#the grief of it all is eating me alive. i keep getting close to being happy n in love and. dare i say it. loved

[ernest-shackleton]

Anybody know how to get rid of a curse 😭

[hyunnielix]

things i wish you said | h.h

Series Masterlist

'Sorry, that I pulled the "It's not you, it's me" One day, I'll make sure you get a real apology'

— hyunjin x (f) reader

— word count: 3.4k (she's a long one sorry + unedited)

— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry).

— warning's: bestie!minho, angst. Minho is pissed!, Hyunjin being a flirt, sexual references, fluff, reminiscing on the past! SO MUCH ANGST, reader is gifted a painting!

→ playlist on spotify

The room hummed softly with your playlist, melodic symphonies and sultry beats. The whole day you'd felt on edge, anxiety eating you alive.

The dim glow of your bedside lamp cast a warm light over your room. Standing before your desk mirror, you slipped into a black and white dress. Tiny diamanté's sparkled along the bodice, catching the light like scattered stars every time you moved. While the cinched waist accentuated your silhouette.

You sat on the ivory chair in front of the mirror, reaching for the makeup scattered along the desk. You dusted highlighter along your cheekbones and couldn’t help but think of him—his absence lingered like a ghost in the room, uninvited and impossible to ignore. But tonight wasn’t for grief or longing. This was your stage, your chance to shine in a way which let him see exactly what he’d left behind.

As you swept another brush over your cheeks, adding just the right amount of blush, you paused, staring at your reflection. This wasn’t just a night out. With each stroke of mascara, you steeled yourself, straightening your posture. This was your statement. Your chance to show him — and yourself — how far you’d come. A final touch of lipstick sealed it: a bold red, fierce and unapologetic. You weren’t the person he left behind, and tonight, you intended to prove it.

You reached for your die-cube handbag and slung it over your shoulder. Giving yourself a once over, you smiled. With a final breath, you turned away from the mirror and exited your room, down the hallway.

You stopped in your tracks, drawn to the painting hanging in the hall—the one Hyunjin had gifted you on one of your birthdays. It depicted the silhouette of a couple standing close, an umbrella shielding them from an oncoming storm. Their hands clasped in an intimate grip, a quiet tenderness captured in oil. The muted blues and earthy browns swirled together in a way that felt alive, reminiscent of so many moments you’d shared with him. Once, you loved getting lost in its strokes, marveling at the way it seemed to breathe. Now, the sight of it made your chest tighten, the ache a stark reminder of what you lost.

You wondered, not for the first time, why you couldn’t bring yourself to hide the painting. It hung there like a ghost, its presence both soothing and tormenting. Every glance at it stirred something deep inside you—a mix of longing and resentment you couldn’t quite untangle. Maybe it was the memory of how happy you’d been when he gave it to you, or perhaps it was the quiet defiance of keeping it in plain sight.

"I think it’s about time to put that painting to rest, huh?" The suddenness of Minho's voice made you flinch, his tone cutting through the quiet hum of the apartment.

You turned awkwardly on your heel, clutching your bag tight to your chest. The dim overhead light cast warm shadows across the small kitchen, the faint scent of dish soap hanging in the air. "It’s probably for the best," you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.

Minho stood at the sink, his sleeves rolled up as his hands moved in the soapy water. The clinking of plates stopped, and his brows furrowed slightly as he turned to glance at you. "Where are you going all dolled up, pretty?"

You shifted uncomfortably, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder as you approached the bench. "I’m going to La Luxe for dinner."

His lips quirked into a teasing smirk as he returned to scrubbing the dishes. "You finally found someone to take you again? Don’t tell me it’s Felix."

His playful jab caught you off guard, and you rolled your eyes, forcing a laugh, though the weight of the conversation pressed on your chest. “It’s nothing like that, Min,” you said, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Just a catch-up with an old friend.”

“Would I happen to know this old friend?” His eyes narrowed, the edge of his tone sharper than usual.

“What’s with you and the questions?” You sighed, avoiding his gaze. You hated how easily he could read you.

He tilted his head, crossing his arms like a disappointed parent. “You’re getting defensive. So, I definitely know them.”

Your gaze drifted to the painting on the wall—that painting. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to take down.

“Y/N,” Minho's voice softened, barely above a whisper.

“He’s back,” you murmured, turning to face him. “He came back.” The fabric of your dress suddenly felt too restricting, like it was suffocating you. You caught the flicker of surprise on his face—and was that disappointment? Felix was right. Of course he'd be upset.

“And tonight, you’re going to tell him you don’t accept his half-assed apology, right?” Minho's tone carried a warning edge.

A silence swallowed the room. Your answer lingered there, unspoken but painfully clear.

“He can’t just waltz back into your life after three years and expect you to grovel at his feet. It’s pathetic. He should know better.”

“Min,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady, “you know I love you, but I need to handle this on my own. Please, let me make my own decisions. Okay?”

"If you get hurt again, I won't be the one picking up the pieces," Minho huffed, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He left the rest of the dishes undone, wiping his hands on a towel before disappearing into his room.

The tension in the apartment lingered. The last thing you needed was him being mad at you. Although, Minho's frustration was nothing compared to the storm brewing in your chest. With or without his blessing, you had to face your tangled mess of emotions.

A buzz interrupted your train of thought, you slipped your phone out of your handbag and read the notification.

Hyune: I know I said we would meet there but I'm outside your apartment. You don't mind if I give you a ride right? If it's too weird I can just go.

Y/N: It's okay. I'll be out in a minute.

The car ride was filled with small talk and a comfortable familiarity that you hadn’t anticipated, especially considering how cold he had been the last time you saw him. An ease lingered in the air, the kind of casual chatter which made it feel like no time had passed at all. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, the same dry humor which used to irritate you, now felt oddly comforting. The tension you braced yourself for never materialized; instead, it felt like slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes—familiar, yet strange and new.

You'd almost forgotten how the interior of the restaurant, La Luxe Charm, looked. Bathed in warm, intimate glows of low golden lighting.

Hyunjin's hand ghosted your waist, his fingertips close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin but never quite making contact. His frame stood beside yours, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne— Mint and raspberry, reached your nose, refreshing and sweet.

As you stepped inside, the clicking of your heels was silenced, the plush carpet beneath muffling the sound of your steps. The walls were lined with a deep crimson velvet, embossed with intricate golden patterns which shimmered subtly under the soft light of chandeliers which hung overhead. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the faint aroma of gourmet dishes being prepared in the kitchen.

Dark wood panels created a sense of secrecy, while gilded frames adorned the walls, each holding carefully chosen artwork that spoke of refined taste. Your gaze drew to one of the paintings, the style eerily familiar.

Instinctually, you reached for Hyunjin's hand, intertwining your fingers. His skin was warm against yours, the subtle callouses on his fingertips a reminder of the hours he spent painting. You turned your head slightly, leaning closer until your lips hovered near his ear, your voice dropping to a whisper, "It seems like they have taste too. Look at the work they're featuring."

You glanced back at him, catching the way his gaze lingered on your joined hands. His expression softened, almost as if he were entranced by how naturally your fingers fit together.

"Hyune?" The name slipped out before you could stop it. His eyes flicked to yours, surprised. "Oh. Sorry." You quickly dropped his hand, the warmth lingering on your fingertips. A blush crept up your cheeks as you glanced away, suddenly self-conscious. "Force of habit," you mumbled, the words barely audible.

"Hmm? yeah it's flattering to say the least."

You forced your gaze ahead of you. Tables were draped in crisp white linens, set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses. But the booths were your favourite part, deep and inviting, with high backs, offering an air of privacy and comfort as patrons conversed in hushed tones. Everything about the space—every detail from the dark, rich color palette to the gleaming accents— you adored. It was the sort of place where time seemed to slow, and every moment felt like something to savor.

You were led to your table by a cute waitress, her smile genuine as she gestured toward the velvet-upholstered chair. Hyunjin stepped in, excusing the waitress and pulled out the chair for you, a warm smile dancing on his lips.

The waitress dipped, placing the menus and glasses on the table. The soft swish of her movements almost blended into the elegant surroundings and her gaze lingered for just a moment longer before she turned to leave.

"I can't believe we used to come here every Wednesday. We'd argue so much over what pasta to try and then you'd steal my desert." You sat, placing your handbag on the floor by your foot. You ghosted your hands over the menu, avoiding his intense stare.

Hyunjin tilted his head. "You say that like you didn’t always end up taking half of mine!"

"I liked seeing you get all worked up over it. You always took everything so seriously." You giggled, airy and light. "This restaurant was only my favourite because you introduced it to me you know."

He paused and you glanced up, drawn to his silence. His silky onyx hair framed his face in a way which seemed effortlessly deliberate. His lips, naturally full and slightly pouted, parted as if he were about to speak but thought better of it. Your eyes roamed down his body, the tailored suit he wore was jet black, its sharp lapels accentuating his shoulders. The crisp white shirt beneath, unbuttoned at the top, hinting at a casual defiance of formality. Definitely on purpose.

Your eyes traced the sharp lines of his jaw before settling on the small slit in his left eyebrow. Subtle yet striking—a detail that added an edge to his otherwise polished appearance. It was new.

He noticed your stare, and for a fleeting moment, his lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Well. You were always the carefree one, always able to shrug things off. I admired that. Took one day at a time."

"And you," You pointed your finger at him. "Were always trying to fix everything. Always had a plan. I never understood how you did it. I couldn’t keep up." That's why I was left behind... your smile faded. "You always knew what the next step was."

Hyunjin shook his head and stared at the menu. "I didn't. I just pretended like I knew what I was doing."

"And now look at you! Mr. Artist." You rested your chin on interlaced hands.

"Hah." He sighed, "Yeah."

You frowned at his tone—hollow and restrained. It didn’t match the warmth he once carried, the easy laughter that used to light up every room he stepped into. "So what was it really like? Paris!"

"It was great at the start. The classes were fun, I made some really good friends. I think you'd love Jeongin." The corner of his lips tugged upward. "I owned my own studio and was invited to prestigious events. All the flashy bullshit."

"It sounds like fun."

"Yeah until I grew bored. I couldn't place my finger on it. My work became monotonous. Lacking colour and emotion. My recent pieces I scrapped. I seem to have lost my inspiration." he said, his voice low as his eyes locked with yours, steady and unwavering. "So, I guess that's the reason I'm here."

Your brows furrowed. He couldn’t be implying what you thought he was, could he? The air between you thickened with the question hanging in the space, a subtle tension building that made your heart skip. You watched him closely, searching his face for any signs of a joke, any hint that he wasn’t being serious. But there was nothing. Only the quiet intensity of his gaze and the weight of his words sinking in.

"You came back to find new inspiration?" you asked, your voice edged with disbelief.

"I think I realized my very flaw," Hyunjin began, his voice faltering slightly, "My work has always been inspired by the people around me and—" He paused, visibly struggling to find the words. His gaze dropped to the table for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of his glass as if the motion would give him the courage to continue. His usual confidence, the one you used to admire so much, seemed to be slipping away, replaced by something more vulnerable.

