denoting that they came from a concourse of boys and girls already assembled in the best places, made my blood run cold. As the night went on, screeching, and laughing, and yelling in strong chorus of parodies on negro melodies, with substitutions of “Mrs. Manning” for “Susannah” and the like, were added to these. When the day dawned, thieves, low prostitutes, ruffians, and vagabonds of every kind, flocked on to the ground, with every variety of offensive and foul behaviour. Fightings, faintings, whistlings, imitations of Punch, brutal jokes, tumultuous demonstrations of indecent delight when swooning women were dragged out of the crowd by the police, with their dresses disordered, gave a new zest to the general entertainment. When the sun rose brightly— as it did— it gilded thousands upon thousands of upturned faces, so inexpressibly odious in their brutal mirth or callousness, that a man had cause to feel ashamed of the shape he wore, and to shrink from himself, as fashioned in the image of the Devil. When the two miserable creatures who attracted all this ghastly sight about them were turned quivering into the air, there was no more emotion, no more pity, no more thought that two immortal souls had gone to judgement, no more restraint in any of the previous obscenities, than if the name of Christ had never been heard in this world, and there were no belief among men but that they perished like the beasts. I have seen, habitually, some of the worst sources of general contamination and corruption in this country, and I think there are not many phases of London life that could surprise me. I am solemnly convinced that nothing that ingenuity could devise to be done in this city, in the same compass of time, could work such ruin as one public execution, and I stand astounded and appalled by the wickedness it exhibits. I do not believe that any community can prosper where such a scene of horror and demoralization as was enacted this morning outside Horsemonger Lane Gaol is presented at the very doors of good citizens, and is passed by, unknown or forgotten. And when in our prayers and thanksgivings for the season we are humbly expressing before God our desire to remove the moral evils of the land, I would ask your readers to consider whether it is not a time to think of this one, and to root it out."

that was Charles Dickens' letter after he saw an execution. he's specifically avoiding debating the morality of violence, but his concern rested in the glee with which people watched it, how a disregard for the weight of what you're really seeing comes to enormous crowds like that. it's worth a read. glee in the face of violence of that extent, rather than seeing it as a rare necessity, quickly overtakes people sometimes, it's "human nature" to an extent, but it isn't productive, it's dangerous. the revolution we would hypothetically hope for should be for the good of people, rather than for a vengeful glee at the suffering of the problems.

often middle-class leftist obsessions with the guilloutine unsettle me not because im against violence (im not) (especially not against an unjust nationstate) but rather i am against executions especially by literally any state ever. & i cant fuck with people who are like "okay but we will execute people morally this time" girl thats what you said the last 5,000 times it never works give it UP.

[cloudninetonine]

Hey...how ya'll doing...

So, making those memes actually, helped a lot and guess who was able to write more for the Tethered au? Ya boi, that's who. With each story I write, it gets longer so I'm sorry about that!

@yandere-linked-universe I know you said I didn't need to rush but your encouragement literally just slapped me outta my writer's block so once again this one's for you!

Tw: yandere content, bad language, talk about death, talk about unhealthy obsession, possessive language, threatening language, intimidation, possible manic episode(?) descriptions of a weapon, descriptions of hurting a minor (?), talk about suffocation, imagery of drowning (?), talk about corpses and rotting (I swear every story I write gets more and more warnings, sorry guys-)

Darkness surrounded him, thick and suffocating to the point where Time was positive he was drowning in it.

A sea of shadow, merciless and cold that was going to kill the hero without even a second thought.

Time grabbed his neck, the scream that struggled to tear from his throat practically choking him while he tried to fight the shadows that tried to silence him, to end him, but he was resilient, after fighting all those horrors of the past, Ganon, The Mask- he wouldn’t die here.

“Link!”

He wouldn’t!

“Link! Grab my hand!”

His own hand reached out and he was ripped away from his impending doom, hacking and dazed while his saviour patted his back, murmuring words of encouragement and love.

Glancing down, the hero felt his heart lift with admiration.

“(Name)?” Time whispered, watching you press your face into his broad chest with a sigh of relief, whispering his name like it was a prayer on your lips.

It should have been him speaking like that, uttering your name in the perfect mantra; you were his goddess, his angel, his light! The one who had saved him from his own self-inflicting demise! Time would continue to pray like the devoted (mad)man he was. For you were his goddess and he was your follower.

“You’re okay, you’re alright” Nuzzling deeper into his chest, you continued “You’re safe”

He was. Here, within your arms, Time felt more protected than he ever had. Despite the fact it should be the other way, you in his arms as he protected you from the world, this cruel, dirty world that tried to take you away, tear you away but it would never happen.

“I saved you, but….you didn’t save me”

…wait-

Time tried to tighten his grip on you but you pushed him away, red, bloody tears falling down your face and staining your beautiful skin that had greyed in colour by death, eyes glazed over with betrayal, hurt and sadness that made his stomach form sickening knots. “Why didn’t you save me, Link?”

No….

“I- I didn’t know” He stumbled, hand reaching out “I promise you, (Name), my goddess, I would have never let you die-”

“But you did” Your face began to rot “You did, Time”

It was sickening, flesh rotted and fell, one of your eyeballs popped and oozed from your socket, lips torn showed managed teeth, bone peaked through- he couldn’t bear the sight of your broken face and looked away.

He shouldn’t have done that.

“Look at me, Time!”

A gnarled hand roughly grabbed his chin, bringing him back but he shut his eyes, whimpers falling from his throat. “Please, I’m sorry, don’t make me-”

“I said look at me! Look at what you and your precious brothers did! What sort of followers would allow this to happen!? Such insolence to the one you love most!” Ripping your hand away, you pushed him to the floor, a once flesh being now only bones and torn clothes “Who would allow such a thing? Who would allow such a failure? I thought you were better than that, Hero of Time”

He was small. He was young. He didn’t bear the marks of a war god, nor his scar. Young Time stared up, Kokiri clothes and all and watched as your form changed into that of something more hideous, more frightening, more gut-wrenching than he could ever imagine.

Hylia stared back down at him and sneered.

“It starts again, dear hero”

Time awoke in his hut.

And for the first time in a long one, the young hero wept his night away till morning light.

-----

“What ails you, Link?”

The Deku Tree, old and wise, was a father to all the Kokiri, children of the forest and he cared for each and everyone as deep as his roots went within the earth. So magnificent, so strong, so kind but at that moment Time only saw him as a nuisance, the boy-once-man wanting only to wallow in self-pity alone from the other children.

Staying in his hut would only bring others concern, well, him hiding would also bring the others concern, however, it was better to hide than for one of the Kokiri's to come find him in his blues, away in his home.

But then again, maybe hiding under one of the revealed roots of the Deku Tree wasn't the greatest place either.

He should have gone deeper into the forest.

"Nothing, Deku Tree" He spoke, burying himself deeper into his knees to hide his face "I just want to be alone"

"Alone?" The old pile of wood creaked with curiosity, "Dear Link, I have never heard you say such a word"

Time hummed with annoyance.

"Your friends worry, why not join them? They are sure to pull you from this stupor you have found yourself in"

"No, I don't think they will"

"You never know until you try, Link"

How could someone so wise not take a damn hint?

“Fine” Without another word, the young hero stood, brushing down his little, green tunic before practically storming off from the giant, old tree without another glance to its face “Goodbye, Deku Tree”

There was silence for a few moments, a silence that Time had questioned the old pile of splinters couldn’t have given him earlier before a loud hum resonated through the area, a strong breeze ruffling through his hair once the Deku Tree called out to him “Goodbye, Link. Have fun with your friends”

‘Friends’ He almost scoffed at the idea.

Time had no friends in this place. Not really, maybe Saria could have been considered a friend but then again she felt more like a caretaker than an actual buddy; he had realised once he had matured the Kokiri girl acted more mother than friend in his life and in reality, she probably was more of a mother. Saria had raised him alongside the Great Deku Tree, she of course played a huge part of the physical part of parenting because well, the damn tree obviously couldn’t.

The others were sure to have played a part in his upbringing as well. They had to have been.

Even- “Hey, Link!” -Mido.

You liked to say weird things (Weird things that he missed so much hearing, he missed you saying, he missed you. Why did that witch have to kill you? Why, why, why, whywhywhywhywhywhYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY-) some odd little phrases that the others liked to pick up and mimic. Time was no stranger to this, after all hearing them speak your language always put a smile to your face that they all cherished and he had picked a particular saying to adapt to his own dialect.

“Speak of the devil-” The blonde growled, watching Mido and his lackeys inch closer with every step “And he will appear”

Time had no idea what the devil was.

But he was positive that damn Kokiri brat was close enough to him.

“What do you want, Mido?” The fierceness in Time’s tone wasn’t something Mido was expecting. The young hero could tell by the boy’s face, wide eyes, mouth agape- sure, Time wasn’t one to back down on Mido’s bullying, in fact, he always stood up for himself, always stood his ground against the Kokiri’s behaviour and Mido wasn’t new to that.

But it wasn’t his tone that stopped him. No, it was the look in the boy’s eyes. Cold, unforgiving and old, an unfamiliar and scary lust for blood also swirled around in the light of his eyes, strong and constant, terrifying to the boy and almost enough for him to back down.

Almost.

