#the ending feels a bit rushed

[thevoidstaredback]

I'm a sucker for angst, so I'mma go the mid-vivisection route

Compartmentalizing had always been an effective way of dealing with emotions, especially when he knew they were going to get in his way. He could deal with the shock and grief over his newly discovered child later. He had to save him first.

The trip from his office in the Upper East Side to Wayne Manor in Bristol had never taken so long before. There was no traffic, and he'd hit every green light, but the trip was agonizing for him. Every second he wasted was a seconded that his son could be hurt or worse.

He didn't want to think about worse. Not again. Not ever again.

Damian was in the Cave when he got there, narrowing down the location of the video the best he could. Danny had sat against a wall below an open window, a tiny crack to the outside world visible at the very top of the screen. It didn't give much, but it was enough. If all else failed, they'd have Barbra or Tim take a look at it.

Bruce was quick to suit up and get both the Batplane and the Batmobile ready to go incase either or both was needed. Once finished, he switched out so that Damian could go suit up and ready his bike.

Through the crack in the window, there was wide area - likely a yard - visible. There was no fence to mark the edge of the property, nor were there any houses, so the house must be on the outskirts of whatever town or city it's located. In the distance, there was a sign. Because it was so far away, even zooming in and enhancing the picture didn't reveal much. He did, however, get RK, ILLINOIS and a three digit population out of it, limiting their starting location significantly.

A list of town and city names ending in 'rk' within the state, led Bruce to thirty-one possible locations: Amity Park, Aroma Park, Beach Park, Bedford Park, Calumet Park, Cissna Park, Deer Park, Elmwood Park, Evergreen Park, Forest Park, Franklin Park, Hanover Park, Highland Park, Hopkins Park, Indian Head Park, La Grange Park, Loves Park, Machesney Park, Maple Park, Mark, Merrionette Park, Oak Park, Orland Park, Palos Park, Richton Park, Round Lake Park, Schiller Park, Stone Park, Tinley Park, Villa Park, Washington Park.

With the three digit population count, he managed to narrow the list down to Amity Park, Aroma Park, Bedford Park, Cissna Park, Hopkins Park, and Mark. Still too many to check in person.

Bruce's next - it should've been the first - step was to run a screenshot of Danny's face from his video through Facial Recognition with the specifics of those six places. By then, Damian had dressed and rejoined him at the Batcomputer. They waited impatiently for results to come in.

Daniel Fenton Feb. 12, 2000 Amity Park, Illinois Mother: Maddison Fenton Father: Jack Fenton Sister: Jasmine Fenton

Bruce and Damian were quick to put on their masks and get into the Batplane, leaving the Batcomputer on and their findings open.

While Bruce flew, Damian was tasked with watching for anything via traffic and other cameras to see if Danny had left the town. Halfway through the journey, it was discovered that he was kidnapped by people wearing white and driving a white van.

How cliché.

Damian followed the van's trail, relaying to Bruce whenever they crossed city limits. Eventually, they crossed the Northern State Border and into Wisconsin. He told his Father as such.

"Why are they leaving the state?" Bruce wondered aloud. "How are they leaving the state?"

"They have government identification." Damian answered, reviewing the footage in a separate window. He froze the frome, zooming in and enhancing the picture as best he could on the tablet. "G.I.W," he read. "I'm not familiar with the name."

Bruce hummed. "The Ghost Investigation Ward."

"The what?"

"They've been a pain the JLD's asses for the past year, but the Justice League hasn't been able to find solid evidence to get them shut down."

"Should I contact the League?"

"No. We'll figure that out after we get your brother."

Damian nodded and focused back on watching where the van went.

After a few moments of silence, Bruce asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"

He let the question sit for a moment. "When an assassin is killed, they are struck from records. It is made as though they never existed. They are to be forgotten about. Danny was no exception."

Bruce hummed again. "Tell me about him?"

It was a soft request, a tone of voice Damian had never heard from his Father before. Who was he to deny him?

"Danny is older than me by a few minutes. He never used unnecessary violence. He preferred the quiet and became one of the main caretakers for the gardens. He never saw eye-to-eye with Grandfather or Mother, but he only committed small acts to defy them. Other than myself, he got along with ضربة الموت the best."

"'Deathstroke'?" That was a concerning surprise.

"Yes." A beat. "As you know, League Assassins don't use names. Mother is known as شيطان; Demon. I was الصدى; Echo. Danny was الروح; Spirit."

"Oh? Why those names?"

"'الصدى' is because I am the second born. 'الروح' is because Danny nearly did not survive his birth."

"What happened?"

"I do not know. Mother never told me. I ever asked."

"I see."

The white van disappeared just outside of Maddison, Wisconsin. THe footage was nearly a week old, but it was all they had to go off of. Forwarding the footage revealed that the van had not made a reappearance since it first arrived. The flight time from Gotham, New Jersey to Maddison, Wisconsin is two hours and eighteen minutes. Bruce got there in an hour.

They landed the Batplane several miles away from the town, using the bikes they had loaded before leaving to circle the city while looking for anything that could give them a lead as to where Dany had been taken.

There were two buildings outside of the city that Batman and Robin flagged. The first was a castle registered under the name Masters, the same man who is mayor of Amity Park. The other building was a weather-worn cottage and shed directly opposite the castle.

They chose to investigate the run-down cottage first.

Inside was nothing special. It was empty and dirty. However, there was no dust and no plants overtaking the wood. Clearly people were coming and going at a consistent rate. The garage was much the same with the addition of the white van they'd been tracking.

"In and out," Batman told Robin who nodded. "Getting Danny out is priority. Knock assailants unconscious."

"What about the JL investigation into these G.I.W people?"

"I will handle it if we have time. For now, we go undetected for as long as we can."

"Yes, Father."

The only closed door inside the cottage opened up to an elevator with no cameras inside. They blocked it off from inside before going to LL1, acting to corner everyone in anticipation of them trying to flee.