He met your eyes again, his expression softer, almost hesitant. "I’ve spent so much time trying to capture things that weren’t mine to hold. People. Moments. You. All of my art has one common denominator," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. He didn’t say it outright, but you didn’t need him to. The unspoken truth laid bare between you, like a canvas waiting for its final stroke.

Your stomach tightened as his gaze lingered on yours, searching for a reaction. You didn’t know what to say, your thoughts tangled between disbelief, anger, and something dangerously close to longing. The realization crept over you slowly, each piece falling into place like a puzzle you weren’t sure you wanted to solve.

"Me," You whispered lowly, your chin trembled and you let out a sharp exhale.

"I didn’t expect to feel… like this, when we sat down again. I thought it’d just be some casual catch-up." Hyunjin let out an airy, nervous laugh. "I didn't plan a monologue or anything so I'm flying by the edge of my seat here."

"Yeah me neither." You hesitated, "I don’t think I ever really stopped thinking about you."

"I get it," he said softly, voice laced with regret. "I tried to bury a lot of things too. Things we never talked about. But now, seeing you again… I realize there's so much I still wish I had said."

"Like what?" you asked, the words escaping before you could stop them.

He hesitated, fingers fidgeting as he stared down at them. "I'm sorry," he finally murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "For leaving the way I did. I never gave you a proper explanation. Telling Felix and Minho, expecting that to be enough? I couldn't even stomach telling you to your face." A bitter laugh escaped him as he glanced away. "How much more of a coward could I have been?"

"Hyune. You don't have to apologise. You were following your dream and I just didn't fit into that space anymore. I understood, I just think... I think I wanted you to fight harder to stay. It's silly."

He reached over the table, his hand brushing lightly against yours. The contact sent a soft shiver through you. His hands were as gentle as you remembered them—warm, soft, and full of the careful tenderness. "It’s not silly," he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity.

You looked up at him, surprised by the firmness in his words, but before you could speak, he cleared his throat. "I—I, uh, brought a present with me," he said, his eyes flickering with something like nervousness.

Surprise painted your features as he pulled out the present, a canvas wrapped in simple brown paper, the size of a painting. Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at it. He hesitated for a moment before handing it to you. "I thought... you might like this."

You took the canvas carefully, fingers brushing over the smooth texture of the paper, the edges slightly creased from the wrapping. The soft rustling of paper echoed in your ears as you peeled it away, revealing the canvas piece by piece. Hyunjin watched you intently, his hands resting in his lap.

Your breath caught. It was a painting of you. Your body, bare and exposed, captured in a way that felt so intimate it almost hurt to look at. The brushstrokes were so delicate and shadows seemed to dance around your form, casting a softness that made the image almost too real. The lines of your body were captured with such detail, it was as though he memorized every inch of your form—your bare skin glowing, the faint curve of your waist, the gentle arch of your back.

A rush of heat flooded your face. You didn't know how to feel. Shocked, confused? maybe even angry, but none of it seemed to come together. You expected many things, but this? This wasn’t what you imagined. The intimacy of the piece unsettled you—too much of your body laid bare, too much of your soul exposed.

Your voice was barely a whisper, as if saying the words out loud made the weight of them even heavier. "My scar is there..." Your eyes fixed on the painting, not quite seeing it anymore, but instead tracing the path of the old wound that marred your skin.

The image of your body, so exposed and raw, was both beautiful and jarring. Hyunjin captured your form so delicately, but in that moment, all you could see was the mark, the jagged line, etched into your flesh from years ago. It had been a part of you for so long, hidden beneath layers of clothing and carefully constructed walls, something you rarely allowed anyone to see, let alone be immortalized in oil paints.

Your chest tightened. The scar became a focal point. It was a reminder of pain, of loss, of something you'd never fully healed from. The scar wasn’t just physical; it carried years of emotional weight, an experience you never spoke about. Not even with him.

You felt a coldness settle over you. What had he seen when he painted you like this? Did he see only your beauty, your vulnerability, your essence? Or did he see the scar, too? Did he know what it represented? Did he understand how much it hurt to see it laid bare, stripped of the protection you'd spent years building?

You wanted to tell him how you felt, to explain the confusion, the grief that welled up inside you. But the words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong in the same space as the picture before you. How could you explain his painting awakened something you weren't ready to face, something that had been buried for far too long?

Tears stung the back of your eyes, but you fought them, swallowing the lump in your throat. The warmth of the room seemed to fade, replaced by a suffocating tension. "Thank you, Hyune."

He blinked, caught off guard. "You don't like it?" His voice quietened.

You shook your head, avoiding his gaze, struggling to keep your composure. "I'm sorry. I think this was a mistake. I don’t think I can do this." You stood abruptly. The weight of the words felt like a confession.

"Y/N!" The desperation in his voice hit you like a punch and he gripped your wrist, his touch almost bruising.

Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you locked gazes with him. In that silent exchange, a thousand unspoken words passed between you. The worry carved into his expression only made it harder to hold yourself together.

His hand, once firm and grounding, loosened its grip, hesitating as if unsure whether to comfort you or give you space. That small gesture, the faltering of his touch spoke volumes.

You left and didn't look back.

[justaz]

i've had this au idea for a while and have tried writing it but i don't get far into it before abandoning it so ill post it in case someone else wants to write it or take some inspiration from it or what have you. s4ep1/2 au.

merlin uses his magic to just latch arthur's feet to the ground as well as lancelot's when he sees him creeping towards the veil. merlin turns to face them as he walks backwards, revealing his gold eyes and magic to arthur which barely registers in his mind as he understands what merlin's doing and Panics. he's yelling and almost begging and demanding merlin to get back here you idiot. i'm the king you listen to me

and merlin just smiles and is like when have i ever listened to you? and steps into the veil, sacrificing himself and closing it. with his death, his magic releases arthur and lancelot who are just like. what the fuck. and grief-stricken. and angry. anyways they go back to camelot and lancelot stays with gwen and they mourn together. gwaine is. a wreck. the knights are all grieving. arthur is just. gone. like. he closes himself in his chambers for like two weeks. he doesn't sleep, he doesn't eat, he can barely function. anyways merlin watches him from the veil as a spirit, he watches all of them and is a little guilty about causing them so much grief and heart ache but he rather them be sad and alive than dead so he doesn't regret it that much

magic lore i made up - since merlin gave his life in an exchange, he gets to remain conscious and aware within the veil. the other spirits that roam around are focused on whatever's keeping them there (and keeping them from moving on to the afterlife). there's a lot of sorcerers in camelot who are angry and crying because they were executed by uther - their heads cut off, their bodies charred, or their necks bent at odd angles. they wander around calling for justice. anyways ygraine's life was also taken in an exchange so what i'm saying is ygraine and merlin best friends arc.

they both watch over arthur with worry and then one day arthur just storms out of his chambers and down to the library and buries himself in books, searching desperately for a way to bring merlin back. with how little he's eating and sleeping, arthur ends up passing out and has a nightmare. merlin reaches out on instinct wishing to comfort him and ends up getting pulled into his dreams, only with his intention being to comfort, his arrival shifts the dream from a nightmare into something a lot more pleasant - merlin and arthur together and alive and...courting? it looks like? arthur leans in to kiss him but the dream dissipates right before their lips meet.

anyways, that happens a few times with a few different dreams as arthur searches for a way to open the veil again and bring merlin back. i have two different endings for this though. one is, since merlin is emrys and immortal, after some time the cailleach comes back and is like "immortal asshole. i took some of your eternal life force but you're still immortal but the veil is still sealed. i can't keep someone who still has all this life. get out." and just pushes him out of the veil and into his body again. OR arthur finds a way to bargain with the cailleach and sees his mother with merlin and bada bing bada boom (i forgot to add that arthur at some point finds out about his uncles treachery lmao) trades agravaine's life for ygraine's and then his father's (he can't stand to see his father wasting away and sees this peaceful death as mercy) for merlin's. and he gets his mom and bf best friend manservant back.

after everything settles down, arthur finally has time to focus on merlin's magic but with the trauma of almost losing him, he finds he really can't care about it and just repeals the ban to keep from even thinking about executing him so merlin will never be in danger again. ygraine is also happy about this bc i hc she had a little bit of magic. she learned from her gf nimueh. bonus hc bc i feel like it - ygraine and uther were married and loved each other, yes, but ygraine took nimueh as her consort and uther took balinor as his consort.

okay thats all. if anyone actually writes this or anything similar to it, it'd love to read it. pls tag me or dm me <3

[mirroredmemoriez]

John Kramer and The Denlon's

Cracks everything in my body. It's time to yap. I keep going on in many posts about the fact John is just as flawed as those he tries to ''better'', so I want to go over one of my main comparisons in a tad more depth than I have before. John Kramer and Jeff Denlon honestly are very similar when it comes to their backstory and need for revenge due to grief. Even though John always states that he tests people so they become grateful for being alive- It's very obvious in some cases, he's doing it for his own type of gratification too. For example, Cecil Adams who caused Jill Tuck to miscarry and then Cecilia Pederson who scammed John. He didn't put these people in traps just because of his philosophy, but because they were also very ''close to home'' for him.

The loss of a child is very integral to both John and Jeff's character. Both of these men crave justice.... However, the way they want it and how they achieve it isn't exactly the most healthy thing. It leads both of them to neglect their partners, Jill and Lynn. (Just took a break to eat leftover spaghetti I am legit lost in the sauce- I don't plan out these little rants I do, so I just go where rambling takes me.) When it comes to the major differences between them, Jeff is more rage fuelled, at least in how he carries himself. His anger manifests more verbally and physically than John- Which is his downfall, alongside him not listening or acting when needed. This is a bit of a reach, but another thought nonetheless and nothing I say needs to be something I'm 100% on anyway. Danica Scott, the only other witness to Dylan's death didn't cause Jeff's son's demise, however her lack of action and fleeing the scene made her someone Jeff would want to take revenge upon anyway.

Amanda, although she had more involvement with Gideon's death, seeing as she was the one to convince Cecil to rob the clinic, didn't take physical action either. However, outside of her just being a drug addict- It is debated whether or not John always knew about her role in Jill Tuck's miscarriage, another reason for her to be tested.

We've also got basic comparisons such as the fact Jill and Lynn are both in the medical field and having mentioned Lynn again? Her demeanour is more like John than anybody else I have brought up in this post I'd say- I can't really word well why I think that, but it's there anyway. (Another thing to add is how in Saw 3, John in his delirious state starts getting confused and thinking Lynn is Jill.)