“W-Who said you could go to see the Great Deku Tree without me, the leader of the Kokiri’s, Mido’s, permission?!” He stumbled, swallowing the ball of saliva in his throat when Time’s eyes narrowed and the scowl that was burned into his face sank deeper than it should have. “No-fairy freaks should stay away from the Deku Tree if they know what’s good for them!”

Time stayed silent.

Mido’s hands shook.

His lackeys took a wary step back.

“Then show me” Time growled, hands balling into enraged fists “Show me what’s good for them, Mido.”

The Kokiri boy wondered if that was a good idea.

Mido wondered if it was safer to run out of the woods than to face whatever this thing was because it was definitely not Link. Not the Link he knew anyway.

“I- uh- I-...”

“Link! Mido!” Saria’s voice came into range, the green-haired Kokiri’s form appearing beside the smaller boy to glare down Mido who was still stumbling over his words, trying to find his voice through the fear glancing between the two of them “What are you two doing? Mido, are you antagonising Link again!?”

Time was done with this.

“Link? Link!” Saria called after the boy, the group of Kokiri’s that had formed watching the scene in interest as Time wandered away from them all, his sights set on the entrance to the Lost Woods “Hey, wait! The Deku Tree says to stay away from the forest! Link!”

Footsteps followed after him, a hand landing on his shoulder but he tore away glaring at the offender, Saria, before bellowing out “Leave me alone!”

The girl looked hurt, of course, she did but why should Time care? Back to the beginning once again. Forced to live the same nightmare once again.

Why should Time care about doing this shit again the same way he had done time and time again?

(He wanted to be with his brothers, he wanted to be with you. You wouldn’t leave his mind. You, you, you, you. A constant rush of everything about you spiralling in his head. He needed you, he yearned for you. He thought about you from the morning till the night. In his dreams and sometimes his nightmares, unspeakable things happening to you that he can’t stop- that he couldn’t stop. Time wanted nothing more than to have you in his arms, safe and hear you tell him that he was a great man, an amazing man, he was your hero.

You, in all your divine kindness, wouldn’t allow him to relive his worst nightmares again like Hylia was doing)

Time ran into the forest, not sparing them another glance.

He didn’t want to see them again anyway.

Not anymore.

-----

Time dreamed of your lives together.

When he was just confused about his obsession, a lone man against 8 different incarnations of himself, you were his wife. His treasured wife, so kind, so soft, the most beautiful woman in all the lands of Hyrule. People wanted you, others wanted to be you and some envied dear Time for being the lucky man to wed such a marvellous girl.

You were his alone, his to love, his to cherish. Together, you two created your own family away from the dangerous world and together, with your small family, children, animals- together you would both continue to love one another until your final breaths.

When he and his brothers finally unified, the dream still stood but it did differ. A farm, you lived on a farm with your children, your animals and all those other boys. A big happy family, the other Links acting as uncles to your little ones, helping around the ranch, you sitting back with the kids watching them because someone as divine as you shouldn’t lift a finger.

As Time sat in the Lost Woods, he lamented that his dreams would never become reality.

No.

Not with you dead.

And certainly not with Hylia watching his every move.

He’d kill her.

A smirk fought its way onto his face at the thought, a crazed laugh following after.

He would.

H̷͎͒̉̔E̵͖͈̩̓͆͠ ̶̰̟̗͊͛W̴͕͌̽͌͜O̶̗̿̌U̶͙̻͐̎Ļ̸̲̊̇̆D̵͈͙̫̔ ̸͚͖̠̾̃͝K̸͚̼̿͠͝Ī̸̠Ļ̵̥͆͆̎Ļ̴̻̝̏ ̴̢̗̍Ť̶̨̥H̶͓̍͊̾Ą̶̞̏́̒T̸̫̱̉͂͘ ̴̺́̉D̷̫̭͖́̔̒A̷̢͇͛M̸͎̭̈́N̸̩͋͛̕E̴̗̎D̶͙͗̓͝ ̷̮̞̰̆̓͝W̸̨̨̿I̵̠͗Ṭ̶́̓̽C̷̳̭̭̽H̵̀̄̕ͅ.̷͉̱̿̋̕ ̶̗͒̉͝ͅH̷͉̪͚̑Ê̸͚̣ ̵͇̕W̷͈̃O̶̧̟̬͗͂Ú̷̪͝Ľ̸̩D̵̜̮̎̏ ̵͈̖̲̍̈́͠M̸̛̬̯̿ͅȂ̴̛̺̗̕͜K̴̤̒ͅE̶̳̜̒̾̀ ̸̢͚̙̀̕̚H̵̱͛Ė̵̪R̷̺̎ ̵̟̿̕S̴̻̟͔̃U̴͙̠͋̎̓F̶̦͇̜̍̔F̵̲͖̱̓Ḙ̵͙͔̄͒R̴̝͊̾.̶̜͚̗̓̔ ̴͔͈̪̔̒J̷͎̦̗́̾͒U̸͈͒̈S̴͖̔̅̆T̸͇̬̠͊ ̴̤̈̀L̸͕̖̀̓͌͜I̴̱̭̱͊K̷͙͓͂E̵̯̙̪͊͗̀ ̵̝͇̈́H̵̛̞̃Ě̸̛̥̥ ̷̖̜̠̽H̷̖͊͌̈́A̴͚͒̚D̵̛̖͔͔ ̴̡̫̂D̷̪̻́́͒Ỏ̶̬̀N̷͓̩͙͝E̷̠͑͌ ̶̧̂̈́͠T̷̲̒̆Ī̵͔̔̾Ḿ̵͉̓̍Ë̷͍́͠ ̷̱̖͂͑Ą̵̯̖̃̈́͗N̷͉̅D̷̢̩̆̾͛ ̶̣̓̔̆T̶̨̰̯̈́́͂I̴͔̺̽M̸̺̙̙̒̑E̵͍̺̾́ ̸͍̪̳̅̂͘B̴̻̠́E̸̞̲̦͌͛̈F̸̪͚̊Ò̷̼͙R̶̖͇̳̔E̵͕͇͒ͅ.̸̡̓̓̊ ̸̡̪̌S̵͎̤̳̈́̋͆H̶͎͌Ẹ̸̫̞̓̂͛ ̵̞̐̍̕W̷̱͋̓O̸͉̹̱͐͒̕U̵̟͂̏L̷̬͙̍Ḑ̵̜̎̂ ̵̗͐̇͜Ś̸͔̎̐ͅǗ̶͍̟̞F̴͔͆͘̕F̷̛͚̝̈Ē̵͙͕̎R̷͇͋.̸̢͈͆͜

H̴͖̬̔̌͋Ỳ̵̗̭́̔L̵̖̤̕͠I̸͙͓̚A̷͕̓͗.

̵̮̦͉͆́̒W̸̢̱̥͌̃͐Ȏ̵̠͉͕U̸͇̣͛́͠L̵͔̋͜D̴̯̒̀.

̷̱̜͇̋́̈S̵̝̋͝Ű̸̡͈̇F̶͙͠F̵̧̟͔̆̕̚E̸̳̬͊͆R̸͖̜̍.

Time would make sure of it.

“Hehehe~”

His smile dropped, replaced with an irksome expression.

Skull Kid.

He didn’t have the patience to deal with that brat.

Not a damn shred.

“Hey, will you slow down!” Time paused at the laughter that followed, turning to catch a glimpse of the bright green of Kokiri dressing whizz past the area where he sat, boxed in by trees and hidden with the extra measure by a bush “SK! No fair!”

“Hurry up! Hurry up! I wanna play~”

“We’ve been playing for the past few hours!”

“But I wanna play some more!”

He…recognised that voice.

It sounded younger, squeaker and more childish, but he knew that voice. It would never leave his mind, it played on loop in his head, soothed his nightmares, haunted his dreams.

Time stood from his spot.

"This way! This way!"

His head flew in the direction of Skull Kid's voice and waited for another second.

A long, long second.

"I'm coming!"

Time's heart skipped a beat.

He had no time to waste, without another second to think the hero leapt into action, throwing his head left and right before hightailing it into the direction in which the voices were beginning to fade.

It couldn’t be possible. There was no way what he was thinking was true, but it was the only answer. Well, not the only, another stalked in the corner of his mind, taunting and cruel, snarling about how he was losing his mind, much worse than it had been when he and the others had first started to fall in love with (obsess over) you.

So, each step he took, banging against the forest floor as he sprinted towards the sound of laughter and joy. His body urged him to move faster, to run harder but as said before, he wasn’t his aged self anymore, his little legs could only go at such a pace and it was infuriating him.

Almost there, almost there-

Time broke daylight, stumbling through a dense looking bush before finally skidding to a stop just a few feet away from the scene in front of him, hidden in the shadow of leaves.

Skull Kid stood upon a tree stump, flute to his mouth and hopping from step to step in a sort of dance along with the sweet and joyful music he played. But that wasn’t the sight Time had focused on, no, it was the little Kokiri dressed child below, spinning playfully and swaying around, in a mind of their own.

There was no denying it. The same beautiful locks, same skin tone, same eyes, same kind smile and everything.

A younger you danced along with Skull Kid, singing your own little tune along with the flute in the spotlight of the day.

…Time’s sight was beginning to go red.

No, no. It couldn’t be, this child, who danced so freely and happily without a care in the world, couldn’t have possibly been the same, sweet, mischievous angel he had come to know and love with every inch of his being. A woman who hailed from a completely different world, who stayed with him in spirit as he went through that cursed journey, was not the little girl before him, he refused to believe it, he couldn’t.