Every wall, door, floor, and ceiling was white. Windows into rooms were tinted white, too. There was no one on the floor. Every room they looked into had horrible security measures (read: none at all). All but one were obviously labs, the last one being a mix between a records room and an office.

LL2 was much the same. Everything was white. Instead of labs, though, the rooms all appeared to be unused cells, aside from one room that acted as an office/records room. There was a total of seven people on this level. No one had managed to call an alarm.

LL3 is where the unfortunate party began. There were only three white rooms on this floor, not including the hallway. Two large labs on either side fitted out with cloning equipment, and an office at the end that held records of everything that happened on that floor. There was nineteen people on this floor, eight in each of the labs and the last three in the office. Like the floors above, Batman and Robin knocked out every individual they came across. Unluckily, the man they assume was in charge of the floor managed to set an alarm, dying the silent white hall and rooms red with a blaring siren.

Batman and Robin rushed to the lift, catching it before it crushed the Batarang keeping it open, and taking it down to the final floor.

LL4 met them with prepared resistance. Twenty agents pointed white and green weapons at them, though there wasn't a single gun between any of them. They were repetitive to fight, but easy to take down with a few punches.

Unlike the other three floors, this one's hallway ran on either side of the elevator instead of directly in front of it. There was only one room on this floor. Two large, white-tinted windows looked into it on either side of a white steel door. Inside looked like an ER Center. A single surgical table was bolted to the ground in the center of the room. Against the left wall was a cage, against the right was a desk and two filing cabinets. There was a light directly above the table, a lamp on the desk, and two floor lamps point at the table. There were several carts and trays with a variety of surgical and torture instruments on them. What stood out at first was that the room was covered in toxic green and blood red splotches.

Danny lay on the table, surrounded by five doctors. His entire abdomen had been cut open with a Y shaped incision and his ribs were broken to bend up, allowing access to his organs. The equipment he'd been attached to said that he was still alive, his lungs inflating and his body reacting to the doctors' touches confirmed this. One of them had been rooting around in his body, seemingly unaware of the alarm outside of the room. The hands came out of the body holding the child's liver, putting it on an empty tray.

It was horrifying.

Batman and Robin were harsher with the people on this floor, several ending up with stab wounds before they were allowed the mercy of unconsciousness. The door was unlocked, making it easy for them to enter the room. The people inside were all unprepared to fight and all five of them went down easy.

Now faced with his child, split open on a table, Bruce felt himself freezing up. He knew he had to move, to get his sone somewhere safe so that he could heal, but he couldn't move. He'd seen so much in his time; so much horror, so much death; but he hadn't evr frozen up like this before.

No. That was a lie. He'd frozen up when Jason had been killed. He frozen up when Tim had been taken and poisoned by The Joker. He'd frozen up when Barbra had been hurt so irreparably. He'd frozen up when Stephanie had 'died'. He'd frozen up when Dick had been taken by the Court of Owls. He'd frozen up when Damian had died. He'd frozen up when Cass had taken the position as head of the LoA. But he'd frozen up after that had all happened to his children, after he'd done what he could to help them, after they'd all suffered. He didn't have time to freeze up right now, but he couldn't force himself to move.

It wasn't until Robin had folded Danny's skin closed, snapping his ribs into place and preparing to stitch him up, that Batman moved.

Danny had screamed when either of them touched him, forcing his right eye open. Recognition flashed in his visible eye. "Heal-" he forced, his voice no louder than a whisper and sounding like he'd swallowed gravel. "Liv-"

Batman took a guess as to what he was trying to say. "You'll heal, right?" A nod. "You want me to put your liver back inside of you?" Danny shook his head and Batman felt relief flood him. He was not ready to stuff organs inside of his child. He picked up a curved needle and thread, ready to stitch him up. He went as fast as he could, but it still took too long.

"I've contacted the Justice League about this place, Batman," Robin came back into the room. "They'll have agents here within the hour."

"Good." He tied off the last stitch, setting the needle to the side. "We're taking him back to Gotham."

"Should we not wait for the Justice League? They have far better doctors."

Danny flinched at the mention of medical personal, pain covering his face again as he closed his eyes.

"We'll tread him in the Cave."

Robin nodded. "I'll alert Agent A-"

Danny whimpered at the name.

"I'll alert Nightwing," he corrected.

Batman hadn't looked away from Danny once. Now, though, he spoke directly to him. "I'm going to pick you up and carry you. It's going to hurt, but I have to get you safe. Is that okay."

The response he got was a small, jerky nod. "Y-yes."

"Good," Batman carefully slipped his arms under Danny's legs and back. "I'm sorry I was late." he said as he lifted him.

Danny's mouth opened in a silent scream before he buried his face the best he could into Batman's shoulder. "Not late." He reached up to grasp the fabric of his cape. "Not late."

DPxDC prompt (demon twins au)

A video from your son, the email was titled. Bruce was confused. Which of his kids would send a video to his public work email??

Bruce clicked play.

On the screen was a boy who look a lot like Damian, but most certainly wasn’t him.

“This video is for the eyes of Bruce Wayne only.

Hi Dad. I’m Danny. You likely don’t know I exist, and if you’re receiving this, I’m already dead. Well, more dead than I already was. Maybe it’s cruel of me to send you a message post-mortem, but you deserve the truth, and telling you earlier would’ve put you in danger.

This email is set to automatically send if I haven’t opened my computer for 3 days. I sometimes set it longer if I’m on vacation or expecting trouble, but I’ve mostly likely been away from home for a bit over three days if you’re receiving this.

I don’t know who killed me. Obviously. I’m recording this in advance. But it was probably either the GIW or my adoptive parents, the Fentons. I half-died at 14 and became a local ghost superhero, but they never realized I was trying to help and kept talking about tearing ghost-me apart molecule by molecule, so I bet that’s what happened. There will be nothing left of me to bury. Sorry about that!

The rest of the story is this. I was raised in an assassin cult, eventually escaping at the age of 6 when they sent me on mission and I successfully faked my death.

My biggest regret is that I escaped alone. And that’s the reason I’m reaching out to you.