Might as well slip some others thoughts in here too whilst I'm fucking rambling this much- I don't have too many complex thoughts on Jeff Denlon I guess, I basically seem him as an example within the Saw universe about a person who cannot let go enough that it results in his trauma and vengeance taking over his life and ending it too. He's not a evil or terrible man, just very flawed. He had some of the physically easiest traps in the franchise to complete, but because he never made an effort to heal and instead remained stagnant within his grief... He takes too long to take action and morally flip flops all over the place when it comes to what decision he'll make- It's that or he doesn't assess the long term consequences of things such as never forgiving. I personally don't think he ever has to forgive someone like Timothy Young- However, I do believe he let's it impact his life and those around him too much. Corbett didn't deserve the neglect she faced and she herself is a child grieving her sibling. Grief and forgiveness are very hard topics to navigate, but I honestly as a viewer felt the most bad for Corbett more so than Jeff or even Lynn. Coming back to Lynn, I believe she ''learnt'' the most or at least came to terms with things faster within her trap than Jeff. She didn't have time to dwell or not be fast paced with her choices, because her life was connected to John's. She was doing her best not only to stay alive, but to get back to her family even if it was dysfunctional. (Me when I come back to this in my drafts weeks later, time to attempt to find the wave length I was on whilst doing this before.) It's an interesting though to picture different people in other traps. For example, if Lynn was going through Jeff's test. Would she have reacted faster than him and made clear cut decisions? Could she forgive? Jeff is no medical professional and his rage wouldn't let him care for John to the best of his ability so we know he'd fumble that, which is why I'm more so focused on Lynn in his test. Lynn's grief is more ''subtle'' compared to Jeff's and as an audience it's hard to pinpoint what her thoughts and opinions of those involved with her sons death would've been. She turned to antidepressants and her fractured marriage led her to having an affair, not to mention the child neglect. But when it comes down to it, we don't see as much as a drive for revenge and justice within Lynn as we do Jeff. This would mainly come down to screen time, setting and general context but it's an interesting thought of how she'd handle someone like Danica or Timothy if they were right in front of her.

This is why I say she learnt the most from her test compared to Jeff in his? After everything she went through with Amanda constantly up her ass and power drilling through a guys skull- All Lynn wanted was to reunite with her family. Like, the only time we see Lynn exert full physical violence is in a deleted scene where she attacks Amanda.... And even then that is because she wants the key for her collar more so than a drive to murder the other woman. On all accounts, she actually won that scuffle as well.

But then for example Jeff when he finally encounters John? He just can't help himself! Lynn literally is on the floor bleeding out, reaching for him not to leave and this man just can't NOT go and fulfil his need for vengeance. He'd literally just acted upon it before too by shooting Amanda, though that is more understandable giving the context of the fact she shot Lynn..... I think overall this is why so many people dislike Jeff but they just can't word it? Like he's been dubbed ''slow ass motherfucking Jeff''- But it's not really the speed of execution, it's either the lack of long term critical thinking and or the fact he's indecisive? Jeff doesn't have the weight of a contraption around his neck and or his life truly on the line like his wife.... However, somehow Lynn is still managing her test better than him with a freaky little lesbian on her ass and doing backhouse brain surgery on some random old dude with a fucking power drill. I'll also bring up the fact that like John and Jeff, Mark Hoffman has a pretty similar drive and motive to the both of these men. Just like how Jeff saw his sons death, Mark saw the aftermath of his sisters murder for example. All three of them feel justified in their actions against those who have wronged them and etc....

And as I always bring up in character studies like these, the perceptions from the audience are so interesting- Especially when you start comparing characters. It will come as no surprise when I say, I am a pretty active Tumblr user... Through this? The interactions with media and popularity of characters from Saw on this platform are decently clear. First I'll get it out the way that screen time plays a big role in making characters fan favourites. Although, Adam is a subversion to this as he's only in one movie (alive) and likely the most popular Saw character- Anyway! Using John, Jeff and Mark as examples here still... As previously stated, these three men can be considered quite alike in some aspects! But our perceptions of them are quite different due to how they're presented and what we know about them. John is an older sickly man, his life being cut short by the fact he has terminal cancer. His wife miscarries and later on then becomes ex-wife and then also somewhere down the line he gets scammed by a fake cancer treatment....All in all? Dude's kinda got fucked over. But what I haven't mentioned yet in this brief is the fact that whilst most of this is going on, peepaw is designing elaborate death traps and testing people in them slash indoctrinating some into his fuckass ideology! He as a character get's quite a neutral response and or a 50/50 split? He's Jigsaw, the face of the franchise.... There is a decent amount to discuss in regards to him. However, when it all comes down to it it I wouldn’t say he’s favoured as much as other characters.

Moving to Jeff, he witnessed his own son get killed in a hit and run and the grief and injustice of that basically made him spiral into neglecting himself but also his family. He cannot move forward from the loss of Dylan and this is why during his test he is so slow to act- I think one thing to mention here too, is this is something John likely accounted for. Jeff’s test is designed for him and the challenge isn’t that of " OH CUT YOU ARM” it’s for him to overcome his grief and to choose whether to forgive or let those involved with Dylan’s passing die. It’s easy for us as viewers behind the screen to think that he could’ve done almost everything faster. But we’re not Jeff. It’s shown time and time again mentally he just cannot move on and the only reason he is making progress though the test is due to its nature, average therapy? Jeff just wouldn’t go because he refuses to confront HIMSELF in regards to his own grief and would rather wallow in fantasies of revenge.

Mark Hoffman? Obviously the case I’ll bring up with him is that of his sister's murder. Angelina is his only close relative, with no other mention of Mark’s family in the franchise really. So, when she is killed in a case of domestic violence and he also sees her dead body? Yeah, that’s certainly the kind of thing to fuck someone up mentally. Which is why Mark then developed a drinking problem to cope and started to display more erratic behaviour such as shooting a man three times who’d actually surrendered beforehand…. By the time Seth Baxter his sister's killer is released from prison via a technicality- Mark has no quarrels with taking his revenge via abducting him and placing him in a Jigsaw like trap. However, as we all know, this trap is by no means escapable and is only being used by Mark as a scapegoat to get away with murdering Seth. This act then kickstarts his life as an apprentice for John when he himself is abducted.

(I legit forgot this was in my drafts- Months later. I’ll post this now even if it’s not really complete…)

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 18 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: To dodge any further run-ins with the law, you and Arthur leave the trail, coming upon a barn reminiscent of your past.

Author’s Notes: Sexual content in this chapter (can I get a FINALLY)! Chapter eighteen of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Eighteen: Escape and Release

Word count: 9229

Arthur rode hard the next few days, only stopping to make sure you were still following along. He had told those lawmen he was headed to the next town, so to avoid that confrontation, the two of you backtracked. It would take a week or two longer to reach your destination, but in the grand scheme of things, it was better than another noose. Truth be told, he wasn’t quite free of the last one—like it still cut at his neck even though it was long gone. He chalked it up to so closely avoiding death that the feeling would take a while to wear off. He had more pressing matters to worry about anyway.

The temperature soon dropped again, and the snow came with the cold in short bursts. Shelter was hard to come by, so at the first glance of trees, Arthur loosed rein and made camp for the night. You would both need some kind of sleep to make it to the next closest settlement. He wasn’t exactly sure how far away that was, but he didn’t want to be distracted with exhaustion in the case those lawmen did find you.

Skipping the fire, Arthur wordlessly built the tent with numb hands and little willpower, relying on the second nature that came with pitching canvas so often that he didn’t have to think about it.

Your voice carried to him from where you were tending to your mule, the sound floating over on the wind. “I think I prefer the tent to a town.”

He finished hammering the last stake in and looked to you. “You’re the only one. Even those two preferred the stable,” he said, gesturing to the horse and mule.

You eyed him over your shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, the bed was…nice.” Your face went red, and Arthur had to keep from letting his very recent memories of you surface lest he get any ideas. “It just seems to me that towns means trouble. This is uncomplicated.”

Arthur kept his quip to himself, that those wolves had wanted to eat you in the tent just as bad as the lawmen had wanted to kill you in town. But you were right about the simplicity of it. If only it were meant to last.

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we can’t stay long. Being out in the open like this is easy pickings for any lawmen who’ll be after us.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we need somewhere to hide. This ain’t hiding.”

“So another town then?” you said, sounding more tired than he’d heard you yet.

“Not necessarily. There’s homesteads along the road to these bigger towns. Maybe we’ll come across one soon and we can all sleep in peace.”

“Maybe,” you said quietly, like you doubted it. Only he knew what that doubt was about, and it didn’t concern finding any homestead. It was about how little peace you had left.

Arthur rose to his feet and walked over to you, taking the brush you were using on Harriet, using it himself so you had no reason to avoid what he was about to ask.

“You want to talk about it?”

“About what?” you said with a sharpness he knew to be fake.

He eyed you. “You killed someone. I know it’s bothering you.”

Arthur thought you were deep in thought about the matter until he realized your gaze had fallen to the gun at his hip. Like the thing would come to life and bite you. He covered it with his hand. “Look, I know what you’re feeling. It ain’t nice. But keeping it all bottled up will eat you alive.”

You let out a pitiful laugh. “I know that already. I’m barely over the last thing.”

The last thing being your parents, something you weren’t over in the slightest. Something he didn’t expect you to be over for the rest of your life. “You don’t have to get over it. Just…I’m here if you want to talk. Believe it or not, I do have some experience in the matter.”

You laughed again, a more genuine sound this time though still sad. But it wasn’t until you met his eyes that Arthur’s breath caught in his chest. All he wanted, all he ever wanted these days, was to kiss that look you gave him. And he had to tamp down hard on every urge, every thought, in order to keep his desires to himself. That wasn’t what you needed from him right now.

“Thank you,” you said softly, turning back to your mule. A dismissal. Arthur accepted it and handed you the brush back, letting you be. You would talk when you were ready.

Glad the wind didn’t have its usual sting, Arthur stepped into the tent without worrying over warmth for once, letting his tiredness ease his bones. He knew the safety he felt in distance away from those lawmen wouldn’t last long, but he settled into it for now, laying back on your bedroll and letting sleep steal over him quickly.

It wasn’t long before Arthur woke to you kneeling in after him. You settled at his side and laid a hand across his chest, pressing a kiss to his cheek before curling against him. The feeling broke something in him. He wasn’t meant for closeness such as this, but there he was craving it, giving up all rational thought that it wouldn’t last or that it didn’t mean the same to you. For once, Arthur let himself believe that this was what he deserved. And sleep came easy when he thought of it that way—as just a man grateful to be lying next to you.

~

You and Arthur kept moving, kept pushing, getting farther away from the recent past that wouldn’t leave you be. After four days had come and gone, Arthur turned out to be right about the occasional homestead. He still refused to stop at the first one you came to, saying it was too easy for anyone on your trail to find you there. He wanted something a bit more off the path, much less obvious to a passer-by. So with this, you left the path. It was the first time you had done so since starting this journey, and you couldn’t deny it made you nervous. But Arthur seemed to know what he was doing and where he was going, and he hadn’t led you astray so far. After all the two of you had been through, you trusted him with your life. So you laid it in his hands and followed, unable to find the will to carry that weight yourself anyway. Grateful to have the comfort of someone you could rely on.