“Is this my punishment, Hylia?” He whispered, cold and deadly eyes focused on the fake you “Not only did you make me witness her lifeless body, but now this? How cruel can you be-”

The wind blew softly.

“-to mock her?”

From his spot, Time reached to his back. Earlier, he had grabbed the sword stationed near the edge of the forest for protection. The Lost Forest wasn’t somewhere to stroll about unprotected, monsters could be lurking in any corner, within the shadows on the trees and as an experienced adventurer, Link knew better than to go unprepared.

“Well-” The sound of metal caught his ears, but the others still played, blissfully unaware “-let me show you what I think of your fun little joke”

As he stalked closer, Time couldn’t help but feel a sickness form in his gut. His body screamed for him to stop, spat at him that he was a blinded fool, what was he doing!? But he pushed through, after all, you were a fake, a phoney- killing this fake little you was just like killing that Yiga Clan bastard who had disguised themself as you to trick them during his journey with his brothers.

The Hero of Time wouldn’t be tricked.

Skull Kid noticed his appearance, a smile blooming on his face before it melted into one of horror.

The Hero of Time wouldn’t be fooled.

Skull Kid went to call out to you, but you had already turned, the small smile on your face growing greater as you called the hero’s name.

“Link!”

Stop, you fool!

It’s not her, it’s not.

You raced over.

Now is your chance!

DON’T DO IT!

DO IT!

STOP!

DON’T KILL HER-

“Dance with me!”

A wave of emotions rushed through his body as your little hand grabbed at his free one, tugging him into the sunlight peeking through the trees and prompting him to take a position, successfully making him drop his sword. Your bright, warm eyes peered up into his own dazed and conflicted ones then glanced over at Skull Kid expectantly.

The boy also looked conflicted, glancing over your excited face then at Time’s.

“What are you waiting for SK? Start jamming!”

Another second passed, a tense second, then Skull Kid moved his flute back to his mouth and beautiful music once again filled the silence.

“Come on!”

What the two of you were doing wouldn’t have been considered…dancing. You swung him in circles, jumping about, threw him out just to tug him back in, tried to spin him- doing anything that showed your rampant energy.

And Time couldn’t help to think back to you- the real you.

“What are you doing here?”

You sat, tucked into yourself while staring ahead at the festivities before you.

Castle Town had their fair share of festivals, Time knew, he had been dragged to enough of them by Malon who wished to experience the live, jovial atmosphere with a friend and once upon a time ago, the hero had a fondness deep in his heart for them. They reminded him of Kokiri village, of the Deku Festival that he loved so much.

That wasn’t to say Time had fallen out of love with Festivals, of course, he hadn’t! But being the Hero of Time, being a hero of Hyrule, there wasn’t much time for such things.

“Oh, hey Time!, What's up?” You laughed, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes and a multitude of thoughts raced through the hero’s head. Why did you look so sad? Had someone upset you? Did he need to talk with them? Did he need to get the others? Roll a few heads- Time shook his head, pushing the thoughts out of his mind and focused on you instead, showing you a small smile.

“I noticed you sitting by yourself” Noticed? Pfft, he’d been staring at you the whole night, as had the others, but he was the first to approach you “What’s wrong? Are you not enjoying the festival?”

If that was the case, they’d leave in a heartbeat. Forget about Malon, or Zelda, or any others who thought about stopping them, your wish was their command.

“No! No! That’s not it! It’s just-...” Your eyes trailed off towards the fountain, the man’s gaze following straight after to the people who danced merrily to the music that echoed through the Castle Town streets, laughing or squealing in elation “..This is a music festival and I…I dunno how to dance…It’s embarrassing”

Really? Something so simple had caused your mood to sour? If someone dared say anything about your movements he would lob off their head without a second thought. You, feeling embarrassed? With them there, you wouldn’t have to feel anything but happiness, that’s what they had dedicated their lives for.

Time brushed off his tunic, standing tall beside you before offering his hand “You needn’t be embarrassed, I can teach you”

His heart soared when your expression brightened “Really?”

“Of course”

His hand encompassed yours, delicate, soft, so sweet and he brought you closer to the crowd, his free hand landing politely on your waist while yours took his shoulder, squeezing it.

“Don’t be nervous, just focus on me” Blue eyes caught yours, your bodies beginning to move with the music, swaying side to side. “I’m the only one here, no one else is around, just us”

Time wasn’t afraid to say he was enamoured by you, your mere existence, you were everything to him and more. Watching that smile, that beautiful, breathtaking smile grow on your face as you fell into the dance, your surroundings fading away.

“Thanks, Time”

He beamed “You’re welcome”

“Link?”

This couldn’t possibly be you.

But that little worried expression looked way too similar.

That shine of kindness in your eyes reflected painfully.

The feeling of warmth that your presence brought was way too familiar.

Link began to move again, holding you close, hands in his and danced. Just like at the festival, that day in Castle Town, where the world faded to black and all he could see was you, because that was all he needed to see.

You brightened immediately but the worry stayed, not overwhelming but still very much there “Are you okay, Link?”

He didn’t know.

“Yeah, I’m okay”

But as long as you were here, real or not, as long as you were by his side, he was gonna be alright.

“Great! Let’s play some more! All of us! We’ll have so much fun together!”

“Yeah” Time’s eyes slid back over to Skull Kid, bright and menacing while the boy shook, the light that was his eyes shining through his mask jumping between you and the hero who wound his arms around you “So much fun, together”

Skull Kid made an excuse to leave with only a single stutter to his words.

A smart move.

-----

“I knew you’d show up”

Your bed was across from his. He had no idea how he had missed it when waking up within his hut that morning, but his best guess was that the shock which gripped him was strong, blinding him completely until he had finally dazed out later that afternoon under the Deku Tree’s root.

You were sleeping soundly, face soft with a smile, practically wiped out after all the ‘fun activities you had done that day’ you had told him with glee, his own grin twitching from the rage he felt knowing he had gone thinking he’d never see you again the entire day only to find you were out playing adventurer with Skull Kid.

If the brat knew any better he wouldn’t be showing his face for a while.

You were dead asleep, deep in it, so you didn’t see the ethereal lady in white standing behind you, face impassive while she stared down at your sleeping form.

Time made sure to keep his sword close to his bed.

Not like it would do anything, but it brought him comfort knowing it was there.

“You were always such a smart child” Hylia’s voice was airy, soft, sweet-sounding like what a goddess should sound like. But the man knew better, oh he knew better and his eyes stayed sharp, focused on her form like a hawk watching its prey. “I was glad to see you snapped out of your bloodlust before it was too late- It would have been a painful death for her to die by your own hands”

Time inhaled shakily, his past actions echoing through his head before he pushed them back down- he knew what she was trying to do “Just like it was painful for her to die by your hands?”

The goddess hummed while her hand reached out for you, Time quickly stumbled to grab his sword beside him.

If she hurt you, so help him, he would-

Her hand landed in your hair, brushing back some locks gently from your eyes “Her death by my hand didn’t cause her any pain, I made sure she was comfortable when she took her last breath”

Time shook with rage “She didn’t deserve to die in the first place”

“I agree” Her hand caressed your cheek, a small smile blooming when you nuzzled into it when she made eye contact with him, daring him “Her kindness was destined to make her do great things, but my hero, you didn’t listen, you ignored my warnings and it was the only thing I could do to make you all behave”

For a few moments, they both just stared. Hylia’s presence was daunting to mortals, but Time had traversed the world for a long time, for too long, he had seen what this place had to offer, experienced things no child, teen, adult- anybody should experience and in the face of danger, from an all-powerful demon to a disgraced goddess, the hero would not show fear.

“Then why did you do this?” He asked finally, glancing over your form before meeting her eyes again “Why bring her back if she was such a distraction?”

Hylia retracted her hand to his relief, but that didn’t make him drop his guard. “To test your faith dear hero”

She made her way around your bed, footsteps not making a single sound against the wooden floor until she stood tall in front of him “Behave, Link, Hero of Time. Go on your journeys, defeat Ganon and the Mask, fulfil your duty as the hero of Hyrule and I will grant you a long, fruitful life with your love. But beware, one misstep, a show of defiance-”

She leaned down, eyes burning “And I will take her away again, even if I have to do so with her screams being the last thing you hear”

Time didn’t hold back his expression of horror at her blatant threat.

“Goodbye, my hero”

The home fell into darkness, her figure disappearing from view with her glaring light.

Time fell to his knees, clasping at his chest, the sword rattling beside him as it fell.

A familiar sound of beating wings caught his attention next, the light of a long lost friend flying through his window.

“Hey, Link! (Name)!”

And so, the nightmare begins.

[iheartbookbran]

Ok so actually my biggest problem with the whole “Daenerys will burn KL” theory—not even the Mad Queen Dany theory, which is of course very sexist for obvious reasons, but just like, the idea that Dany will ~accidentally~ ignite the wildfire in the city, burning it all to the ground. That, at first, doesn’t sound that bad, but the longer I think about it the more I hate it because tbh it doesn’t do anything for her character? And also… that fate for her is just down right cruel.