You’re a civilian. If you know too much about the League of Assassins you’ll be in danger. But I need you to save my twin Damian. He’s likely still there after all these years. He never wanted to escape; he took pride in being the heir to the league. He’s probably going to be stabby; he’s an assassin after all. But it’s not his fault. Ra’s - our grandfather - brainwashed him a lot more than he brainwashed me because Damian was more susceptible to it. It’s not his fault. Please. Save him. I’m begging you. My biggest regret is leaving Damian in the league. You have a chance to save him. Please, please do it.

I wish it would’ve been safe for me to get to know you. You seem like a cool dad, from what I’ve seen of you on the news with your oldest kids. I bet you’re like that with the youngest you hide from the public too. I wish you all the best. Thank you for listening.

Your long lost almost certainly dead by now son, Danny Fenton.”

Bruce took a second to process this, then picked up his phone and dialed his youngest’s number.

“Father.”

“Damian, did you have a twin named Danny?”

“…Who told you?”

Bruce hung up and sent Damian the video. He needed a minute to process this anyway.

Damian called back a few minutes later, after watching the video.

“Father. I do not care what state he is in. We must discover exactly what happened to Danny. Even if there is only a single molecule left. We must discover the truth.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Damian.”

Dealer’s choice on whether Danny is alive. The few ideas I have for this are:

- they find him mid-vivisection and rescue him

- they find what’s left of him post-vivisection and post his core being crushed

- he’s perfectly fine and just forgot to open his computer (maybe clockwork made sure he forgot?) and now he’s panicking about the fact that his family knows about him and could be in danger. He wanted them to know he existed, not make themselves a walking target for the league by finding him and trying to bring him home!

- Jazz found the automatic email and, deciding to meddle in her brother’s life and him back to his family and maybe get a good parent for herself as a bonus, sent it early

- Technus decided to start shit and sent it while haunting Danny’s computer

- Clockwork screwed with time to make sure it got sent

Lmk what yall do with this!

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: before the nightingale sings

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for my batdad blood blossom au, the one where Vlad poisoned Danny with blood blossom extract and Danny ran away from him and ended up tumbling into the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman :). A quick oneshot telling the tale of the tragic deaths of the Fentons

TW: Major Character Death Warning

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Not all deaths are created equal.

That is a valuable lesson in life to learn. One that Danny learns when he is eleven years old, standing in the pit of his parents’ creation; the culmination of their life’s work. The portal to the other side, the realm of the dead. To the infinite. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, in a hazmat suit that sags on him, and boots that clunk when he walks because the only ones that fit are his mom’s, and even those are too big. In gloves that he has to clench his fists in because otherwise they fall off. In goggles that slide down his nose even when he’s tightened them the farthest they can go. 

He learns that when he’s eleven years old, choking on giggles that harmonize with the laughter of his friends’ who stand at the mouth of the tunnel. Sam’s holding a polaroid in her hand. They’re just being kids. 

They’re not laughing when Danny’s hand hits the safety lock — the one with faulty wiring, the only one in the tunnel. The only one he could possibly hit. They’re not laughing when the portal buzzes to life, and the lights inside switch on row by row as the generator begins to rumble and hum. 

They’re not laughing when Danny dies. They’re screaming. They’re not screaming when he comes back.

Not all deaths are created equal.  

Some are poetic, beautiful. The satisfying close of a book as it comes to an end, of the hardback thumping soft against the pages like the sound of a door closing. A train run its course.

Some are violent; unsatisfying; unfair. The unexpected shattering of an egg as it rolls off the countertop when nobody is looking, the unmistakable crack as it falls to the floor. It is abrupt and messy. 

But most are just… unremarkable. Unintentional. Clumsy. 

Danny’s family dies one night in late January. He is thirteen years old, barely a month away from fourteen. It is unforeseen. It is preventable. It happens. 

It happens like this: 

Their water heater breaks one Monday in January. It’s old, sitting in the garage, and has dealt with nearly sixteen years of Fenton-grade chaos and shenanigans. Of parents tossing scraps and junk into the garage as brief storage to come back to later. Of illegal tune-ups on their vehicles that result in something exploding. Of little children running around and knocking things over, playing with poles and sticks they find on the ground, on the shelves. Of being lived and used.  

Something had to give. 

Jack Fenton notices it immediately when he comes upstairs that very afternoon — his children at school, his wife downstairs — to grab something from the garage. The very same scrap and used material they store like squirrels to use later. 

He stops what he’s doing to fix it.  

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. 

Despite what many believe, Jack Fenton is not the idiot people make him out to be. He knows what he’s good at, he knows what he’s not. He knows he can be passionate and obsessive and single-minded about things. He knows that he is a scientist, an inventor; an engineer. 

He knows that he is not a plumber. That fixing water heaters is not something he knows how to do, not safely. And he loves his family. What he does is only meant to be temporary — a fix meant to only last a few days until they can call someone in who can fix it for them. 

So Jack Fenton futzes with the water heater, gives it a temporary stitch to last a short while, and reminds himself to call a plumber later that day to come in and fix it. He turns and leaves the garage with the part he came for —  a sheet of metal for his wife to melt down — and disappears back downstairs. 

He does not make that call; it slips from his mind. 

It is not his fault. 

One day passes, then two, then suddenly it is Thursday. The water heater has still not been fixed, the water heater has been forgotten. It is nobody’s fault.  

Danny asks his parents at breakfast if he can stay over at Tucker’s house for the night. Just one night. They’re going to study for their math test and then play video games until midnight, but he only tells his parents that first half. 

He’s been doing well in school. Really well — better than he has in a while. There’s been a delightful lull in ghost appearances for the last few weeks. The living don’t know why, but Danny does. The Winter Truce always calms the dead down for a while, something about how the Zone cleanses itself twice a mortal year and that fresh wave of ecto clears out the old and brings in the new. 

This year Danny got to participate. He’s feeling the effects of it too, and he’s been sleeping consistently well for the first time since the accident. 

It’ll never happen again. 