Two more days passed before any sign of human life surfaced, and when it did, it wasn’t quite what you expected. In a clearing of land that would be beautiful in the warmer months, an old barn stood alone, surrounded by nature and nothing else. No paths, no wagon tracks, no sign that anyone had lived here in ages.

Arthur was much more confident about approaching the barn than you, as it really was quite old and looked as though the roof may cave in at even the thought of more snow. You were also none too eager to meet someone living there. If anyone lived there at all. It didn’t seem likely, but you were done with other people for the time being. In fact, you hoped the rest of this trip held nothing but Arthur until you saw your extended family again.

The thought of your family had you distracted enough to follow Arthur all the way up to the barn front. He stopped his horse and swung off of her. “Wait here.”

You nodded and took Boadicea’s reins from him, looking away when he pulled his gun. The memory of that metal in your hand made your skin crawl. You couldn’t block out the sudden sight of how that man’s head had caved to the bullet you shot so easily, all semblance of life gone the moment you pulled the trigger.

You’d told yourself over and over that he was already aiming for Arthur, that if you hadn’t shot, he would have. You would be much more devastated over Arthur’s death than one you had caused, not to mention you’d likely be dead now too. Still, you couldn’t stop it as a skull was cracked open, and blood splattered on the brick wall, and what used to be an eye was nothing but carnage. Death was ugly in that it was so freely given. It took nothing to end that man’s life—a pinch of your finger. And everything was over in a moment and impossible to take back and so, so red.

The creaking barn door startled you when Arthur swung it open wide. “Place is empty. Bring them in with you.”

You gave Harriet a pat to remind yourself of the present—to stay out of that godforsaken moment—and started her forward, tugging Boadicea along. When the three of you passed the threshold, you forgot momentarily about death and a gun’s purpose. For before you was an open room that felt safer than anything you had yet come across—it closely resembled the barn your father had built in Montana.

Arthur closed the door behind you and your mounts, but you didn’t move to dismount. You could only stare at the open-aired inside of the barn with its stalls on one side and its loft above. It was much older than the one you’d left behind, its age obvious in its wood and how it had been pieced together, but it felt right. It smelled right. And you knew why—the hay over in the corner was fresh. Much too fresh for the place to be devoid of human life.

“You sure we’re alone?” you asked quietly, nodding to the hay.

“Seems we just missed whoever lives here,” Arthur answered, taking his horse from you and leading her back to one of the makeshift stalls. “There’s a journal on that table over there with an entry dated two days ago. Says the author was headed out to hunt some prized deer he’d been after for a few weeks now. He doesn’t expect to be back for another two or three days.”

“How convenient,” you said, though you weren’t sure you felt it. It seemed bad luck had followed you all the way here, and what was to stop it from reaching you in this place? Though you couldn’t deny the feeling of sentimentality and comfort it brought you. And this far off the path, at least the only person you would come across was the owner of this barn. You would take your chances that he would be better company than the lawmen that were sure to be after you.

You let that smell of fresh hay overtake you and got off of Harriet, leading her back to the same stall Arthur had taken his mare to. There was another stall beyond it, but it had a bed and a nightstand in it that both looked to be roughly handmade. It seemed whoever lived here had learned to live off the land entirely, making his own furniture, hunting for his food. Paying closer attention, you could even see parts of the barn that had been mended, new wood brought in and patched to keep the structure from falling apart.

You gave Arthur time to unsaddle Boadicea before leading Harriet in with her, glad the two got along well enough for the tight space. You took to unsaddling her too as Arthur brought some of the hay over for them.

“I’ll bet there’s a water source nearby if someone’s out here living rough like this. I’ll go-”

“No,” you said quickly, turning to him. “Just…stay. Just for a little while, then we’ll go together.”

He studied you a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” He motioned for you to give him the saddle you had just taken off your mule. You handed it over, hoping he wouldn’t bring up what you knew he inevitably would. What he already had. You couldn’t talk about that yet. Instead, you just wanted to lie on that handmade bed and take in the smell of this place, the memories it brought you. You wanted Arthur to tell you nonsense stories like he normally did to pass the time. You wanted to stay here forever and never have to face what you had done.

You stepped out of the stall and over to the bed, letting Arthur handle the saddle. You sat slowly, listening to the subtle shift of the rough wood beneath your weight. Your bed back home had been nothing like this, but still you found yourself smiling, your heart aching over the loss of something so mundane.

“What’s that look for?” Arthur said, peeking over the stall top at you while he lowered your saddle over it.

You weren’t sure what your answer would be until any thought of one got caught in your throat at the look he was giving you—a smug one. It took you a moment to get past how annoyingly handsome it made him, and even then, that left you to realize why he was making such a face. You didn’t exactly have much to smile over these days, and he knew that. So he must be thinking the same thing you were now, about the last time the two of you had had a bed and a moment to spare.

You shook your head at him.

“Nah, come on. It’s something.”

“It’s nothing,” you assured him, truthfully wanting to keep that peaceful feeling to yourself. You didn’t want to interrupt whatever he was thinking either.

He snickered. “You’re a shit liar.”

“And you’re nosy.”

He held up his hands in defeat but began walking over, every step closer making your heart pound a little harder. “Can’t deny that,” he quipped.

You kept eyes on him, like he would pounce if you didn’t. He entered the stall but leaned against the far corner, pulling out a cigarette. Most times, he did this to calm his nerves, but this seemed more like habit. He looked far too pleased with himself to be nervous.

“You eyeing me like that because you want one or because of those guarded little thoughts you’re having?” he asked, holding out the cigarette toward you.

“Neither,” you said too quickly. It just made him grin.

“It’s gotta be something,” he pushed.

“Forget it.” You wanted to scoff but found a smile on your face instead, though you did manage to break away from that blue-eyed stare. You laid back on the bed. His resulting chuckle ran through you like rich honey, catching on every crevice, sticking to you the same way the sight of his mouth did. You wanted him for it. But you were too worn down and too stubborn to admit it.

You turned away from him with force and settled down despite the even deeper laugh that pulled from him. At least you could attempt sleep with that sound ringing loud instead of the other that plagued you. You even found yourself smiling wider still when you heard him mutter, “Stubborn as always.” Perhaps so, but it was easy to be stubborn where he was concerned.

The days of hard travel melted away at the thought of Arthur and of how easy it was for him to distract you. Maybe he knew you better than you thought. That was…comforting, in a way. Comforting enough that without warning, sleep found you before you could even think to reach for it.

~

Arthur watched over you as you slept. It was the first time he didn’t allow himself to join you in it in days. For one thing, he had no certainty about when the barn’s usual occupant would return. He didn’t want any surprises. But for another, he was a goddamn live wire of restless energy. He wanted to join you on that bed for reasons entirely opposite of sleep, wanted to know what thoughts you were too embarrassed to tell him. He wanted and wanted until there was nothing left to want because you were lying there not feet from him, beautiful on that bed. He felt the need to take advantage of that while he could. But he stayed away, unwilling to be so selfish. The phrase it’s for the best passed through his head so many times he was starting to get annoyed by it. Much more of this, and he would have to go outside for a beat, walk his energy off. That probably wasn’t smart either. The last time he had gone into a separate room as you all worked up like this, he had ended up taking himself in hand to the thought of you. That memory was so unhelpful that Arthur was nearly glad when you gave him an excuse to refocus his mind, even if it came at the cost of whatever peace you had.

“No,” you murmured, still held under by sleep. Arthur watched you but let you be, wanting to let you rest. Then you said it again, a desperate sound.

“You okay?” he asked softly. You didn’t hear him, caught up in whatever was making you plead like that.

“No…no!” You jerked awake. Your chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, your eyes wide.

“Just a dream,” he told you, resisting the urge to lay a calming hand on you. You looked at him like a wild animal would, like you didn’t even recognize him. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your current predicament finally seemed to dawn on you, as your wide eyes softened some. “It’s- he was…”

Arthur was a breath away from distracting you from whatever nightmare you were still waking up from until he realized what it was very likely about—that man you’d killed. As hard as it would be, you needed to talk about it. Get it out in the open. So he kept his mouth firmly shut and watched you piece it together.

“They told me to kill him.”

He was right. “Who?”

You ran a hand over your face and laid back. “Those deputies. That marshal. Then you and…and Pa was…it didn’t make any sense.”

“You good?” Arthur repeated after a moment. You looked at him, hurt filling your eyes with a look so sad he couldn’t bear it. “Hey,” he said softly. “It was just a dream. It’s over now.”

That had the opposite effect he wanted it to. Your face crumpled. You were sobbing and turning away faster than he could stop you. He crossed the space and leaned over you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“They’re gone,” you said through a racking sob. “And I almost lost you too. And I had to-”

He sat on the bed, letting you speak. Letting you work it out for yourself.

“I killed him, Arthur,” you choked out.

“I know.”

“No, in my dream. I killed him again. And he kept coming back to life, and they made me do it over and over again.”

Jesus. All Arthur could do was run his hand over the matted fur of your bison coat, his comforting words all dried up in the face of that particular horror.

“God, it was…it was so real.”

“It’s not real,” he assured you. “It’s done with.”

You just lay there crying, your breaths coming in a little steadier.

“Look, I know this ain’t the first or the last time that deputy’s death weighs on you. I’d be worried if it was. But it’s over now, and you can’t beat yourself up over a split decision like that.”

Your sobbing hardly let up.

“You saved my life,” Arthur said. “Twice. I’d be dead if you hadn’t done it.”

“I keep telling myself that,” you said, voice so weak it nearly broke him. Then you turned your face toward him, and the look on it did break him. Absolute despair. “But what would…what would they think?”

Your parents. Arthur lifted his hand to your hair and sighed as he brushed it back from your face. “I don’t know. But I do know they would be proud of you for how far you’ve come. And they would sure as shit be proud of you for feeling all this guilt even though you did what was necessary. Say what you will, but I know they raised you right because of that right there.”

You gave a weak smile that faltered on your trembling lip. Then you were crying again, and he knew there weren’t words to help ease that kind of pain. Best just to feel it. So he offered the only other thing he could. “It may not get easier,” he admitted. “But I’m here. As long as you need me.”

Surprisingly, that settled something in you. You raised up and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tight enough for him to feel your shaky breathing. He hugged you back, letting you rest your head on his shoulder. Pulling you in close enough that the embrace became something he needed just as much as you did.

“I got you.” The words left him without permission, without hesitation.

You finally took a long breath and let it out, never letting him go. “I know you do.”

Pride took hold of him.

After a long time like this, you finally pulled away and wiped your face. “Thank you. I can’t say how much it means to have you here.”

“‘Course,” he answered, reluctant to let his hand fall from your back. But he made it, letting the moment be over at your discretion, not his.

You turned away, eyes falling to your hands on your lap. You still looked so defeated that he spoke. “Let’s go find that water I was talking about. Get your mind off things.”

You never looked his way but nodded nonetheless. He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, rising, passing him by with a small, timid smile of thanks. It wasn’t until the two of you were nearly out of the door that you turned, saying, “You remember how you said it didn’t matter that I couldn’t shoot your gun?”