Like, the most frequent argument I see on why this would be at all satisfactory for Dany’s arc is basically that it would be a sort of lesson for her about the dangers of unchecked power and the real threat the Dragons can pose on humans and that she shouldn’t use them to fight against other people. And that’s all well and good, excellent message… except that’s not something Dany’s ever really needed to learn? Not anymore that her fellow rulers, which I will touch on more detail later, but in general Dany has seen what the abuse of power can do. Starting with her conflicting feelings regarding Viserys and how she recognizes that even though he was her brother and she loved him, he also abused his power over her as her older brother, her only family and her king; she feels guilt about the atrocities Drogo committed to the lhazarene and tries to help them; she feels so much guilt about not handling things correctly in Astapor that she decides to throw away all her plans to go to Westeros and instead stays in Meereen.

And about not knowing the true danger that her dragons can pose? I mean, this is the same girl that literally agonizes across several of her ADWD chapters because Drogon killed a child, and then takes the extreme measure of caging Rhaegal and Viserion to prevent that from ever happening again. I think she’s at least a little bit aware that the dragons can be dangerous, thank you very much.

Ok so this got long...

Anyways, the only time Dany legit uses Drogon to harm someone and not just as bluff was at the house of the Undying, where she was being attacked, and in Astapor… and like, lmao, that asshole Kraznys mo Nakloz and the rest of his slaver buddies deserved it. Don’t at me. Also, Dany’s hardly the only one with a big magical and deadly beast at her disposal, why didn’t Robb had to go through some horrifying traumatic incident to learn he shouldn’t use Grey Wind in battle to tear his enemies’ throats. Bran will be learning about the dangers of abusing power, but that’s linked to his magic powers and an actual reprehensible thing he’s doing, not the use of his glorified prehistoric dog to kill, which he’s done, just like Robb. By all means let the narrative hold Dany accountable for her mistakes… but her actual mistakes and not shit she has no control over, because she doesn’t have much control over Drogon or the other dragons even though she’s trying to, and that’s very obvious in her last ADWD chapter where she’s delirious and Drogon could kill her at any moment, and she knows that.

The other big argument people make for Dany burning KL (even if it’s by accident!) is that it will teach her about the price of war, that someone as young as her shouldn’t be leading armies and conquering kingdoms, and that fighting for the Iron Throne is not a worthy cause, and I feel like that misses the actual point of her story by a mile. First of all because a) Dany is hardly the only teenage ruler in the story and b) this is a fantasy medieval story, a lot of the characters shouldn’t be doing the things they do, aaaand yet. Also speaking of other teenage rulers with far more power that they should have—Robb and Jon, being the biggest examples.

Granted, Robb and Jon aren’t exactly successful during their time as rulers, they’re literally betrayed and killed by their own men (even if Jon will technically come back for round 2 of bullshit he’s too tired for). But the moral of their stories is not that they lost because theirs was an unworthy cause and they were stupid kids wholly unprepared for their roles. And I actually partially agree! They are just kids, including Dany, and they shouldn’t be responsible for looking after so many others and going to battle, but their cause is still just and worthy, even with all the mistakes they make along the way. Robb didn’t loose because he was wrong in demanding justice for his family or trying to protect the riverlands from the Lannisters and their minions, he lost because Tywin Lannister was a giant coward who couldn’t take him out in a fair fight.

Likewise, it isn’t wrong of Jon to try to incorporate refugees from beyond the Wall into Westeros. He’s not too stupid and honorable to do politics like his father (how I hate when people insult Jon and Ned like that), and while he did some very obvious mistakes that inevitably ended in a coup and in him dying, this is more connected to his inability to let go of his ties with his family (mainly Arya or who he believes to be her), and in isolating himself from his friends and the people he could actually trust.

I’ve always thought that Dany and Jon share a parallel narrative within the story, so while Jon is struggling with that Dany is faced with similar problems. She cages her dragons, that to her represent the only family she has left, and she tries to compromise with the slavers, marry a man she doesn’t love, pretend she’s ok with reopening the fighting pit. While she tries her best to rule wisely in Meereen, it all comes at the cost of betraying herself and her beliefs, so it’s no surprise when it all crashes around her and she’s betrayed and nearly killed. Ironically, it is Drogon who comes to rescue her.

If they are monsters, so am I.—Daenerys II, ADWD.

This is hands down one of my favorite Dany quotes from the whole series, and I hate that it’s been given such a negative connotation in the fandom, when for me it represents Dany’s humanity and compassion at the fullest.

GRRM has a knack for humanizing the ‘monsters’ of his story, for showing the good in the outcasts and the ugly and the scary. He embraces their ‘otherness’ and makes them the heroes of his stories; Arya, Bran, Brienne, Dany, Tyrion, Jon, Theon and many others are all compared to monsters or beasts at one point or another in the books.

Dany sees herself in her dragons, literal monsters in every sense of the word. Later on she faces Drogon inside the pit, and in that moment you could say that she accepts that ‘monstrous’ part of her, and in doing so she’s saved from her fate of dying at the hands of the men who would crucify innocent children and gleefully profit off of the suffering of their fellow human beings while watching them fight each other to the death for their own amusement. Now tell me who’s the real monster in this situation.

But shortly before that happens, Dany is able to see the humanity in Tyrion, an outcast who has been branded as monstrous and unlovable due to his disability all his life, a man who has come to believe in his abusers’ rhetoric about him so strongly that he’s started to act cruel and detached. She saves his life. She sees value in his life when few others would, because she cares.

I’ve always find it funny that the “dragons plant no trees” is—another—example fans use to argue in favor of Dany’s descent into Darkness™ because the actual scene goes like this:

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros.

"It is such a long way," she complained. "I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl."

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.—Daenerys X, ADWD.

Now am I the only one who finds it at least a bit relevant that it’s freaking Jorah Mormont aka Jorah the Enslaver whom Dany’s subconscious, at her literal lowest moment, utilizes to represent this particular thought, which btw I’ve always interpreted as Dany’s own self-loathing manifesting in her, and this is something she’s actually always struggled with—the idea that she’s not enough and she’s failing. Because above all things, even Westeros or the Iron Throne, what Dany wants is peace, she wants to plant trees.

When Dany made her descent, Reznak and Skahaz dropped to their knees. "Your Worship shines so brightly, you will blind every man who dares to look upon you," said Reznak. […] This match will save our city, you will see."

"So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit." Does it matter that Hizdahr's kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?—Daenerys VII, ADWD.

But of course the world doesn’t work like that, and so long as there’s Jorahs and Tywins and Eurons out there, men who would take the freedom of humans and submit them to their will, Dany can’t have the luxury of peace, just like Jon can’t have the luxury of belonging and family so long as there’s people still beyond the Wall who need his protection.

And I think that’s fine. It’s fine that Dany failed, it will help her develop as a character and realize that there’s no room to compromise with slavers, the metaphorical monsters of the story who do far more harm than the other more literal ‘monsters’ of the story. So that when she has to face down Euron Greyjoy—who btw, there’s a high chance he will end up stealing one of Dany’s dragons via Victarion using Dragonbinder… y’know, as in enslaving one of her children and using said dragon to inflict god knows what horrors, yet not many people ever consider this for some reason?—she will know. When she has to face down the Others, the magical ice fairies with no regard for human life, she will know.

That’s why I believe that it would make absolutely no sense for Dany to have to go through such a tragic and traumatic experience like burning a whole city even by pure accident, over something that’s either never been a problem with her character or she’s well into her way of learning anyways, so it would just feel repetitive. As I have pointed out, she’s already reached one of the lowest moments of her arc. Not saying there will be no other blows for her, and probably the destruction of KL will be one of them, and knowing Dany she will feel responsibility over it no matter what, but that doesn’t mean she has to be the culprit, intentional or otherwise.

[cerynitiis]

sometimes. then i see her face. the words hit her like a punch to the gut, twist in her stomach like something sick. i watch what he did to her in my mind over and over again. it is hard to comprehend the full horror of it all, what it may do to a person, although she understands how it creates something like this: a terror like john, stalking his brother like one of the erinyes. but she has seen the other side too: the nightmares that keep bradly up at night, his grief and pain, his never-ending unrest and guilt. it grieves her that this is it, that there is no solution, no forgiveness, no end to this sorrow and pain. instead there is more death, more despair, creating a rift that can never be fixed.

eyes meet, briefly. she thought he looked like bradly, but his eyes are a slight different shade, not as warm as her husband's – a difference so slight it is near impossible to tell. despite his words, his face appears cold. then he turns back to the pictures on their mantlepiece. she knows them by heart. one of her from 1944, the picture she gave bradly the day he left for the front. then several of them together: a polaroid of them in front of a villa in tuscany, 1979; a picture of them on the beach in marseille, 1985; at the louvre, 1989; skating in new york, 1996; with the only dog they ever adopted, buddy, 1999; the wedding photo, 2018; christmas eve at allie's, 2005; on the porch of their home in virginia, 2011. the pictures are fragments of their love story, of the life they built together over the last few decades. ellie knows john will see something different: the life he should have had, a life he believes his twin stole from him.

she wishes she could tell him how much it grieves bradly, what happened. she wishes he would understand it wasn't his fault – that he was just trying to protect his family. but she knows john is set on his revenge, that nothing she does or say will change anything about the end result. i inflict it tenfold. the words make her shudder. she tries to prepare herself for that inevitable future: the pain that will befall them. she has no illusions about how this night will end. at least we had paris, she thinks to herself. they had more time together than most people do.