His parents agree under the condition that he doesn’t stay up late, and Danny harmlessly lies through his teeth and agrees. He goes and throws overnight clothes into his school backpack, and when he leaves for school with Jazz his parents are already departed into the lab. 

The last conversation he has with his sister is in her car on the drive to school. Inane, mindless conversation to fill the air and pass the time. Jazz comments on how relaxed he’s been lately; Danny tells her about the Winter Truce. She listens in rapt attention. 

She tells him that she’s glad to see him so well-rested. She thinks her little brother’s been growing up too fast these days. She thinks he’s been too tense. Too caught up with the spinning of the world around him that he forgets about himself sometimes. 

When they reach school, before Danny can get out of the car, Jazz looks to her little brother and says; “I love you.” 

Her little brother’s cheeks turn an embarrassed shade of red. He makes a scrunched up, grossed-out face, but can’t hide the smile pulling across it. “Don’t be a sap, Jazz. I’ll see you later.” He tells her, yanking his hood up over his head. She hears the bashful, ‘love you too’ before he walks away. 

That is the last conversation she ever has with her brother. 

Thursday is unremarkable, passing by in its normality as it always does. There’s one, maybe two ghost sightings; shades lurking around in curious infancy that are easily spooked away by the presence of a greater being. Danny doesn’t even have to go ghost. 

Thursday evening is even less so. Danny goes to Tucker’s house — Sam has a prior arrangement with her slam poetry club — and the two of them study for an hour before they toss their textbooks aside and reach for the game console. 

Danny sleeps in Tucker’s room with one of the extra blankets on his bed, curled across the room in one of the bean bag chairs. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but to Danny it is. He sleeps throughout the night, the portal shut down by his parents before they’d gone to bed. 

Early Friday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, before it’s even so much as a concept to grace the horizon, the water heater breaks again. It was supposed to be fixed. 

Carbon monoxide is a silent killer. Odorless and scentless, it kills within minutes. It fills the house like a shadow casting over the ground, creeping into the rooms. 

Danny’s family die in their sleep; painless and unaware. 

It’s not Jack Fenton’s fault. He didn’t mean to.  

Nobody wakes up with their alarms. 

Danny wakes up to Tucker Foley’s alarm on Friday morning, and he turns his head intangible and shoves it into the beanbag chair like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. Tucker gets up before him, and throws a pillow at him as he reaches for the alarm. 

There’s laughter, messing around. The both of them get dressed, and Danny has breakfast with the Foleys that morning. He takes the bus to school with Tucker, and they meet Sam by their lockers. 

To him, everything is as normal as it should be. There are no ghosts for him to fight right now, school is as school does, and he’s on top of all his schoolwork. 

He does not see Jazz at all that morning, he doesn’t notice. Their schedules are so different, their routes on different paths, that it’s not uncommon for Danny to not see Jazz until he gets home some days. That’s if there’s no ghost attacks. 

At lunch, he gets approached by her friends. Worried creases between their brows, they ask him if he’s seen Jazz. She hasn’t shown up to any of her classes. She’s not answering their texts. It’s unprecedented of her; unheard of. 

Danny doesn’t admit to the concern that swells in his gut when they tell him this. He shrugs at them, and says he hasn’t seen her either. But it was probably nothing to worry about; she might just be sick and sleeping it off. 

He offers to text her and let them know if he gets a response, and that seems to ease her friends enough that they shuffle away in uncertainty. He keeps his word, and does exactly that. He pulls out his phone and opens her contact, and shoots her a message.

‘Where are you?’ 

He doesn’t get a response back, Danny is left on sent. He puts his phone in his pocket, and with a sense of unease creeping in the back of his mind, goes on with his day. He gets no response by the time the final bell rings; and he tries not to be worried. 

The house is quiet when he opens the door. Unusually quiet. He drops his backpack to the floor, it lands with a hearty thunk, and begins to take off his jacket. “Mom! Dad!” He yells. He hangs it up, and slips his shoes from his feet. “Jazz skipped school today!”

A laughable untruth that would get his sister all riled up normally; she should be able to hear him from the front door if she was in her room. The house just stays dead silent. 

He can’t even hear the usual banging and crashing from the lab. His unease returns. He reaches for the intercom that leads directly down to the basement, and presses the button to turn it on. A burst of static, and then he speaks;

“Mom? Dad?” 

Danny lets go, and waits for a response. He gets none back. That never happens, not when the house is this quiet. Not when he knows they should’ve heard him. 

Something sickly and fearful borns in the pit of his stomach, and begins to snake upward. He heads for the lab. The cool metal of the door is familiar in the grooves of his hand, and he doesn’t even need to think about the code as he punches it in;  he simply lets muscle memory guide him. It’s been the same since he was little. 

The door hisses as the pressure is released, and he swings the door open. He takes the stairs down two at a time. Something is wrong. His parents aren’t answering him. His feet pound against the metal. 

“Mom? Dad?” He calls again, more worried, more frantic. More scared. His voice echoes down the stairwell, and he reaches the bottom before it’s fully faded. The lab is empty. The portal is still shut down. 

It was four in the afternoon, they should still be down here. 

Danny races back upstairs, fear-raised nausea coiling in his throat. “This isn’t funny you guys!” He yells when he reaches the top, shoving open the door with more force than necessary. His head swims, his voice cracked. 

He checks the garage, the car is still there. 

“Mom!? Dad!” His voice bellows out throughout the first floor, loud enough that it bounces back at him and rings against his ears. He’s never raised his voice this much — mom would scold him if she heard him. But she doesn’t show up. “Jazmine!” 

Finally, he goes upstairs, and he can’t tell if what he’s feeling is anger or terror. Something is very, very wrong. 

He swings the door of his parents’ rooms open first, and there they are, with the lights still off and the curtains still drawn. As if they hadn’t left their bed all day. Some of Danny’s fear lifts from his shoulders just by the sight of them, but he’s still trembling. Something is still wrong — the room smells… off. Not good, not bad. Just… off. 