How wrong he was. “Sure.”

“I…I didn’t have time to think about it. He was going to kill you and I…” Arthur let you work through your thoughts. Your gaze pierced him when it met his. “It mattered this time.”

He just stared.

“I knew the shot would kill him the moment I lifted that gun. And I’d do it again. A thousand times over.”

He tried to brush this off, unable to say what it meant to him. “I don’t know that I deserve that kind of loyalty,” he said with a breath of a laugh.

“You do. Whatever pain I have, believe me when I say I don’t regret it. I would have rather died than lost you.”

The words were a force, spearing so deep in Arthur’s chest that he felt his breath snag on them.

“I just wish you never had to make that choice,” he said lowly.

“It was him or you,” you said simply. “No matter how bad it was bound to hurt, I’ll always pick you.”

~

You and Arthur returned to the barn, having found a small river about half a mile east. You both had full cantines and full buckets for the horses. As satisfied as you and he deserved to be, you were quiet. You’d never seen Arthur quite so contemplative as he was now that you’d poured your heart out to him. A sentimental look you’d never seen before had crossed his face at your confession, and since, he seemed to be caught up in it. But you weren’t exactly talkative either, and you couldn’t bring yourself to regret what you’d told him. So silence it was.

You watered your horses and did the only thing there was to do—went back to sitting around the stall with the bed in it. Arthur mentioned going hunting again due to how low your food supply was running. “Tomorrow,” you’d told him. It was late afternoon anyway. You were tired, probably more so after that harrowing nightmare, and he looked to be in about the same shape as you. So, knowing his pride wouldn’t let him do so without you suggesting it, you patted the bed beside you.

“Come sleep. You must be exhausted.”

He eyed your hand on the bed.

“I’ll stay up,” you told him, rising quickly in case that was the fault he was finding with this. “Don’t feel like sleeping now anyway after earlier.”

He shook his head. “Don’t stay up on my account.”

“You need it more than I do,” you insisted. “Rest.”

When he didn’t move, you rolled your eyes and crossed the small space, landing a hand on his back and pushing him toward the bed. Stubborn man. He relented though, lying down with hat and coat and boots still on. Only, when you made to move away, he caught your hand.

“Ought to be safe enough all the way out here for both of us to rest.”

You didn’t miss the small gleam in his eye, the one he couldn’t resist. The one that was making your face heat.

“I told you, I need to put some space between that dream I had and- Arthur!” He pulled you down atop him, then seemed to think better of it and settled you against his side, wrapping an arm around you so you couldn’t move away.

“Bullshit,” he said, smiling now as he turned on his side to face you. “You’ll be sleeping like a baby in minutes.”

“I will not.”

“You will.”

“And what makes you so sure?” you snapped, both annoyed and exhilarated over how close he was.

“Because you’re still just as tired as I am.”

“Is the fact that I want to avoid a certain terrifying nightmare not getting through that thick skull of yours?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” he asked, smiling wide when he caught you looking at his mouth. “‘Cause if I didn’t know any better, I’d say your mind was elsewhere.”

“It’s not,” you assured him, though he couldn’t be more right. Not as you thought of the last bed you had shared and of what the two of you had been doing while you shared it.

“Fine,” he said with enough sarcasm for you to know this was about to go south for you. “I can fix your little nightmare problem then.”

Curious, you took the bait. “How?”

Your eyes flicked to his mouth once more of their own volition, and his grin turned wicked. “I got something on my mouth, or are you just too busy remembering the last time we were in bed like this?”

You were flooded with such sudden embarrassment you couldn’t meet his eye, but that left you looking at his damn mouth again, and that was so much worse.

“Neither,” you said, your stubbornness digging its heels in.

“Admit it,” he coaxed, his smile so wide you wanted to return it.

“No,” you insisted. But this time, the hint of a grin in that word was your undoing.

“Either that, or stop lying so poorly,” he drawled. And the way his voice dragged out his words, so familiar and happy, had you throwing caution to the wind. Except you didn’t admit defeat in words. You proved it instead. Before he could react, you leaned forward and kissed Arthur, quick and sure. You pulled back beaming, then couldn’t help but break out into laughter at the shocked look on his face.

“That look,” you said. “Priceless.”

“You little-” He didn’t even finish the sentiment before he was on top of you, kissing you, his hat falling off at his eagerness. And you melted immediately into how good it felt, how much you needed this. How much you had missed it.

His fingers found the braid in your hair, something he seemed drawn to every time he got close, and pulled it away from your face as he continued to take your mouth. Then he grabbed your jaw with that hand, forcing your face up to stay with his as his tongue pushed into your mouth. Something about that greedy touch of his hand made you burn with desire. You let out a small noise into his mouth that made him pull back. He stared hard, his amusement gone, something much more desperate left behind.

Thinking you’d done wrong by that noise, you spoke. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

He crashed into you, his mouth on yours so wanting and brutal that you started to forget the world around you.

“Do it again,” he said into your mouth.

God, this was different. Before, he had been sweet and slow with you. He had eased you into lazy kisses and whispered words. This was not that. This was him wanting you more than you ever thought he would. It made you eager, to know he wanted you that way. To know you must be doing this right, as he slid his hand to your side, and the desperate grip he had against your ribs made you let out another quiet moan. It drove him mad. His kiss turned even more needy and harsh as his hand worked down your side, grasping your hip instead. His touch made you dizzy. You wanted him then, wanted him badly, in a way you didn’t know how to want a man.

“Arthur,” you breathed, half-question, half-need.

He pulled away again, looking at you so close you could see all the color in his eyes. Beautiful as he was.

“Too much?” he asked, the question soft for how aggressive he had just been.

“No. Not at all.”

You saw the same look come over him that meant he was about to kiss you again, but you stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Can you…” It seemed so childish a thing to ask. But if you didn’t put it into words, your inexperience would likely lead to one embarrassing encounter. Still, you couldn’t get the words past your tongue.

“What?” he asked, his lips so close. The look of him so caught on the edge of his own desire made you not want to ruin the moment. So you changed tracks.

“Is this how you planned on getting my nightmares to go away?”

He smirked. “No. But if it’s working, I much prefer this to what I had in mind.”

“Which was?”

He seemed a little disappointed in all the talk, his eyes dipping to your mouth before he let out a small breath through his nose. “Your question game.”

So as not to unravel this perfect moment any more, you took his face in your hands and kissed him, a quick press of your lips to his. “Tell me about it.”

His smirk returned. And with it, he slid his arm under you and pulled you against him as he turned back on his side, your bodies flush in a way they hadn’t yet been. It made your desire course through you so strong you could feel your heartbeat pound in every part of you. Mainly lower than usual, a tight need forming between your legs.

“Only if you agree to my rules,” Arthur teased.

“Which are?”

“I’ll answer your questions, but each one costs you a kiss.”

You grinned like an idiot. “I think I can manage that. But what do I get when I answer yours?”

His gaze turned dark, downright conspiratorial. “I ain’t gonna ask you any questions.”

You raised an eyebrow, conscious of the way his hand had dropped low on your back, fingers skimming just above your backside. “No?”

He shook his head. “I just thought of an even better way to get your nightmares to go away.”

“Care to enlighten me?” All this touch was driving you crazy. You just wanted to begin this, to sate your need any way you could.

“How about I show you?” His voice dropped low, his gaze doing the same, straight back to your mouth.

“I’d like that,” you muttered. You weren’t sure if it was you or him who gave in first, only that your mouths met once more, taking much more than that which would allow any innocent questions to remain. Your mind reeled with the possibilities.

“One more rule,” Arthur said, his voice a low breath as his mouth moved from your lips to your neck. He pressed a soft kiss to your skin, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine. “If I do anything you don’t want me to, you tell me, and I’ll stop.”

How in the world would he manage something you didn’t want? You wanted everything he could give you. More.

You nodded, baring your throat to him when his lips brushed over that sensitive skin again.

“Use your words,” he coaxed.

“I will,” you breathed, the words coming out like another moan.

“Good,” he said, voice thick with want. Then he moved away. “You’re up then,” he said, eyes catching yours and holding them, that gleam in them making you want to kiss him again. “Fire away.”

You started to think of a question when he moved down, kneeling over you. He began taking off your boot, and your mind went haywire over possible reasons for such a thing.

“How long have you wanted to kiss me?” you nearly whispered, letting him take the other boot off, your socks not far behind. His touch on your ankles and feet was electric, any place his skin brushed yours like wildfire.

“Every second since you kissed me the first time,” he said, crawling back upward, meeting your lips with his for the question.

His answer shocked you. You had thought he regretted that first kiss with how he had acted afterward. But he had given in so easily to your request back in town, acting like getting to kiss you then was an honor. So maybe he never was regretful. Maybe he, like you, wanted it too much. Maybe you were both idiots then. But not now. Now, he brushed his lips against yours in a kiss so tender it left you simultaneously breathless and needing more. Then he threw you a smirk and moved back down.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it before then. But it was different once I got to feel it for myself. All I could think about.”

Again, surprise. Had he wanted you before you’d even considered wanting him? You had to agree with him about that first time though—something had come alive in you that day. It seemed it had in him too.

Arthur started to unbutton your pants. His fingers so close to where that aching need coursed through you did something to you—your patience wore thinner.

“Was I any good at it?” you asked on an outward breath, knowing your inexperience was probably a detriment in that regard.

Arthur chucked as he got the last button free and slowly slid your pants from your legs. The tips of his fingers followed them all the way down, nothing but your short chemise blocking them now. “If you wasn’t, why on earth would I be left thinking about it all hours? Yes, you were good at it.” He tossed your pants aside into the growing pile of your clothes. “Still are.” He came back up and kissed you again, this time lingering. When he pulled away, he let out a satisfied hum. “Damn good.”

You couldn’t keep the smile off your face at that.

“Sit up,” he said, tossing your hat that had long since fallen off to the floor. You did as he said, very conscious of his weight over your bare legs. You wanted to feel his fingertips again.

Arthur slid your bulky bison coat from your shoulders, letting it fall away. He went to do the same to your older, underlayered coat but hesitated, meeting your eye.

“No more questions?”

“You’re distracting me,” you said honestly.

He smiled. “Think of another. I want an excuse to kiss you again.”

So did you.

“Can I undress you?”

He laughed again, that drawling sound that lit your bones with happiness. “Not this time. This is about your nightmares, remember?” You couldn’t understand how this could possibly be about nightmares, but you also couldn’t care. Not as Arthur’s hand lifted your chin, bringing your mouth to his in another achingly soft, drawn-out kiss.

When he pulled away, you were drunk on his touch, saying whatever thought came to mind. “But what if I want to?”

He smiled and went back to undressing you, taking your vest. “Another time.” But you wanted him now. Wanted to see all that muscle you knew hid beneath his clothes.

Any thought to protest fizzled away when his fingers came to your neck, beginning to unbutton your shirt. It was all that was left apart from your chemise.

“Have you thought of me naked?” you asked, all embarrassment over a question like that long gone.