" sometimes, " she says, quietly, " i dream of a life where everything was different. a life where emma lived, where we all got to be a family, where bradly and i could've had a child. in another universe, maybe we got all of that. but this dream ... i know how this one ends. " ellie folds over, hands grasping at her sides as grief suddenly overwhelms her. for the first time, tears sting in her eyes. she cannot bear to think of a world that does not hold bradly, but she knows neither brother will know peace as long as they share this earth. " you ... you should know he has never forgotten. it does not change what happened, but ... he never forgot, not for one moment. and in spite of everything, he still loves you. he loves you so much. he always will, until his last breath ... even when you have done to me what you need to do. "

there was a time in his past where he would have thought this to be unthinkable, the horrible things he's done after all these years to get him here, the blood on his hands. there was a time in his life where he would have been afraid of how easy it has become to take a life, how much hatred he has in his heart for someone he loved so dearly. but this is what they trained him for, isn't it? to be the coldblooded killer. show no mercy and have no remorse after the deed was done, see it through to an end no matter the cost. that was what bradly taught him, his own brother twisting the narrative one day at a time until it shattered.

he didn't want this. but who else would do it, if not john? who else would give emma the justice she deserved, if not the only person who knew her the best. they told him that love was a weakness, a distraction, but its only made him stronger, far more resilient and determined. the bodies that lie in his wake are not for nothing, all of them owed a debt or got in his way. her justice was coming, finally after all of these years ...

all while bradly god his own little happy ending, all tied in a pretty little knot of a wedding ring. the photo of them on the mantel was simple, elegant, a soft reflection of the thing john wished he could have had --- should have had. bradly takes the only chance he had at happiness and then runs away like the coward he is, burying himself under every rock and stone, and gets every fucking thing he wants. happiness, love, marriage. everything except the one thing that john will not allow him to have: peace.

it takes everything in him not to squeeze the frame of the picture in his hands as she speaks, careful not to let it shatter when he sets it back in its place with gentle hands. its not just his, its hers and he'll respect that. but his jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists at his sides, nails biting skin. i think bradly is starting to, she said. and the more she went on, the tighter his shoulders felt, the more his nails dig into his skin. for a moment, he's sure they almost draw blood.

i know it doesn't matter, but i am sorry for what happened to you. but it does matter. he will never admit to it, never allow his demeanor to change but it does matter. only for a second when the tension leaves his jaw, when his eyes finally leave the frames over the mantel and he turns to her. he can only imagine what she thinks, what she sees (whatever he wants her to).

then she asks the right questions: don't you get tired? of your anger, your endless chase? all those deaths? john breathes a heavy sigh, turning back to the picture frames, the captured happiness. its easier to make confessions when he's not looking someone in the eye. " sometimes. " distant, quiet. " then i see her face. i watch what he did to her in my mind over and over again, i relive it in my nightmares. then i promise myself never again. never again will bradly ever know peace, never again will he be happy. never will he forget what he took from me. never will he forget what its like to feel that pain because i inflect it tenfold. "

[wiypt-writes]

Rock ‘N’ Roll People In A Disco World

Part 4- Your Disco Needs You. 

Intro: Paul adjusts to life at home post the shooting.

Pairing: Paul Diskant x Reader

Warnings: Bad language, Smut (NSFW, 18+) A heap of angst and feelings. He’s a soft, lil bean…

Word Count: 8k

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader and any other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Rock ‘n’ Roll People Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Part 3

Three weeks. He'd been home three weeks and with each hour that passed Paul felt less like himself. He was frustrated, angry, irritated and irritable. Upon his discharge from the hospital, his attending physician explained that the road ahead wasn't going to be easy and so far that had proved correct. He'd spent eight days in ICU, not to mention the few after in the recovery ward, and according to the medical team at his disposal, each day spent there in ICU was a full week of added recovery at home. Eight fucking weeks. He wasn’t even half way through. Physically, bar his vocal chords, there had been little lasting damage. Something he should be grateful for, apparently. The wound in his neck had healed well so far, leaving an angry raised pink scar behind, but other than that, to look at, there was no physical signs he’d been moments from death at all. Emotionally, however, well, he was a wreck. If it weren't the continued nightmares as his mind rehashed the horror inflicted in the line of duty, it was the constant desperation to be himself inside and out, to feel like he was HER Disco.  For the first two weeks post the shooting, he'd been reduced to writing things on a notepad for Y/N and others as he couldn't speak more than a word or two and at a faint whisper or angry rasp. Over the last week, it had improved a little but still, holding a prolonged conversation was painful and he often as a result found himself reaching for that fucking notepad as a means to an end when it simply became too damned much to bear. 

He hated it.

Not only was socialising his forte, but his and Y/N’s relationship usually operated with a lot of conversation as they would talk over dinner, joke when watching TV, chat or whisper to each other when laying in bed at night. And not being able to indulge in those simple things properly with his fiancée was killing him. And don't even get him going on his thoughts and anguish over the way they'd not been their usual intimate selves. From touches and sweet kisses, to sex and general intimacy, there had been none, not due to anything she'd done, but all down to him, and how he viewed himself, felt about himself.  He pulled open the fridge, reaching in for the eggs and bacon before he moved to the stove, coffee brewing in the pot to the side. As he set about making them breakfast, he lost himself momentarily, concentrating on whisking the eggs ready to scramble before he heard the bedroom door click open as Y/N shuffled out into the bathroom. A few minutes later he heard her footsteps hit that squeaky board in the small hallway as she headed down to their kitchen. Soon he felt her arms around his waist, hands hooking over his chest and shoulders. Her lips pressed to the back of his shoulder. "I can take over." Quickly, Paul twisted out of her hold and raspilly said, "I can manage." She stepped back from him, and he was immediately crushed with guilt as he took in the look on her face. The way her eyes were downcast and how hard she swallowed. He watched as she blinked hard, moved her lips to say something and then she simply sighed, her shoulders dropping as she turned and left, back the way she came, down the hall and back into the bathroom. When he heard the slam of the door echo across their small apartment, Diskant threw the wooden spoon across the counter and leaned against its edge, a silent curse across his lips as let out a deep sigh.

For the last three weeks, this was how their days had started and ultimately set the tone for the hours to follow. He didn't know where to begin to try and as for Y/N, well, she couldn't try any harder. 

**** The door shut behind you with a little more force than you’d meant, having slammed it by accident in your haste to escape quickly before the tears of frustration and hurt spilt from your eyes. You were trying to rationalise his behaviour, you knew he was frustrated at how his recovery was progressing, more so because physically he looked okay. But he wasn’t. He was weak, sleeping a lot. He struggled to talk for more than a few minutes at a time and the simplest of tasks seemed to leave him drained. But you could cope with that, hell, you expected it. What you hadn’t expected however, was what hurt you the most- the fact he seemed to be shutting you out. Your relationship had always thrived on the fact you had no secrets, there wasn’t a thing the pair of you couldn’t talk about but now, it was like he’d put up a wall to keep you out. And it hurt.

You turned on the shower and whilst you waited for the water to warm, you stripped off your pyjamas and made sure to pile your hair out of the way to avoid it getting wet. Once it was at the right temperature you stepped into the cubicle, closing the glass screen door behind you and tipped your face up to greet the warm spray as the water washed away your silent tears… The day had finally come and he was going home. Things were set and the car was running and waiting. He'd been able to dress in a pair of sweats, his trainers and a button down shirt, sighing as he couldn't just walk out but had to be rolled out. Words were few, and very soft, a stark difference to his typical boisterous laugh and toothy grin. But you were all thankful, thankful he was alive, thankful he was okay and healing. His parents offered to take you both home, yours and Barnes waiting for you to arrive back at the apartment. Your parents had worked diligently at deep cleaning for you, taking one less thing off your list to do, knowing the first few days home would been an adjustment period, learning how to move with one another and go about a new routine from at home therapy to outside appointments, no doubt eventually a steady stream of visitors. You honestly were fine with whatever Paul had wanted. In reality, he hadn't said much or written much on his pad of paper all morning. But you went along with it anyway. The nurse wheeled him out and you walked along his side, the feeling of relief washing over you as you stepped over the threshold of the hospital entrance and watched him breathe in his first breath of fresh air in ten days. You held back tears, thankful for your Wayfarers covering your eyes. But you didn't miss his, the way he was desperately trying to keep himself together around everyone else. He gave a nod in thanks to the nurse and slowly sat down in the back seat of his parents' SUV whilst you moved around to the other side to settle yourself in. Nothing was said, it didn't need to be, but you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as Big Jim pulled away from the curb and headed towards home. When you went to move your hand away, he gripped it tightly, looking at you with those deep pools of blue.. You wanted to reach out to him, touch him on the one place you knew comforted him, made him melt, tell him he'd be okay, reassure him, but he was to your right, therefore his sutures and bandages were along the left of his neck and you couldn't touch him there, it was still painful, raw and frail. So you let him grip your hand the whole way home, the top of it reaching his lips a few times, just so, you thought at least, that he knew you were there, reminding him he was going to be okay. That he had you. As the four of you made your way into the apartment, you remembered that Barnes, your parents and by now no doubt Sam were there waiting for you all. Sure as you'd guessed, a thundering cheer and smiles came from the living room and filtered into your kitchen. The one bedroom, small space at capacity with guests. It was not the time for a 'Welcome Home' party. As Paul gathered a moment to himself, he looked to you and signalled he needed to write something down, so you grabbed the nearest note pad and a pen, the items you always had on the coffee table that collected your lists for groceries and to do items. His 'Honey Do' list as he liked to call it. He scribbled hastily and practically shoved the pad back at you. 'Can't do this. Need time.' "Okay," you looked at him after reading, "okay." You ushered over to Big Jim and Dotty, gently telling them that he was asking for some space, and they quickly understood, saying their goodbyes as you made the rounds, hoping neither of you looked like assholes in asking everyone to leave. With deep understanding, everyone left, allowing the two of you time together. You went to the kitchen to get water for you both, sighing as you saw the fridge stocked full and a freezer full of meals. Dotty and your mother, no doubt having done all that. When you returned to the living room, just a dozen steps away, Paul was sitting on the couch, hands on his thighs, his eyes closed. "I'm sorry, I should have stepped in and said it was better to have people see you when you were ready. I didn't think...." A deep sigh interrupted you and what was an empty hand was now jotting a note again. He turned the notepad in his lap. 'I just need you.' Your lip quickly quivered and you gently leaned in to kiss his lips softly. "I'm right here." He gave you a small smile as you sat beside him. 