He swallows dryly, his throat still thick, and steps into the room. “Mom, dad?” They do not stir. “Didn’t you guys hear me yelling?” 

There is only room static. Danny’s heart shrivels in his chest with a tenfold return of terror, he feels ill. He remembers, just now, that they’re not heavy sleepers, and his dad should be snoring like a freight house. 

Danny reaches their bedside in seconds, hand outstretching for the covers, “Momma? Dad?”

Not all deaths are created equal. 

But many of them are accidental. Unmeditated. Shocking.

Danny Fenton finds his family dead in his childhood home. He runs to his neighbors in hysterics, inconsolable, in tears. Nine-one-one is called, but there is nothing that can be done. They were dead for hours by the time Daniel Fenton returned home. 

He sits on the front steps of the neighbor’s house beside FentonWorks, his jeans slowly becoming wet from the snow that was unable to be scraped off, and watches the paramedics cart out his family beneath white sheets. There are police cars blocking off the street, yellow tape blocking off his house, red-blue lights lighting up the block, an ambulance on the scene. He is wrapped in a shock blanket, and he is missing his jacket and his shoes. His tears are freezing onto his face, he can’t feel the chill. 

Not all deaths are created equal

But all of them are unforgettable. 

[latenightsundayblues]

If you take request, I'd love to see Daniel Rigg in your style

He's criminally underrated by the Saw fandom

What's a better solution to a horrible case of creative rut than doing a little riggposting on main

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[corntired]

Fanfiction is so goated actually

No monetary incentive, just writing in one's free time. Some incentive for like kudos and comments, because who doesn't want to hear that someone else enjoyed what they wrote. Just writing a story that is good and/or enjoyable, no real-life pressure to keep it going because god forbid you and other people are depending on it financially.

Writing a story because you want to write a good story, so you can write what they want the way you want, at a pace that is realistic for you, with exactly the plot pacing you want there to be.

[ineed-to-sleep]

*me immediately after going through a terrifying and traumatic experience* haha yeah I guess it was rough but I'm fine now like I'm totally chill. It was kinda funny actually if you think about it

[elvenbeard]

June 10th 2077

Happy birthday, V!!

Aahhhh aöskhdfasf I got inspired by a recent character ask where I talked about what a perfect day in Vince's life would look like, and I instanly had the day post-Boat-Drinks in mind. And also recently I revamped my personal hc timeline for Cyberpunk 2077 to incorporate Phantom Liberty into Vince's story and I was like y'know what... the post-Boat-Drinks day would perfectly fit as taking place on V's birthday :3 Spent a decent amount of hours yesterday taking pics (and will publish some of these on their own too cause I love them sm and I had all the feels, and they deserve to shine!) - but for now really wanted to complete this lil rundown in time.

Happy birthday to all the other Vs that celebrate today as well \o/

[primus-why]

I Feel TFOne Could've Handled This Better...

Hot take but I feel like folks have been really generous with the take that OP was unable to find ~the perfect words~ in the heat of the moment (and thus should be given some grace) when he told D to stand down and "not be like Sentinel"... namely cuz I don't feel that the narrative supports this?

Like-- after all is said and done, OP doesn't reflect on that part of their split. He doesn't have a moment where he seeks validation or voices his regrets over the choice of his words, it's actually cut-and-dry. The narrative (as it stands) supports that OP saw D-16 acting up, so he called him out and stood on business, down to the last scenes where he's basically like "yeah it's a shame but y'all knew I had to do it to 'em."

It didn't have to be much! I'm not saying to absolve Megs, just show OP looking at things from a different perspective/contemplating a bit on that tough choice and the morality of the moment. Some examples of what I wish we had:

B-127 straight up blurting the obvious by later chatting with Orion like, "Wait so you told your best friend that he was acting just as bad as the guy who enslaved us for our entire lives and was torturing him like an hour ago? Oof. Seems kinda harsh." Then have some of OP's regret show on his face.

OP asking Elita-1 after Megs is banished if he did the right thing. Have Elita back his choice up, saying, "You should have seen what he did after you were... gone. It was terrifying. I know it was tough, but you made the right call." OP is grateful for the support, but a conflicted look still flashes across his face before he steels himself to look out towards the horizon... and the future.

Have OP walk past other mechs/former miners who didn't go with the High Guard saying stuff like, "Wish I could've given Sentinel a piece of my mind!" "Yeah, but I'm glad he's gone for good." "Ugh I miss everything." "Oh, it was crazy! Megatron picked him up and then he rrrrriiipped-- oops, hey there, Mr. Optimus... Prime... sir?" And have OP wave hello, looking a bit sick when they leave.

Post-credits scene with Starscream going on and on, asking Megs when they'll be back to teach the upstart Prime a lesson. Megs grabs his face to shut him up. "Patience, Starscream. The Prime thinks I'm no better than Sentinel... but I'll show him. He wants Iacon? He can have it. In the meantime we'll take the rest of the planet! Then I'll come back, crush Prime under my heel, and we'll take Iacon too. Sentinel's reign will barely be a footnote, because I'm about to become Optimus Prime's worst nightmare." The vocal performance would really need to sell this-- like picture Megs saying something like that from a place of anger and hurt, not so much a place of genuine evil or malice.

Basically instead of Orion's assertion being backed up as black and white/good vs bad, I wish we had some different opinions/reactions from the characters sprinkled in there. Like you can't tell me out of allllll the miners who weren't strong enough/willing to go with the High Guard and ended up sticking around that NONE of them were like "eyyo honestly?? Kiiiiinda glad Sentinel is dead. Wish I could have helped, tbh." like come onnnnn...

And you can't even argue that he's not an active threat-- I don't think everyone would see things that way! It's not just about the threat he physically has, but the threat he represents and is very likely to act upon if given the opportunity! He has a proven track record of not only being sneaky and conniving, but also capable of dealing some serious damage/killing people bigger and stronger than him, plus he has the backing of the Quints. All he'd need to do is wriggle his way out of jail and run off to his sponsors, then he'd probably be back to hurt more people! (If the Quints didn't just kill him out of incompetence lmao). There's a lot of "ifs" here, but I think it's a valid argument that not everyone would agree on what is the right or wrong way to handle Sentinel once he was down long enough to, like, do something about him.