His gaze hardened as he focused on the buttons. “Yes.”

“When?”

He finished with the last button and parted your shirt, helping you shrug it off before he met your gaze. “That’ll cost you two, I’m afraid.”

“Shall I ask a third?”

He grinned wide and came forward, pushing you back to the bed with the next kiss. This one was harder, his tongue finding yours. He pulled back only to move over you better, stretching his long body out over yours, the weight of him coming down on you like an answered prayer.

He kissed you a second time, trapping you between his arms, his body, and the bed. His knee moved upward, jutting between your legs and pressing into you in the perfect spot. You moaned into his mouth, loud this time.

“Thought about it plenty,” Arthur said breathlessly, mouth hardly an inch from yours. “Thought about you in that bath.”

“At the hotel?” you asked, and since it was technically a question, he kissed you again. Though you were willing to bet he would have done it regardless.

He pulled back and met your eye. “Wish I’d had the balls to go back in that room with you on my bed and do what I’ve been wanting to for some time now.”

“Which is?”

You hardly breathed waiting for an answer. You knew what it would be, but you wanted to hear him say it. All this talk was going straight to that pounding heat between your legs. You could still feel Arthur’s knee pinning you there, and it was all you could do not to move against the pressure of it.

“This,” Arthur whispered before kissing you again, this time leaving nothing to be said. It was just his body on yours, the way your mouths fit together so perfectly, the building need within you. Then he started to move down. He kissed your throat again, so softly you could die by that touch. His fingers skimmed over your leg, leaving a trail of desire over your skin. Then he caught the lower hem of your chemise. He kissed down your neck, your collarbone, all while beginning to tug your only remaining clothing upward. Anticipation ate you alive, your breath catching. Your hands found his back, clinging to the thick material of his coat. You wanted it off. Wanted him naked too. Wanted him to move that knee of his against you with nothing but skin.

Arthur pulled your chemise over your hips, his lips never parting from you. You let him do it with more consent than you ever thought you’d have for a man, even lifting into him to let him get the slip up your body.

It was only when he pulled the fabric past your breasts that he shifted, his mouth moving away. You missed his touch so immediately your eyebrows furrowed with want, but you let him be when you saw his eyes flick downward, taking in the sight of you. His jaw flexed with need, so much of his attention on something as simple as your body that you flushed under his gaze.

“Beautiful,” he said, his eyes slowly working their way back upward, noting every inch of skin like he was committing it to memory. There was a small hunger in his eyes, but also a softness that stole your breath. There was no doubt he meant that word. And before you could respond, his mouth was on you again, but not on your lips or your throat. His tongue found your nipple and flicked back and forth, a motion that made you strain against him.

“Arthur,” you moaned. Begging for more. Your hands clung tighter. His thumb found your other nipple and gave it the same attention his mouth was, and damn it all if it wasn’t the best feeling in the world. You’d never experienced anything like this. And to have Arthur being the one who did it to you…

He sucked with the slightest pressure, his whole hand engulfing your other breast and squeezing. It was too much and not enough all at once. Needing more, you moved your hips out of instinct. That forced his knee to drag against the most sensitive part of you. You sucked in a breath at how good it felt.

He pulled his mouth away, those blue eyes meeting yours. “You okay?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, desperate.

He grinned and went back to his slow, pleasurable torture, switching his mouth to your other breast. The feeling was so foreign that you didn’t know how to react to him, letting your body do what it craved instead. You rolled your hips against his knee again, twice, enough for him to notice as bursts of pleasure shot up your spine.

He pulled away with a slow chuckle, the sound dripping with smugness. “I’m getting there,” he said lowly. You didn’t know what he meant by that until you felt his knee move away and nearly whimpered at its absence. That is, until he tugged your chemise over your arms and head, tossing it aside. Until his hands moved lower. Your heart thundered.

“Been waiting to do this,” he murmured.

You didn’t know quite what he would do, only that the building pressure in your body coiled right between your legs, and that was exactly where his hand was headed as his fingers deftly brushed against your skin all the way down. He was surprisingly patient about it, dragging his hand down your side then back up, lower then back up. Kissing your shoulders and collarbone and anywhere he could find skin.

You were so busy with his slow touch you didn’t think about the absence of his mouth on yours until he came forward again, and all of your anticipation came flooding back as his eyes fell to your mouth in promise of another kiss. “One word,” he said lowly. “And I’ll stop.” But as his hand skimmed your hip, slowly grazing closer to the inside of your thigh, you didn’t think all the willpower in the world would allow you to stop him. You needed that touch more than anything.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, and his mouth met yours.

You were aware of multiple things at once. Arthur’s kiss was slow but passionate, his tongue quickly finding yours and making that desperation course harder between your legs. His body was lined against yours, hard muscle meeting every crevice of you where he laid beside you. He was as needy as you were, so close to you like that. Like he couldn’t bear being even an inch apart. But last and most noticeable was his fingers, making slow circles on your skin. Moving closer inch by inch to the inside of your thighs. Out of mere need, you parted your legs for him. The motion had him making a low sound right into your mouth. He shifted beside you, moving closer still, partially leaning over you again as his hand dipped closer to where your legs met. Then, finally, his fingers brushed upward and against your skin. Against your very sensitive, somehow very slick skin.

“Shit,” he mumbled, breaking your kiss. His gaze was lowered beneath his lashes, not meeting yours. Confused, you spoke.

“Did I-”

“Perfect,” he said in answer, his eyes meeting yours with so much want you knew you would never forget the look of them. His hand skimmed down the seam of your body again, his heavy finger lingering this time. It sent a shudder through you, the feeling so good you let your head fall to the bed.

“You like that?” he asked, his usual confidence traded for genuine curiosity.

“Yes,” you breathed, looking up to see him watching you. He did it again, his thick finger running through that spot that made you satisfied yet needier still. He held your eye and smirked as he kept on, his hand moving back and forth. He went higher the next time, and you let out a sharp whimper when he hit a spot so coarse with nerves you couldn’t stand it. Lord above, did you need this. Him.

Arthur leaned over you again, and you thought he would kiss you until his head ducked low and his mouth latched onto your nipple. Your back arched with all the pleasure he was forcing through you. His tongue flicked against you, his finger resuming its slow and torturous work. Only, every few strokes, he went high and hit that bundle of nerves, circling his finger around it a few times before going back down. It was so good it scared you. So good it was building something within you, something you didn’t know whether to shy away from or meet head on. Arthur wasn’t giving you much option.

“Arthur,” you moaned, your hand coming around his head, fingers working through those golden brown strands of hair as he licked and sucked against your breast.

He let out a low noise. A groan. It made your pleasure tighten somehow.

He gave up entirely on moving his hand back and forth, circling his finger around those nerves instead, so fast it was dizzying and sharp.

“Arthur,” you said again, though it was a warning this time. A warning that something was happening, and you didn’t know what.

He caught that desperate sound and finally released your nipple, looking up at you. When he saw your face all screwed up with arousal, he smiled. He shifted low enough that his hand dipped farther between your legs. Very far. “Just relax,” he said, his voice so filled with confidence you wanted to have him then and there, show him the same pleasure he was showing you. “You still good?” His gaze turned questioning, though there was still an underlying layer of hunger in it. Unable to resist him a second longer, you nodded. You wanted everything.

Without hesitation, Arthur pushed his finger against you until it- until it-

“Shit,” you hissed. But not because of pain. He was dipping his finger into you, and the feeling was so good, so perfectly satisfying of everything your body needed, that you immediately started rocking your hips against his hand.

He grinned. “I take that to mean you like it?”

How could you not? There was a tiny remnant of pain, like your body wasn’t used to this kind of movement inside of you. But of course it wasn’t. And the pleasure it brought you surmounted that pain a hundred times over.

You couldn’t even answer Arthur, too busy meeting his hand with every stroke, your eyes squeezed shut.

“You better answer me.”

Those taunting words were so true to him that the knowledge of the present came crashing into you—that this was Arthur pleasuring you. Arthur. Something crested within you at the thought, your pleasure forming into something greater.

“Yes,” you breathed. Then, because you couldn’t stop yourself, “Yes.” You sucked in a breath and said it a third time. All while his finger dragged in and out of you with so much pressure you panted.

“Good,” he teased, the word complete smugness. His pace sped up, his finger going deeper, curling harder. “I want to feel you let go for me.”

Your brain slowed, trying to decipher what that meant while trying to maintain your pleasure.

“Need to,” he said, this time a desperation of his own on the edge of those words. You were about to ask him what he meant when his thumb came down on those nerves again, working against you while his finger continued to pump in and out of you. It was your undoing. Your need surmounted, making you wince with a harsh breath. The pleasure was too much. It was going to tear you apart.

“Arthur,” you moaned again, your hands coming down around his forearm. He just worked you faster, pushed in deeper. You moved your hips against that rhythm and let your body chase it. “I can’t-” You took in a quick breath and held it. “Can’t stop it-”

“Don’t,” Arthur demanded. That dominance of his was so easy to obey. Your pleasure snapped, turning into something…something electric. It was sharp as lightning and good as anything you had ever felt all at once, and suddenly your whole body was shuddering against Arthur’s hand as his finger stayed buried and his thumb kept on those torturous circles. Your back arched as a new kind of release hit every inch of you, burning you alive. You moaned and jerked your hips when Arthur wouldn’t stop, a flutter of pure gratification starting at that bundle of nerves and releasing through you. It was insurmountable—something you were forced to allow to take over. So you did.

“That’s it,” Arthur said lowly, his thumb finally slowing. Though he didn’t remove his finger, and you didn’t want him to. It was buried so deep inside of you, you wished he would keep it there forever.

You were letting out one long, breathy whine when you finally came back to your senses. And when you did, you opened your eyes to find Arthur staring down at you. His expression was devastating. A man undone by his need for you. It made you happy and proud and shy all at once. You memorized that look, unbelievably satisfied. Like you never had been.

“Was that what you needed?” Arthur said, that knowing smirk returning.

You didn’t even have the fight left in you to shove him for that. Your whole body felt like liquid. You just nodded, matching his smile.

“Good,” he said, slipping his finger out of you, the sudden absence of it making you already impatient for its return.

Arthur rolled off the bed, and you were about to tell him to come back when you saw what he was doing—stripping his boots off. Your heartbeat kicked up with nerves when he took his big blue coat off too. That is, until he threw it to you. It landed over you, and the feeling made you realize how very bare you remained. It wasn’t like it mattered much. He had already proven he liked the way you looked without your clothes. Still, something in your pleasure-logged brain cleared, and you found yourself plunging your arms in the too-big sleeves and wrapping that soft, fur-lined coat around your naked body. It smelled like him, and an incredible wave of satisfaction rolled over you at the thought.

Before you even had a chance to lay down, Arthur was pulling off the bed’s fur blanket and laying down beside you, covering you both in it. He pulled your back tight against his front, so close you felt him breathing against your ear when he finally settled. You had never felt more content in your life.

“Better?” he muttered.