“Do you want to shower? Eat? Sleep?" Paul frowned deeply at each of your asks. He shook his hands at you, trying to tell you to slow down. Then, you sat in silence. He slowly stood after a long stretch of nothing between you and headed down the hall to the bathroom, albeit a bit wobbly at first and when you rose to help steady him, he shrugged you off. You gave him his space, but worried about him on his own. Then you heard the click of the door and the shower running… A knock on the bathroom door dragged you from your thoughts and knowing it could only be Paul, you turned the shower off for a moment so he didn’t have to shout. “Yeah?” You cleared your throat and listened carefully. “Breakfast is waiting when you’re done.” His voice was croaky, but you picked up his words easily enough through the thin door. “Okay, give me a moment. Be right out.” You called back, no longer wondering why he didn't open the door anymore or why he locked it when he was inside.  You turned the shower back on, quickly lathered up your gel before washing and stepping out, towelling down before you slipped on a lightweight robe and opened the door.

*****

He waited for her at their small kitchenette, their places set, food already plated. He admired her, how she was dressed in her robe but as his eyes moved to hers, he noticed those beautiful orbs that he loved waking up to each and every day were red and puffy, despite her shower. He watched as she moved her food around her plate, eyes cast downward at the yellow scrambled eggs, slightly runny just the way she liked them. He tried to clear his throat but it stung so he reached over the tiny table-top and touched her hand. When her eyes met his, he spoke, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...” The words died in his throat as his voice gave out and he gave an exasperated gesture mouth, a frustrated noise escaping from his nose. "It's okay," she replied, her own words catching in her throat. His chest heaved with a heavy breath and his hand flexed into a fist, redirecting his frustration to have more control of his feelings, a shake of his head. It wasn't okay. None of this was okay. 

She didn't speak, she just slowly popped a shoulder with a shrug and tilted her head to the right to meet it. He could tell she was grinding her teeth, that flex in her jaw evident. She cleared her throat and shook her head, "I can't eat right now." She scooted away from the table and took her plate with her, setting it in the fridge and escaping to their room. When that door shut, Diskant rubbed his hands over his face. Things weren't going to improve between them if he didn't try to get his words out but it was fucking near impossible. And God damn it he was downright exhausted at writing it all down. He had so much to say, so much he wanted to be able to tell her but he didn't want to waste the ink. He wanted his life back. The dishes were done before they'd sat down to eat, so, wanting to give himself time and continue to give Y/N her space, he slipped into the bathroom for his own shower.

Taking a moment to figure out what exactly he was doing, Paul sighed. Shower, then figure it out with Y/N. They needed to talk, properly, even if it made him hoarse. Three weeks of struggling to just.... live and move on were enough. He brought his eyes to the mirror as his stood with his palms flat against the basin, his scar peeking out the top collar of his white tee. 

He'd grown to looking in the mirror more often than when he'd first come home. His reflection made him feel somewhat of a beast, a man no longer what he once was but something of fright. The scar by no means was earth shatteringly grotesque, and Paul wasn't naturally a man of conceitedness, however, it was still a shock to see. 

Not for the first him he'd wondered how it looked to Y/N. It was hideous in his mind, and he was afraid she was grossed out because of it too. The bullet had pierced through one of the places on his body where he simply relished her touch. From the friendly and tender tickle on the couch as they watched TV to the desperate way she would cling to it as she lay under him, it was just something they had shared since the start and now he held a million worries. It might hurt, maybe her touch would have lost the ability to drag the reactions it normally did, that he would have lost that special place that she only she knew about and could use to make him melt.

He was scared of his own girl’s touch, and while it was an absolute ridiculous notion, it flat out petrified him. It petrified him for the very fact that he couldn't feel ANYTHING there. Not the water that touched it, the feel of his own fingers ghosting over it or the bite of a pinch he'd given himself just to test the nerves.

He felt nothing. 

He stared at his reflection, running a hand over the month long beard that had grown as of late. He wasn't supposed to shave, having been on blood thinners since his surgery, but those ran out a few days ago. Turning his head to the right, and then to the left, he sighed. Maybe he'd feel a bit better if he did…more like himself. 

With a sigh he pulled the trimmers from under the sink and plugged them into the outlet. Then he started filling the sink with lukewarm water, preparing a fresh razor for use. Stripping down to his boxer briefs, he took a good look at himself, eyes burning into the mirror as he took in his pale colour, his sad eyes, the dark circles under them, no doubt result of the nightmares waking both he and Y/N in the night, and then that ugly line. He sighed as his mind travelled back to their first night home from the hospital… He hadn’t meant to push everyone away but it was overwhelming. He just wanted her. His second chance at life was handed to him and all he wanted was her, time with her. Everyone and everything else could wait. He was a little unsteady on his feet, a weak wobble really that would surely pass the more he moved but he wasn't his entirely strong self either. He felt weak, looked pale and was sporting a near two week stubble that was itchy, but there was nothing he could do about it. More pressing than the ever increasing facial hair, however, was the fact he was craving a shower. Having suffered the indignity of nothing but sponge baths and body washes in the hospital, he simply wanted nothing more than to stand under the steam of their surprisingly powerful shower, in their little bathroom and clean himself off, wash away the clinical smell of the hospital that seemed to cling to his skin.

He turned the water on first, the sound of it spraying from the shower head a joyful sound. He knew he'd have to go slow, take it easy and be gentle on himself. Paul slipped his sweats down over his narrow hips, the material pooling at his feet and he kicked them away to the corner of the space. Then, with trembling fingers, he started on his button down, swallowing back a nervous knot painfully in his throat. 

By the time he was stripped down to his boxer briefs, there was a covering of steam on the mirror and he swiped at it with his hand. Then gently, ever so gently, he began to peel back the medical tape holding the gauze to his neck, knowing he’d have to replace the dressing once he’d showered. Not that it mattered, he’d been sent home with what felt like enough gauze, dressings and surgical tape to patch up a fucking army.

What he saw was not his own skin. Gone was his St. Christopher medallion on his favourite chain, one his parents had gotten him when he graduated from the Police Academy, and near where the chain would lay against his collarbone and neck was the repair hours of surgery and a week and a half in the hospital had caused him. Still, he was alive. When all was said and done, a chain could be replaced and his wound would heal.

With a final glance at his wound he carefully stepped into the hot water, and a soft moan escaped his mouth as he relished the way it felt on his skin, searing the back of his legs, his ass and lower back. He took a half step back and the water moved up to just under his shoulder blades. As the water beat down on him, he grabbed a bottle of his favoured shower gel and lathered a good amount all over himself, before rinsing and repeating the motion several times. Then, with a movement that was more reflex than conscious, he picked up Y/N's gel and turned the cap, taking a long inhale of the scent that comforted him. He felt his throat tighten and he started to panic, but quickly realized he was swallowing down a cry rather than there being a problem with his wound. He placed the gel back and turned his face into the stream of water, blinking fiercely as the tears welled and bled from his screwed up eyes, mingling with the steady droplets that hit his cheeks from the shower.

He leaned into the stream farther, allowing it to wash over his head, literally drowning out the sound of everything around him. His palms rested flat against the tile, a stretch and pull from his muscles that had atrophied during his stay. Awakening muscles and tendons that were mangled and manipulated to heal.

How long he was in there, he had no idea, but eventually, he felt the temperature starting to drop a little, signalling he'd been in there far longer than he'd intended. Reaching out, he turned the shower off and then stepped out, grabbing a towel which he ran over his head, almost snorting when he remembered his hair was no longer as short as it had been, realising that Y/N had never really seen him with hair as such before.

Because yeah, that’s what she was going to be looking at. His hair, not the huge three inch gash on his neck that made him look like some kind of fucking Frankenstein monster. 

With a roll of his eyes, Paul wrapped his lower half in a towel and opened the door to the bathroom, stepping across the hall. When he entered the bedroom, he found Y/N sitting in the edge of their bed, a familiar necklace in her hands like a rosary, her knees bouncing up and down. He noted how cautiously she lifted her eyes to look at his, and didn't miss the way they quickly flicked to his wound and back to his. He felt that painful lump in his throat for again. She rose to her feet and took a step toward him. 

“The chain, well... they had to cut it.” She said quietly, holding out her hand where the necklace sat. “So I got you a new one.” She held it out to him and he paused, his hand reaching towards the chain “The pendant was fine so...”