I feel the situation needed a bit of nuance. In some way I wish they had kicked the can and had D and Orion bicker while Sentinel escaped, then have D get frustrated enough by the loss of Sentinel to point fingers (and his fusion canon) at Orion, who then falls and becomes OP. (Megs could still show some of thar emotion/remorse right after he does it too.) Not only would this open the door for a sequel, but tbh the Quint might have just killed Sentinel anyways and sought to deal with the miners uprising themselves lol. (Maybe that could have been an after credits scenes too instead of the B-127 bit??)

Would love to see a moment in a sequel where they have a calmer moment after arguing for a bit. Have OP mention how Megs was out of line, that it hurt and even scared him to see him act that way, and Megs can quietly point out "you said I was as bad as Sentinel... is that really how you see me? After everything we went through?"

Then OP can fumble the bag again lmao like "D, I... I'm sorry, that didn't come out right... but you still took things way too far..."

"Why am I not surprised-- your opinion is what matters the most! Maybe that's why you became a Prime, since you're so good at acting like the world revolves around you--!"

*gets interrupted by someone else before another yelling match ensues*

[honeycreammilkshake]

with jjk ending so soon i've gotten even crazier about sukuita lately. i'm desperately hoping/praying that the ending is focused solely on them, since it seems to me all the other characters have gone through their arcs and their stories are pretty much told. i really want yuuji to be the only one who can stop sukuna, either by dying alongside him or somehow merging together with him by becoming his vessel again.

either way, i keep getting reminded of the ending of devilman crybaby.... what if there's a similar ending ahead for sukuna? maybe in his final moments he realizes everything yuuji was trying to teach him, that he really starts feeling love for the first time, right before either he or yuuji dies. just like how in crybaby, ryo/satan is trapped in an eternal cycle of indifference until he meets akira, and only realizes his love for akira at the very end when everything has been completely destroyed.

ryo was so set on destroying humanity and maintaining his own philosophy, just like sukuna is. they're both self-absorbed and completely convinced they're right in everything, but what if the very souls they mocked for being so emotional and too soft (akuna and yuuji) are the very ones who change them, and show them how wrong they were?

sukuna and ryo are both completely heartless and tragic in their own way, and i think that's why people like yuuji and akira eventually got to them... they were the only people who really tried to reach out and understand them, akira by being ryo's friend and yuuji for trying to teach sukuna love.

imo it can only be yuuji who ends this: he and sukuna have been bound together since the very beginning, and only sukuna has gotten to get so close to yuuji - in many ways, not just by sharing his body. yuuji hasn't been so upfront about his childhood to anyone else but sukuna, and i think that's definitely going to sit with the king of curses, no matter what he tries to deny.

even if sukuna can only learn love by having it all taken completely away from him (like ryo) there is still that potential there in him to realize his mistakes and change his hard-set ideas of the world. if a villain like kenjaku/geto can get an ending like gege gave him, then surely sukuna having his own character development for the better isn't so unlikely either.

[nocturnalserenade]

my first entry for @senshixshitennouweeks!

Rei x Jadeite Week - day 1: Pride

For this first prompt I give you art and a headcanon to go with it!

So I think that in the Silver Millennium, Jadeite had a very hard time trying and getting closer to Mars. Even in the midst of all the plans and efforts to strengthen the bond between the Moon and the Earth, while the Moon people and the senshi were generally welcoming of the Earth people and doing their best to promote good relations between the two Kingdoms, Mars would mantain an unfriendly and detached attitude towards them. She would refuse to interact with them in any way except for the bare minimum courtesy, even in formal circumstances—she wouldn't accept a dance at a party, she wouldn't make small talk during meetings etc. Just to remind them that the favour and friendship that was being extended to them weren't to be taken for granted. So Jadeite had to think about something less conventional to approach her. Lucky for him he's the Knight of Perseverance (and bad ideas) so he wasn't going to give up easily! :D

She was the Princess of Mars, so her domain was battle and war. He thus started to boast about his exceptional and unmatched fighting techniques whenever she was close by. Making sure to be extra pompous about it. Being the prideful warrior that she was, of course she took the bait. She had to teach this arrogant man from Earth a lesson. So she challenges him to show her his supposedly amazing fighting prowess, planning to thoroughly humiliate him and put him back in his place. They start sparring occasionally, and he finds out that she is in fact much more inclined to communication and to physical proximity in a fighting context. She is not completely unapproachable anymore. So he obviously uses these opportunities to try to impress her (which mostly fails—he's the one more and more impressed) but most of all to at least start a conversation (even if it's mostly snarky little banters at first) and of course to be a little flirty now and then.✨

I was planning to make a second piece from a different perspective so that the pose and dynamics of the scene would be clearer but couldn't make it. I was never fully happy with it and I didn't want to waste any more time on it and decided to just post this and be done with it. ;_; I'll just link the music video I used for reference so you can check it out to have a better idea (the fighting sequence is at around 2:40)!

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Show: LEGO Monkie kid Song: HELLO - Martin Solveig & Dragonette

Link to watch on youtube

(Warning for possible eyestrain/fast moving images and loud music)

Whassup wassup folks, got another Knox AMV coming at ya hope ya enjoy

[lesbianoms]

Hihi love your writing and was wondering (if you took prompts) to do more werewolf endo stuff?

Anon I am SO SORRY this took 80 YEARS TO WRITE 😭

It Started with a Sandwich

(Includes soft vore, f/f vore, kink, safe vore/endosoma, gentle/caring pred, werewolf pred, same-size) minors dni!!!

I didn’t know her that well, but she knew me. At least, knew of me.

My college had recently implemented a new kind of "supernatural studies abroad" program; currently, they only offered it as a J-term with limited spots. It served to both teach us about the history of other countries, and to satisfy anyone who was super into fantasy and folklore.