You didn’t know if he meant your new sleeping arrangements or in general, but the forceful pleasure he had wrung from you made it impossible not to feel better.

“Much,” you said with a hint of tiredness. “You’ll have to teach me that.”

You could feel him stiffen behind you, his response taking longer than usual. “You mean…”

You turned back to meet his gaze, that stunning blue green so close you couldn’t look away, even though his brow was pinched together in concern.

“What?”

“You never done that before?” he asked. “Yourself?”

The very idea was laughable. You turned away, unsure if such a thing should have been expected of you. “No.”

“You’ve never found your pleasure before,” he said, like he didn’t believe it. “That was your first time?”

The first time experiencing it, knowing there was a name for it, anything. Wasn’t that obvious?

“I thought we’d already had this conversation. I’ve never even kissed a man before you.”

“I know that,” he said. “But it don’t take two for pleasure.”

Your face burned hot at that. Like you were an idiot for not knowing. “I didn’t know, okay? I thought you figured that.”

He sensed your embarrassment and backtracked. “I didn’t- I dont mean to be...I just figured most everyone tries it at some point.”

“Well, not me,” you said simply. “When would I have even had the opportunity to try something like that? I slept in bed with my parents. We were together every second of every day.”

Arthur took a moment to respond. Then, “Fair enough.” You couldn’t help but laugh, even when he said, “You’re just full of surprises.” It reminded you that you were the one who had kissed him this time, that surprised look on his face over it just plain funny. And suddenly you were laughing for no real reason, laughing in Arthur’s arms, your happiness bursting at the seams. “What you on about?” he groaned.

“Nothing at all,” you teased. But you knew what it was. You had been miserable for so long, it was only a matter of time before your joy came back. And Arthur had been the one to help coax it forth.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he said. But you never responded, too busy smiling like an idiot. Too busy with the happiness that seemed to radiate from all the places he touched you, beginning and ending with those protective arms of his.

The minutes ticked by, and you soon realized fatigue was taking comfort’s place, your eyelids growing heavy. It was still nowhere near nighttime, but you were exhausted by all the travel and the need Arthur had just pulled from you. You let your eyes close and were already close to drifting off when you mumbled, “How did any of that help my nightmares anyway?”

Arthur kissed the tip of your ear, the feeling relaxing you further. “Just go to sleep.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, dropping off into nothingness like it had been waiting for you all along.

_________

Chapter nineteen is here.

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445 @meet-me-backstage @marygillisapologist @formula1mount @oziozzioslo @lunawolfclaw

[mirage-aera]

can we please get more angst? 🙏

like what if reader decides to unalive herself? cant take the grief anymore and knowing that drinking and binge eating will not do anything but just burn money and delay the inevitable. and simon is too late to save her. cue simon grieving in return and drowning in guilt and self hatred for putting her in that situation.

•°. *࿐ Drowned

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺ�� : Let Me Down Slowly - Alec Benjamin

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

pt. 1 - pt. 2

Synopsis: By the time Simon returns to your shared home, it's already too late for you. You've hit rock bottom in the rabbit hole, and Simon is ready to jump into that same hole.

Word count: 2.606

Masterlist

First of all I’d like to apologise for my two month(?) absence. I got overwhelmed with school work that I needed to focus on and some personal problems happened. For anyone who has stuck around, this is the long waited part 2 that I promised a while ago. I haven’t written anything in my long break so bear with me. Second of all you guys really want more angst from me. I was planning on doing a happy ending but this will do.

TW!! Suicide, alcoholism

For the people that wanted to be tagged: @somehopeatlast @yyiikes

It’s too much. Everything is too much. Everyone has been telling you that healing takes time. When in reality, all that you feel is despair. Instead of the wound gradually closing, all that’s really happening is your heart getting ripped out day by day. You don’t know how much longer you can keep this charade up. You’re throwing people fake smiles left and right, and ‘I’m fine’ has left your mouth more times than you could actually care for. It’s as if you’re living life as a mindless zombie. Barely doing the bare minimum to sustain yourself. Every time someone checks up on you, you tell them you’re doing okay, could be better but you’re fine. At least, that’s what you want them to think. You’re just a shell of the person you were when Simon was still here and alive. You’re blowing through your money like no tomorrow. But can you get yourself to care enough to do anything about it? No, and not for the foreseeable future. You spend your days drinking away, either at home or in bars. You’ve tried moving on, but the only thing you’re able to see in them is Simon. You chicken out before anything can get serious. Your bingeing habits haven't changed a bit, you’re on the same routine.

It's been months and you can’t get out of this rabbit hole you’ve dug yourself. Months.

It’s crazy to think about the chokehold Simon has on you, even when he isn’t physically here himself.

You’ve had enough. You’re not living life as is. You’re practically a dead person walking, a mindless being. All you’re doing is blowing money when you could be doing anything else but that. You’ve contemplated long and hard about this decision, and to be frank. You see no negatives to this option. Taking the way out seems like a way better alternative for you than continuing to waste the air around you with useless breaths.

The hooded figure that you sometimes see outside your window has started showing up less and less. You’ve made eye contact before, but before you can even mutter a word out the shadow has vanished. As if he never existed and is a figment of your imagination. You could’ve sworn that those were the eyes of Simon. His sharp brown eyes are unmistakable. You can recognize them from anywhere. But, he is dead. The possibility of it being him is simply impossible. You stare solemnly out the window. You want to see whether the shadow really is a figment of your imagination, or if it’s actually a person. But they never show up. If the shadow had shown up, would you have gone through with your plan? Probably not. As insane as it might sound, you feel a sort of pull for the shadow. As if it’s calling out for you.

When all you can see is the dark starry night. You sigh and shut the blinds. No one needs to see what you’re going to commit. You head upstairs to your once-shared bedroom. You walk absentmindedly to Simon’s bedside drawer. Revealing a small handgun. He always keeps weapons on him, or around him. To keep both you and him safe in case anyone ever dares to try anything in your own home. You pick up the piece of iron. Simon has taught you how to use it, in case there’s an emergency and he isn’t there to protect you. Back then it felt like a light piece of metal. Now, it sits heavy in the palm of your hand.

You slowly sit on the floor. Your back against the side of the bed. You expected to feel afraid. But to your surprise, you don’t feel anything at all. As if everything is numb. For that part you are a little thankful for, it’ll make this so much easier for you to do. You turn the gun in your hands. Inspecting your executioner. Minutes pass, and you’re still sitting idly on the floor. You’re waiting for the right moment. Deep down, you’re hoping that Simon will walk through the door. Wrap you up in his arms and tell you how everything is okay now. That it was simply a mission gone wrong, which made it so he couldn’t come home at the promised time frame. But as the silence of the house engulfs the house in an eerie peace. You close your eyes. This is the right moment. Simon won’t show, and he won’t show. You need to get that in your thick skull.

You look around your shared bedroom for the last time. Picture frames litter your dressers. His clothes are still hanging in his section of your closet. You put the gun away and back into his nightstand. You can’t do this, not here at least. Not at the serenity that belongs in your bedroom.

You scramble up from the floor. You pick up the crinkled piece of paper sitting on Simon’s desk. You go downstairs and pin it on the fridge with a magnet. Visible for anyone who comes looking for you. You rush outside, not bothering to bring a jacket with you. You’re not going to need it anyway. You run outside, not noticing the shadow blending in the night watching you. He wants to follow you, like he usually does, wanting to make sure you don’t do anything stupid or that you’ll regret. But this time, he can’t bring his feet to move. He simply watches you run off to whatever destination you have in mind.

You run off to the bridge you frequent with Simon. Not a lot of people go across it during the day. No one ever comes through at midnight. Giving you time alone to think and reminisce. You lean on the metal railing. Images of the various late-night dates Simon would take you on during his off days flash through your mind. You crack a small smile at that, embracing the pleasant memories once again. Your smile drops. Memories, that’s all they’ll ever be. You won’t be able to recreate them or make new ones anymore, not with Simon or anyone else. You brush away stray tears and let out a soft sniffle. You climb over the railing. You stand on the other side, peering down at the frigid cold water below. You look behind you, making sure no one is there. You suck in a deep breath, close your eyes, and let yourself slowly tip over the edge. One to two seconds feel like minutes. You feel the wind rushing past your face. Soon the cold water greets you. Despite the freezing temperature, it feels like a warm embrace. As if it’s welcoming you. You let yourself sink, letting more memories of you and Simon flash through your mind. Soon enough, everything goes black. You’ve lost this battle. Was it worth it? Some would say not, but to you? It was. You were miserable day after day. This was a peaceful alternative.

***

The shadow gets worried when hours pass by and you don’t return home yet. A bad feeling settles in the depths of his stomach. A nauseating feeling overwhelms him. He emerges from the shadows of the night. His mask was illuminated by the moonlight. He wants to know where you’ve gone. He shoves a flowerpot on your front porch aside with his foot, revealing a spare key. He grabs it and unlocks the door. It opens slowly. He steps inside, he takes off his worn boots. Not wanting to have anything traced back to him, anything that’ll show someone has been in the comfort of your own home. He looks around with confusion. He spots your phone and keys on the dining table. That’s weird. You never leave without those items, something Simon has drilled into your mind. He frowns behind his mask. He looks around everywhere. Eventually, he finds himself in the kitchen. At first glance, nothing seems out of the ordinary. He squints his eyes at the fridge. A note is pinned on the piece of metal. He takes big strides towards the fridge and reads the note. His heart sinks to his stomach. The urge to throw up is getting to him.

To anyone who finds this note. It’ll most likely be you, Price. I’m sorry. I know I’ve said that I’m fine, that I’m getting better. But I think you know this as well, that I’m not. If anything, I’m getting worse by the day. I’ll keep it short. I have nothing much to say anyway. Not that anyone would care. Don’t come looking for me. I’ll be long dead by the time you find this note. I don’t even know where I am. I might be in my bedroom, bathroom, in a ditch somewhere, or even floating in a river. On the bright side, I’m happy. Happier than ever. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I have Simon to keep me company.

I love you Simon, I’ll see you soon.