He reached out to take it, his fingers softly brushing her palm as he clasped the metal in his hands. He turned the small, silver disk over and gave her a small smile before he placed it on his nightstand.

“Do you want me to put it on?” She asked, moving to pick it up. “I can-"

With a movement that was a little harsher than he’d meant he reached out and grabbed her wrist, holding it still a few inches away from the chain. She turned to look at him, a combination of shock and puzzlement on her face as he hastily shook his head.

"Okay," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

Taking a deep breath, Paul ran his hand over his face and shook his head at her. “S’okay.” Were the only words he could manage to rasp out. His eyes bored into her as he desperately tried to make her understand he wasn’t angry at her.

"I'll uh... You start getting dressed and I'll grab the bag from the hospital."

“Bag?” He half spoke, half mouthed at her, his brow creasing in puzzlement. 

"The one with the bandages."

He shook his head, waving his hands. “I can-“ his voice broke and she smiled.

“Paul, it’s fine, let me...”

He once more shook his head. 

“Baby...”

At that his fist slammed on the nightstand and making her jump.

Her breath was shaky and her lip quivered, her eyes instantly watering. He knew for a fact he'd scared Y/N for he'd never reacted like that in any situation with her.

Backing away from him, she held her hands up defensively and shrugged, "Okay, I'll just go get it for you."

As he recalled the memory, his head hung in disgrace, much the same as it had that evening when she’d left the room, tears in her eyes. He hadn’t meant to push her away like he had, but since that first time he’d continued to do so. And the more he did, the harder it was to stop. And she took it, never biting back or losing her patience. She accepted the fact that he showed her less affection, took everything he threw at her and then some, because she loved him. And damned it, he loved her, he loved her so fucking much it truly, physically hurt. And the thought that he was hurting her because of his inability to sort the jumbled mess in his head was killing him.

Taking a deep breath, he set out on the task he'd started. A shave and a shower. The vibration of the trimmers hummed against his cheeks and neck, trimming away the longer hairs, creating a stubble he then fully removed with his cream and razor. Then, he showered, taking his time, losing himself in his thoughts and playing back the last month in his mind. It was no walk in the park and a frustration and anger bubbled just beneath the surface, it was like he'd recognized he wasn't the same. And was fighting a never ending battle with himself to pull out of the darkness that had overcome him so he could let her light shine in. Fuck it, he needed to do it. He needed to rip the proverbial fucking band aid off and own up to his shit. Because losing her, that was absolutely not an option. 

But how? Would she be willing? After all he'd put her through. He was still scared, and he knew his own limits were still there. But they had to start connecting or he was going to lose her. He felt it. 

Towelling off, he disposed of his laundry in the dirty hamper and wrapped his towel around him. He looked in the mirror and again wiped off the condensation. He nodded at his reflection. Now he looked like Diskant. HER Disco. He smiled a little to himself and left the bathroom, feeling a lot different than when he'd entered. 

When she wasn't in their room, he dressed in jeans and a tee, flip flops on his feet and headed down their small hall. He saw her tucked into the couch, a slouched long sleeve over her taught frame, denim shorts on those hips and legs that made his mouth dry. He could see the smoothness of them and his fingers tingle to touch them. Deep red painted toes balanced on the edge of the coffee table as she read the book she'd started recently. 

He sat down next to her, garnering her attention. She looked at him with those beautiful eyes of hers. Those eyes that make him weak. Make him purr and melt and feel like he can conquer the world all at once. Those eyes that make him feel like a man above himself. 

At the risk of losing his voice entirely, he began with, "I feel cooped up and it's driving me crazy. Can we go somewhere?" 

A smile so genuine spread across her lips that it twisted his gut and sped up his heart. "Yeah, okay. Any idea where?" 

He shook his head, "I just want to go. I want us to get out of here." He made sure emphasize the us in that reply, even if it didn't sound as so. 

"Okay, let's go," she tossed her book on the coffee table and stood, grabbing her bag by the door and slipping into flip flops of her own.

****

You humoured his request, just to go for a drive. And you drove for hours, all over the place. But little did you realize where you'd end up eventually.

It was late in the day and the parking lot was emptying out. You'd pulled into a spot and turned to him, the Ferris wheel and various stands along the pier behind you. His eyes were covered by his own Wayfarers but his smile was soft and sweet.

"I'm kinda hungry, are you hungry?" You said to him, a humorous tone to your voice. Your words echoing ones he'd spoken to you so long ago, words that had become an inside joke between you. 

He chuckled lightly, softly and replied with a nod as the two of you exited the car. You waited for him to meet you on your side. The second he joined you, he took your hand in his and together you walked the bike path until the steps up to the pier were accessible.

He stood at the railing, about halfway down, as you ordered two beers, two hot dogs and fries to share. The sun was just at the horizon, painting the sky in watercolour sherbet, and Paul's silhouette stood out against it. He saw you approach and grabbed his dog and beer from you, lightening your load. The two of you shacked up at a table near the games, almost the same table the two of you sat at on your first date.

“You know, I was suckered into a first date here? Guy was a total swindler, stalker too."

He swallowed his bite of food and washed it down with beer before he smiled and rasply said, "you were willing to go with me. I didn't sucker you."

“You totally trapped me.”

"You needed help, I offered," he pointed to himself, then to you and smiled, "willing participant."

"However you spin it so you can sleep at night," you sighed. "I'm just glad I fell for it."

Paul nodded, "me too." He perched his sunglasses on top of his head. "I love you, so much." He took your beer from your hand and set it on the table top, whilst pulling both of your hands into his. 

You couldn't hide the obvious hitch in your chest at the outward affection. The lump in your throat hurt to swallow as your eyes welled up. "I know, I love you, too. More than anything." You fought the emotion in your words, the way they were starting to make your voice quiver.

He sighed at your emotion and shook a deep breath. “This isn't easy." He stalled, allowing his voice rest a second in order to keep trying to get his words out. "I'm not easy." He paused again. "I’m sorry.”

"It's okay," you shook your head.

"It's not." His voice was starting to give way again and you saw the frustration on his face.

“Hey...” you squeezed his hand, “I’d rather you did take it out in me than bottle it all up. I don’t like it when you don’t tell me how you’re feeling.” It broke you to watch him struggle, each and every day it broke you. And you were at the end of your rope, frayed and tired of keeping it together. You sighed. “Just take your time. I’m not going anywhere. Text me for Christ's sake!”

He chortled a bit and shook his head, "it's not the same." He brought your hands to his lips and you closed your eyes at the feeling it gave you.

You shook your head, if he wasn't going to make the first move then you needed to try. "Do you trust me?"

He frowned and nodded. “Always.”

Without words, you leaned forward, scooting yourself onto the edge of his seat bench and leaned the forearm to your left arm against his right shoulder. Your fingers scratching behind his ear. Gently you brought your right hand up his chest, slowly, delicately, over his shoulder and he flinched away from you. "Paul, please," you whispered. You could see the way his body started to shake, his breathing laboured. "It's just me, baby."

The closer your fingers got, the more his hands twitched to pull you away. You didn't know for certain what was going on on the inside, but you had a pretty good idea. On the outside, his eyes shone back at you with fear as he tried to just breathe. Then your fingertips brushed the raised pink skin that just peeked over the edge of his tee…

The pads of her fingers felt like red, hot needles the way his skin was reacting. But that was nothing compared to what was firing in his brain.

He clenched his teeth together, tried to keep his breathing calm and regular as those gentle fingers that could make him purr and sing moved delicately over the raised edges of his scar, her eyes never once leaving his. Quickly, the feeling of red hot needles dissipated and he felt nothing but a relief that washed over him from his scar to his toes. He could just feel her and that was monumental. 

A deep, shaky breath rumbled his chest as he painfully swallowed the lump in his throat, knowing it all twitched under her touch. It felt the same. Nothing had changed, that familiar tingle he usually felt at her touch sparked something deep inside. The involuntary little shudder he always emitted when she hit that little sweet spot, shot up and down his spine and he felt his lips curl up on a smile as his girl beamed at him. 

“See.” She whispered.

“How...” his voice croaked and the words died as he took a deep breath, giving himself a moment. “How did you know that was...” another pause before he shook his head, gesturing to his mouth.

“Because, Paul Christopher Diskant, I know you inside out.” She delicately touched him still, her nails just at that spot that made him quiver. "This doesn't change anything. Not now, not ever."

He let out a strained sob, pulling her close, his lips harshly on hers.

“Tell me about it, Stud.” She smiled against his lips. 

"Let's go home," he managed before his voice cut out again.

“Is that an order or a request?” She teased.

He grinned and popped a shoulder in response. 

The drive from Santa Monica to home was the most comfortable you'd been in weeks, and you could tell Paul was too. As you drove, he couldn't stop smiling, like this weight had been lifted and the fog between you cleared. His eyes didn't leave your profile, his fingers entwined between yours, never letting go.

****

His hand never left yours as you walked the short path from the garage to your little one bedroom shack, even single-handed unlocking and opening the door. You couldn't even step through the threshold before his lips were on yours, soft and slow, gentle, his tongue gliding through the opening you gave him. A kiss so deep you were sure the two of you were ethereally floating. You tossed your bag on the couch as you passed it by, toeing off your sandals as Paul gently tugged on your hand, an instruction to follow him.