On the night of the deadline, just 5 minutes before midnight, I typed up a rushed essay on a whim... now, here I was, studying old European legends in Romania. It couldn't be helped. I'd always loved the strange.

The woman I watched from across the cobblestone street was our guide. She was not a professor at my school, or a fellow student, or anything like that. Born and raised in Romania, she had shown our small group around, pointing out the tall churches and the intricate, weaving designs of stone atop old castles. Crumbling structure. Old structure. Yet the way she spoke of the past somehow endeared me to it.

I won't deny it. As I looked at her— sitting in the empty outdoor seating of a deli, eating her sandwich— I felt really attracted to her. She was older than me, much older, I'd say about 35 or something like that. Early 40s maybe. Just from her deposition she seemed the type to have kids. A husband, a family.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, because my heart was all too familiar with the stupid, stupid tugging pulse of heartache. It came with the territory of being in love with women who were an entire lifetime away from me. But still, I wondered... would she see me?

My thoughts drifted to the sandwich in her hands. Another perk of being a college student is forgetting that you need to eat to keep your energy up. I thought about the places I’d seen along the route to the hotel: there was a ramen place, a burger joint… hm, “Romanian Ramen” had a nice ring to it. Maybe-

I froze as she looked up at me, and with an embarrassed turn of my head I realized that I’d been spacing out and staring at her the entire time. Ugh, I’m such a dork.

But when I glanced in her direction again, I was confused (and admittedly, a bit intimidated) when I saw her waving me over with a smile. I slowly slid off of the wall I was sitting on and walked over, compulsively brushing at my hair with my fingers.

I hope I looked good.

“Hello!” she said. Her voice was sing-songy, with a soft yet prominent Romanian accent. It radiated warmth. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

~~~

I don’t remember how long we both sat there in that Deli, talking and laughing. As the time went by and the world around us changed from bright to dark, we seemed to be lost in ourselves.

She was easy to talk to. At first I’d felt like a bit of a geek sitting down and rambling on about whatever was currently on my mind, but she just sat still and listened. She would nod and look at me with interest, as she continued to devour her sandwich. I’ve never been the best at making eye contact with people, so while I talked, I found my eyes wandering down to her mouth as she chewed…

watching her throat bob as she swallowed…

It’s at this point in the story I need to confess something. I have a bit of a… strange “interest.” This is kind of embarrassing, but a necessary detail to the story-

-Oh who the hell am I kidding? Vore. It’s vore. I’m into vore.

So now, as you can imagine, watching her eat made me feel a bit flustered. I was ready to just ignore the feeling and continue on, but ohhh boy… I had no idea what was coming next.

Somehow, we got back on the topic of the program.

“So? Are you enjoying your stay in Romania?” she asked, licking her fingers. The sandwich was completely gone.

“Yeah! It’s a really cool place, with a lot of history. I thought the stuff you were talking about yesterday was really interesting.”

She giggled. “Real spooky, hm?”

“Oh, definitely.”

“The legends, they are my favorite part of living here. I’ve had an interest in the supernatural ever since I was young. When I was 18, my mother took me to Transylvania— it was a difficult trip to make, but I begged her to go— and, ultimately, I’m glad I did. Some of my best and worst memories come from that trip.”

I leaned back in my chair, a slight chuckle in my voice. “Did you want to go to Transylvania because of the vampires?”

There was a sudden shift in her demeanor after I said that. Her eyes looked sad as she smiled and continued her story.

“Well, yes and no. There was something needing to be done there. I had studied vampires before, and…”

She looked left and right, as if making sure nobody was listening to us from the shadows. I blinked in confusion, then watched her lean in and heard her voice drop to a silky whisper.

“Do you know why Transylvania is the vampire country?”

I shook my head. She licked her lips and continued.

“It is because they need a place to roost. They like old things. Old castles. They need a place to hide, yes. But they can't have Romania, because someone is already here.”

“Who?” I asked, my brow furrowed in confusion.

She grinned, and in the rising moonlight, her teeth shimmered like fangs. “The werewolves.”

~~~

It had been hours since I’d let her give me a ride back to her place; the full moon, in that time, had been tucked away behind the clouds. Still. She kept all the curtains closed.

She could tell I was nervous. Even though we’d both been very clear about boundaries and terms, my anxieties were not quite put to rest. I felt stupid for asking, but I also felt like I had to.

"So you're not going to kill me?"

She gave me a warm smile as she stood across from me. "I understand your concern. But I can safely say that no, I'm not in the business of taking any lives. I'm no loup-garou, darling."

“…But you are a werewolf.”

Something dimmed in her eyes, and I felt a little bad for being so pressing with all my questions. But if this was true, and it was all real… I needed to be sure that I wasn’t in any danger.

“In Romania, werewolves are protectors,” she said putting a hand to her chest, “I swear on my life that I will not harm you.”

My fingers drummed along the bed that I sat on, and I took a deep breath before responding with, “Okay. I trust you.”

An excited look lit up her face, as she began to take off her clothes.

I watched, enchanted. Enthralled, by the swiftness of her movements as she pulled her shirt off, revealing her bare belly to me. Even mostly empty, it still sported a bit of a round shape. She had a little paunch that just hung over the waistband of her underwear, straining against the elastic. I stared.

When I heard her giggle, I hurriedly averted my gaze from her stomach and tried, unsuccessfully, to make eye contact with her.

"You like what you see?" she teased.

I stuttered, "Wow... um, I dunno if this is a weird thing to say but your belly looks so... soft..."

"Years of good hunting will do that to you, love."

I didn't really want to think about what she meant, so I slowly shifted my position on the bed, fiddling with the trim of my shirt. Quietly, I asked, "Have you ever done this before?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No, never. But you're so small, I should be able to get you down easily. You're like a baby deer."

A hot flush spread across my cheeks as I hummed in satisfactory embarrassment.

"Do you look for baby deer when you go out hunting?"