Down the narrow hall you went, directly to your bedroom tucked off in the right corner at the end of it. Again, his lips are on yours and if you didn't know any better, you'd detected a slight tremble in his touch as his hands came to hold your face close to his. Your hands rested against his chest as he kissed you breathless. There was no rush or desperation behind his kiss, if anything a wanton need crept through the both of you but you weren't going to push him, no. You knew Paul needed to set the pace, for whilst you could read him like a book, this terrain was new and navigating his new emotions and fears needed to be on his time and terms.

You were just happy he was touching you again, allowing you to touch him. You missed him, missed the way the two of you were. This had by far been the longest the two of you had been intimately separated since your beginning. 

His hands left your cheeks and gently gripped at the bottom of your top. You stepped back a little, raising your arms so he could pull it straight over your head. You watched his eyes soften as he looked at you, almost like he was seeing you for the first time again. You reached for the hem of his own shirt, but he took a half step back, freezing you.

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, “if you’re not ready, leave it on or... it can wait, we can wait.”

He swallowed hard and quickly his hand gripped the back of his collar, pulling the tee over his head. You took care to keep your eyes locked on his, knowing exactly what was making him nervous- his scars. As his eyes searched yours, your face broke into a smile and then he was back on you, his hands on your hips, pulling you close as his mouth claimed yours. His hands felt warm on your skin as they travelled up your sides, only letting go to move to your jaw and neck. His thumbs across your cheek, his fingers splayed around your neck and into your hair. 

He kissed you with all tongue, his lips massaging against yours as he changed the position of his head, tilting it the opposite way. And for a moment he pulled away, his hands still on you, the burn of his eyes lustfully blown as they bore into yours. Then, he moved in on you again, his nose bumping against yours as his thick, flat tongue filled your mouth fully, yours submitting against it, allowing him to devour you. It was as if he was opening up your soul, tasting feeling and seeing every colour of the rainbow. You felt as if your body was going to explode with the feeling sheer desire and love flooding hours state, but above it all, happiness that he was kissing you like this again. 

It left you breathless and wanting more. You actively fought the urge to rip his belt buckle open and shove his jeans down, trying hard to leave him to set the pace. But, as always, he could read you like the pages of a well-worn novel and that maddeningly smug, cheeky school-boy grin crossed his face. It twisted your insides and made your skin tingle.

His fingers wound through your hair as he backed you towards the mattress. As the crook of your knees hit the side of the bed, he kissed you again, his fingers moving to the button of your denim shorts. Your mind was excited, your body fully responding to his touch, his movements. You’d missed this. His fingertips touched your tummy and you shivered, the denim quickly falling away as you fell onto the mattress.

You watched as he undid his button and flies, the zipper echoing in the stillness of your room, bouncing off the exposed brick and vibrating in your ears. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his denims, strong thighs, arms and taught abs flexing as he crawled over you, his hands planting either side of your head. The muscles of his shoulders twitched as he lowered himself over you, his lips claiming yours in a slow dance, his tongue leisurely tangling with yours, a soft sigh escaping him.

You continued to resist the urge to touch him where you have always shown him you're there with him, that part of him that makes him sing and shiver. That spot that only you know of that makes him melt against you, submit to his lust and desires for you. Instead, as his tongue felt every part of yours, his hands caging himself over you, you tilted your hips, your hands grazing the underside of his biceps, curling around the raised skin of his tattoos. At the feel of your pelvis bumping his, he gave a little grunt, breaking the kiss, his forehead pressing to yours as he returned the gesture, his own grinding into yours, the hardness of his arousal unmistakable through his boxer briefs as it brushed against the thin cotton and lace of your panties.  His words hit your ears, "need you, Sugar, so bad." You practically purred as you heard your nickname clearly and for the first time in weeks, not strangled by pain, or muted by frustration. His voice was his own once again and it caused a sting in your eyes. Your hands moved along his torso, from his ribs down to his hips, the waistband of his boxers bent by your fingertips. All whilst his lips moved over your jaw, behind your ear where you gasped before he moved down your neck, nestling soft kisses against the tops of your breasts. “You got me, Stud. Always.” At that, he crashed his lips to yours in an attempt to hide the sob you could faintly feel against your own lips.

Your hands gently cupped his jaw, holding his face to yours as the kiss grew desperate, his hips rolling into yours again. Suddenly, he moved back, kneeling between your legs as his hands hooked into the waistband of your panties. “Off.” His voice was raspy once more as he issued the instruction, yet the undercurrent of desire was unmistakable. Obliging to his instruction, you raised your hips off the bed and allowed him to pull them down, his body shuffling along the bed as he glided the garment down over your legs. His heavy hands caressed up your thighs, his thumbs drawing circles over your skin. God, did your skin burn in delight at his touch, you had to wonder and think if he felt the same. There was no denying he did, or you wouldn't be here, you'd still be at the pier, figuring out how to navigate his feelings, his fears. His body led over you, your sex and his barely touching, but yet twitching and pulsing with deep desires of need. His hand pulled down the cup of your bra, his mouth taking gentle nips against your breast as his mouth moved to your nipple, where he gently rolled it between his lips before his tongue swirled the sensitive nub. Your back arched in pleasure, one hand twisting in his hair, the other fisting in the sheets besides you. His free hand slipping behind your back to expertly unclasp your bra, allowing it to loosen around your arms.  "Paul...." you moaned. His free hand reached for yours that was fisted in the sheets, pulling your fingers apart and taking your palm against his, entwining your fingers. You were more than ready for him. Like he needed you, you just needed him too. It took one rock, one hip thrust and he slid right inside. "Oh fuck," you both let out, his a good rasp and yours a whimper. It felt so good, beyond good, the way he filled you, stretched you. You wasted no time in flicking your hips up towards his as he thrust down. Your insides fluttered as you joined together each time. God, did it feel... so... fucking... good. Again and again he rocked into you, his movements needy but not harsh, as a desperate need filled you both. You lightly nudged him with a knee and together you rolled, him to his back and you over his hips, still with him settled inside you. Tossing your bra to the floor with the rest of your clothes, you rocked against him whilst he reached up and held your bouncing breasts in his hands, a gentle tweak of each nipple. The sensation sent ripples to your middle, warmth pooling at your core and you gave a soft moan of delight before you bent forward, your lips on his. The kiss was sloppy, his hips still rocking up into you as your pelvis rolled against his. You were close, you knew he could feel you twitching around him. Your lips were covering his as you slowly bounced and rocked on top of him, a pressure to your clit that was blissfully crippling.

In a sudden exertion of strength, Paul sat up and his arms wrapped around your back, holding you close to his chest, his lips moving over your collar bone and down your sternum. He was as deep inside you as he could go, bottoming out as the angle changed and he was clearly hitting a new spot that erupted your insides like a volcano. Your body shook as your orgasm boiled at its peak, with each jut of his hips against you. With one hand around you, the other moving hair away from your eyes and keeping it back by his fingers, his nose rubbed against yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he brought your lips to his. You were going to come and it was going to be absolutely amazing. Deepening your kiss, your fingers scratched at the back of his neck, just at the nape of his hairline and you started to feel him quiver. There he was, right there, like always. Your lips broke free from his and nipped at his strong jaw before kissing at the joint where it met his ear. You were careful now, despite the throws of your own orgasm starting to crash around you, to weigh your moves with precise care as you gently, delicately kissed down his neck. Your lips hit that pinkish-red raised mark and your world exploded. The blood surged to your ears, deafening you as you came, hard. Your eyes fluttered closed but the noise he made broke through clear as day, and they flew open again. Those beautiful blues were locked into your gaze as his broken whimper of your name blew into a loud groan as he clung to you, his hips stilling, his eyes fluttering shut. His noise died down, catching in his throat, his chest heaving as you felt him twitch inside of you, the after-throws of both your orgasms pulsing together. Tenderly, your hands slid up to cup his face as you kissed him softly, feeling him sag a little, and you gently pushed on his chest. You didn’t want him to release his hold but you knew he was going to be exhausted. He didn’t take much persuasion, his body boneless as he sank onto the soft mattress behind him. You went with him, your head tucking under his chin as the pair of you recovered, the only sound in the room the dying pants as you both eagerly drew breath.

His hand slipped into your hair, cradling the back of your head as you shifted and pressed your lips to his jaw.

“You okay?” You asked. 

He nodded, swallowing hard as his other arm ran up and down your spine, fingers gently tracing a path along your still touch sensitive body. His lips pressed to the crown of your head. 

When you'd regained the feeling of life back into to your body, you sat up, rolling off of Paul's hips, garnering a look of confusion from him. He loved when you would keep him inside you, and continue to feel the warmth of one another's bodies. You smiled softly at him, sleepily. You saw the look on his face, the look of contentment but of need and seeking comfort. It was a look you'd come to memorize as his 'I'm tired' look. Soft features, heavy eyes. Blissed out from love making or not, Paul was exhausted and you read every hint of it you memorized over the years. 

"C'mere," you now rasped, your voice rattled by emotion and dry from moaning. 

His lazy smirk crossed his lips and he knew that tone. He knew what was coming next. He rolled to his left and pressed his lips to yours gently before laying his head on your chest. You traced your first two fingers gently up and down his neck, along his shoulder and back up, a repeated pattern you only you had the map to. 

A combination of a contented sigh with a little hum left his throat as his weight over you grew heavier, like the comfort of a weighted blanket. You blinked back the tears, because although you'd heard it time and time again, right then, it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever made. 

**** Part 5