"No, no! Of course not. That is... not for me. I prefer not to go after fawns. They are in the prime of their life, no? And it feels, for me at least, that it would be cruel to snuff them out at such a tender age."

“So, I guess I'm your first, then..." I chuckled.

A wide, warm grin spread across her face as she approached and sat by me. I felt her strong hands on my thighs. Her voice was sweet, and I shuddered at her hot breath on the side of my face as she leaned in to whisper her melody to me.

"My sweet, sweet fawn," she purred, "these lips and jaws will be so honored to have your small form pass between them, squeezed so snugly into my depths…”

She sniffed at me, licking her lips.

“You smell delectable. Oh, dear, if you could only know how hungry my belly is for you… mmm, yes~ I am quite looking forward to wolfing you down, and keeping you warm during this cold, blustering night.”

"Oh god," I squeaked. I was smitten.

The heat of her round stomach touched my skin like the sun. Tentatively, I reached up a hand. My fingers curled into hers as she took it, grasping it gently. She led my hand over to the soft swell of her belly and I felt goosebumps break through on my skin as I made first contact.

Much like her, the resonance of her stomach made me feel safe. It talked to me with a low and constant grumbling, the groan of a hunger aching to be satisfied. I felt her belly growl against my hand. Oh god, I could only imagine how it must feel to be in there. It actually made me lightheaded.

"Wow…” I whispered, pressing the palm of my hand into her skin. "Your body sounds beautiful."

She flashed a coy grin at me. “The moon is up now.”

~~~

I watched in a mix of fear and admiration as she transformed. Bones shifting and cracking into place, ears and jaw muscles elongating… despite the awful noises, it didn’t look painful. I’m sure she was used to this.

The top of her wolf head and the tips of her ears just barely scraped the ceiling, and she stared down at me with a lustful glow in her eyes. A sharp-toothed smile curled across her muzzle, but instead of being scary, the expression actually made me feel kind of warm inside.

She licked her chops and beckoned me over with a clawed finger. My eyes widened as I watched this movement; her beastly demeanor, infused with all the graceful nuances of a human woman. Even now, it makes for a pretty picture in my mind.

Looking into her eyes, I knew that I was safe with her. I stared up, now pressed against her furry, somewhat swollen belly. The noises coming from inside were downright monstrous. I felt my core heat up, the sensation delving lower all throughout my body, as I slowly began rubbing my legs together. In sure she must have seen how excited I was, because at that moment, she opened her jaws wide and lowered them down onto my head.

Her tongue curled against my face as I entered the slimy cave, whimpering at the feel of so much warm and gooey saliva assaulting my senses. It seemed that first taste was all she needed for instinct to take over.

The gulps were loud and thick, occurring in rapid succession, and I didn’t have any time to think as I was swallowed up by the undulating movements of her gullet and sent down into her powerful stomach. She slurped on my body and growled as the last of me disappeared into her. I’m sure that, despite my size, I made a prominent bulge in her throat…

I could hear only my own breathing for a few seconds as I curled up in the fetal position— welcomed into my new snug home for the night— and then a meaty squelching from underneath me caught my attention, bubbling up into a series of digestive groans. I felt them echo all around my body, and I moaned, all inhibition drowned in that pool of warm acids.

I felt my sleeping bag shift, heard a big slosh of fluids as she flopped over on her side. She was panting and whimpering… I assumed with pleasure. A shrill bark left her jaws and she rubbed at me, pushing against my form, being sure not to hurt me even as she kneaded her prized catch. Me… a prize… I’d never felt so honored to be won as the shifting walls of her belly began to claim me. And as her stomach squeezed me, I came.

I have no idea how long we stayed like that, me and her. Her wolf gut made for a comfy pillow as I yawned and drifted off to the sounds of indigestion I was giving her. She moved towards her bed and tenderly squished me against the mattress, which made me wriggle and squirm. No harm came to either of us as we snuggled together in the most intimate way I know.

I think that overnight, my clothes melted. Or at least, most of them. I remember receiving a text from her days later that my panties were stuck in her intestines. I still don’t know how that happened, but admittedly, it was kind of hot. I got a little wet while I was responding to her.

I’ll never forget my trip to Romania, for several reasons… though if I had to pick one, I’d say that it was because of that stunning tour guide, and her beastly appetite that I had the honor of sating. And to think, that it all started with me watching her eat a sandwich… 💖

[bigleoenergy]

Mha fans don't jump me but I feel like we could've extended the war aftermath/hospital scenes with the students instead of directly jumping to graduation but that's just me

[confusedsiewmai]

Sometimes, I don't like looking at Frieren fandom things is because it feels so alienating as an aroace person sometimes.

I relate to Frieren in a lot of ways. The way she goes through life at her own speed, the way she has a certain way of doing things that is hard to change, the way she struggles to fully understand others but is still compassionate and tries, and last but not least, the way she doesn't feel romantic or sexual attraction the way most people do.

So when a fan posts something about how elves like Frieren don't really feel romantic or sexual attraction and it's wonderful that Himmel's unrequited love with her is still portrayed as something beautiful, healthy and valued, but the comments section is just filled with people being like: No!!!! That's not true!!! Frieren loves Himmel even though she doesn't realise it!!!!

Or even the more "generous" ones are like: No!!! She is just falling in love with him years later!!! The whole story is about how she regrets not pursuing it until it was too late!!!!

And like, every person has their own interpretation and ships. But it really is a bit saddening as an aroace person that sees Frieren also as an aroace who probably would never feel as much romantic love for Himmel EVER. People have almost this... need to correct people that Frieren loves Himmel romantically.

[heavywoolcoat]

[just-sp-in-inginthevoid]

Rindo would never wake up Ran (intentionally at least) and if he does, he runs to buy a Mont Blanc to calm his brother down

Ran, on the other hands, annoys his brother when Rindo wants to sleep

He's like 'Hey. You're sleeping?' when Rindo is lying in bed, eyes closed (but not asleep yet). He'd be poking Rindo's cheeks too, like the little shit he is, (knowingly) preventing Rindo from actually sleeping