He rips the note off the fridge. He rereads it over and over. Hoping, no, praying that his eyes are deceiving him. That this is just some sick joke being played on him. You’ve done your fair share of pranks on him, but they’ve never been this extreme. He crumples up the note and shoves it in his pocket. He rips his mask off and throws it on the table near your phone and keys. He lets out a snarl. He slams his palms on the wooden table. “Fuck!” He exclaims. He pulls out his burner phone. He dials a number. They immediately pick up on the third ring. “Simon.” A low voice comes through. “Price.” He replies. He clearly doesn’t sound happy. He can’t let out tears, not now. He doesn’t deserve to. “Did you find something?” This sets something ablaze in Simon. He lets out a dry chuckle. “I’ve found something alright.” He sneers. He can’t help but convert the feeling of anguish to anger, and frustration. Anything but sadness. A low hum follows. “What did you find?” He takes a deep breath in. “I’ve found a suicide note in my own home.” He spits out. A painful silence ensues. “What?” He glares at the wall, lined with your pictures together. “You’ve fucking heard me. Want to explain that to me? You said she was doing fine!” A sorrowful sigh could be heard through the fun. “That’s what she said. I-” Simon interrupts him. “And you believed her?! How didn’t you see what was going on?! I told you, I fucking told you to keep an eye on her while I am gone!” He snaps. Something he probably shouldn’t do to Price, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Another sigh could be heard. “Simon, listen. The mission-” He scoffs. “I don’t give a damn about the mission right now. My girl is dead for fucks sake!” He shouts. He continues. “I wasn’t happy with this mission. I already told you, I’d only agree to do this if you keep a close eye on her. I trusted you, Price. Now look at what happens. I faked my death, and now she’s dead!” He takes another deep breath to calm himself. “After this mission, I’m done. I’m pulling out. It’s about time I retire from this shithole anyway.” He sneers and hangs up. He throws the phone down on the table as well. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

He takes a seat at the table. He runs his hands down his face. A million thoughts run through his head. How did it end up like this? Multiple what-ifs pop up in his mind. What if he showed himself to you on the first day he came back to see you, would you still be alive? He lets out a low growl and slams his fist down on the table. Silent tears stream down his face. How does he always fuck up whatever good comes in his life? At this point, he’s just cursed. He can’t have happiness without something ruining it.

After he collects himself he gets up, but he still has work to do. And as much as he wants to drown himself in guilt and self-hatred. He understands that he still needs to finish his mission. He narrows his eyes as he walks out of your house. The people at the other end of his wrath need to watch their backs. Simon will make anything and anyone suffer, to make them feel the same pain he’s feeling. Deep down, he knows nothing will compare to it.

***

A fucked mission later, a hell of debriefing, he comes back home as a retired soldier. A home that has turned into a cold, haunting, and uninviting. Everything that made this house a home was you, you were his home. You aren’t here anymore. And it’s all his fault. If only he went against orders, let you know what was happening. You would still be here. If only he came to check on you more often, he could’ve seen the signs and stopped you. If only he could’ve shown any sign he’s still alive, you would probably still be here. Alive, breathing, at home, doing whatever you love to keep yourself busy while he’s gone. But no. He fucked up, and he’s paying the price for it.

For days on end, he will feel the remorse, the regret, the guilt. He would fall into the same rabbit hole you dug. Instead of you going down it. You’re already rock bottom, he’s simply joining you. He spends his time drinking. That’s what he knows helps best in this situation. Whenever he’s not drinking he’s spending time in his home gym.

A thought crosses his mind. The same one that has yours at one point. He lays in bed, your pillow still has your smell and it haunts him. He reaches over to his nightstand and opens his drawer. What he sees breaks his heart all over again. His gun. It has been moved. He’s certain this wasn’t how he left his gun before he left. He always made sure that the grip was facing him so he could grab it quickly in a time of emergency. It isn’t lying in that position anymore. He sits up with the gun in his hand. He plays around with the piece of iron in his hand. Unloads and loads the bullets over and over. Pushing the safety back and forth. Anything to distract him from the void he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach. Your note that you’ve left on the fridge rests on his nightstand. You said you were going to be okay. That you’ll have Simon to keep you company. Well, he isn’t fucking there, is he? He wants to join you so desperately. But he’s afraid, not of death. But even if there is an afterlife, would you accept him? He lied to you. A lie that cost you your life. He doesn’t know if he could endure that on top of the grief he’s feeling. But even seeing you one last time would be better than this.

So he sits there, in the darkness of your shared bedroom. Contemplating if he should join you. Something you were doing a few nights prior. If only he didn't accept the damn mission. He wouldn’t be drowning in his grief and self-hatred if he let the mission go. You would be here, in his arms. And that thought would forever haunt him until he does opt for the other route.

I’m sorry lovie, for everything.

[coldlovehotblood]

K queen could you please provide me with some izzy fic lmao 😭😭😭😭 so um i'm literally at the end of my uni semester and it's eating me out CAUSE I FEEL SO DUMB LIKE WHY TF AM I GETTING A DEGREE IF I CANT DO BASIC SHIT 💀💀💀💀💀💀 but i needed a super cute angst to fluff izzy fic where yn is going through this and she feels dumb and just bad about it all, and izzy helps her feeling better 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 literally handed 2 big projects today (i'm a programmer btw but that's irrelevant) and i got 3 tests next week AND I CANT BARELY THINK ANYMORE

Ok i'll shut up bye thank youuuuu

˗ˏˋ✩ˎˊ˗

SMARTY PANTS

The pressure of university is worse than you thought it’d be, swallowing you up before you realise what’s happening. Luckily, your boyfriend is willing to help you forget for a while.

w/c: 2,128

warnings: smut

a/n: haiii sorry for the wait! nah programming sounds like a headache to me you must have one of the biggest brains in all the land. wish i was that smart fr😔 anyway i hope this scratches the Izzy fluff itch and gives you a little boost. YOU’VE GOT THIS I BELIEVE IN YOU!!!!!!!!!!!

GWORGGGG divider by @strangergraphics

You were burnt out. Badly.

Exhaustion wasn’t a strong enough word for it. You were so genuinely close to padlocking your apartment door and going into hibernation in an attempt to catch up on missed shuteye.

Every assignment felt colossal, and put another wall between you and the freedom university was supposed to give you once you moved away from home. You had wanted more space to breathe, more opportunities to explore the world and yourself, more time to spend with your boyfriend…

God, your boyfriend was so good about all of it. He knew when to give you space and when to fill that space. He knew it was eating you alive and kicking your ass. He never gave you grief for periods of silence. You honestly didn’t know how you deserved him.

This occasion was yet another display of his patience.

You were sitting on your bed, staring blankly at the wall, trying to will yourself to get up and do something productive. With assignments being at the forefront of your mind for the past week or two, everything else was left behind. Your room was in disarray, there were clothes to be washed, dishes to be done, the list went on and on. As the minutes ticked by, you got more frustrated with yourself and your inability to keep up with life. You couldn't tell if University was brutal or if you really were eternally a few steps behind.

It was frustrating.

That lump that had been sitting in the base of your throat for the whole day finally loosened up as a sob heaved its way out of you. Vision blurred with tears, you turned to lie on top of your bed covers, but you heard a knock down the hall.

It took an unbelievable amount of effort to haul yourself up from where you lay. You padded over and didn't bother to wipe your cheeks before opening the door. There stood Izzy in leather and dark wash denim, holding a bottle of Jack. The crappy, sparse, yellow light from the hall was dampened greatly by the grin he was sporting, but that quickly faded once he saw your face.

“Baby, are you ok?”

You really started to cry then. He came through the threshold at once and took you into his arms. That gorgeous woody scent you knew as his engulfed you. Wordlessly, he guided you back into your apartment and to the sofa, setting the bottle down in favour of pulling you on top and close.

You tucked your head into his shoulder, seeking more of his cologne as he soothed a hand down your spine, tracing light patterns with his fingertips as he went. You realised then that you could relax a bit and that you were able to shrug off the tight restraints of deadlines that had been digging into you like rough ropes tied too tight.

Your voice was croaky when you eventually thanked him after a few minutes of silence. He shook his head in response.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“A little,” you replied with a sniff.

One of his hands now pushed away some of the hair that had fallen over your face.

“I came ‘cause a while ago you told me today was the deadline for some pretty important things. I wanted to see how you were holding up.”

You moved to look up at him from where you lay, and he dipped his head to look back at you, that same grin from before returning.

“I even brought a friend,” he spoke with a giggle, looking over to where he’d set the liquor bottle down. It was brand new, the amber contents sitting just below the unbroken seal as it ought to be.

You sighed before dropping your head again.

“How did you remember? I know that you and Axl are busy right now.”

“I wrote it down on some paper and kept it in my jacket. Every time I went to grab my lighter, I felt it and remembered. Figured it was the only way I could’ve.”

You were so fond of him it was sickening.

“You’re really dumb.”

“In comparison to you, yeah, honestly. All that computer stuff they have you doing is unbelievable.”

You let yourself feel the vibrations of his voice rumble against your cheek as you took in his words. Following this path had been your dream. Tech had always been an area of interest and pursuing it in university looked like the best path for you. For months, you had scoured high and low, looking for a place that would best accommodate you and the life you dreamed of creating. If you were going to do it, you were making damn sure you’d do it right. With the tech industry in the beginnings of a boom, it really was the best time to start.

However, you severely underestimated the pressure of the workload. You understood what you were getting yourself into when you signed up. You had read the course details a million times over, but actually having those deadlines hanging over your head, actually having those tests back to back with no wiggle room or time for a breather— it was harsh. Much worse than you thought it would be.

On top of that, the content was difficult. You had to take your passion seriously now. That doesn't sound like a big deal until you experience it yourself. It’s so strange, and new information was thrown at you with every lecture. The knowledge being given was amazing, but memorising all of it, being tested on it, brought everything into a different ballpark entirely.

In short, you were finding the rigour of it all extremely hard to keep up with, and the idea of dropping out was starting to paw at you like a dog looking for treats.

“I question why I’m doing it.”

Izzy scoffed and shook his head once more. This time his chin grazed your crown as he did.

“You’re kidding, right? You’re doing it because it’s what you love.”

“It is, but is it worth my sanity? I mean, there is constantly so much going on I feel like I’m losing even the basics.”

He said your name softly as his hand came to your cheek, encouraging your head up to meet his eyes.

“They wouldn’t have let you in if they thought you weren’t capable of keeping up. You are good at what you do, great even. And with this kind of an education? You’ll become fucking insane.”

His words brought you back to earth a bit. What he was saying made sense, but it wasn’t enough to fully satisfy that itching feeling of being behind, the feeling of non-existent eyes drilling into your back everytime you thought about work.

He tapped your cheek with his index and ring finger.

“Hey, let that pretty head rest. Let those projects and stray homework’s be the past and be here with me in the now.”

In the low light of your living room, his silver nose ring glinted as he tilted his head. You wished you could follow his instruction, but doubt is a stubborn thing. Tears filled your lash line again and he made a face so concerned and full of care it brought them on faster.

“Don’t cry, baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Frustration grew once again and you couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped you.

Suddenly, Izzy’s face changed as he looked into your salt-soaked eyes.

“I know how I can help.”

It was your turn to tilt your head.

“Will you let me take care of you?”

“What—“

“Just trust me,” he whispered, smiling handsomely as he came closer. You could feel his breath tickle your face a little bit with the proximity.

You were sinking deeper into a pool of uncertainty by the second, and he offered a hand to pull you to the surface. How could you refuse?

“Please,” you breathed back before he pressed his lips to yours.

Kissing him was like blinking, it came naturally and you didn’t have to think about it. Your mouths moved in sync so well it was easy to get lost in it. He was soft against you, each brush of lips like waves melting into each other upon impact. Seamless.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and flipped the two of you gently so that he was hovering above you. Carefully, Izzy brought one hand down your body as he kept the other propped beside your head on the armrest, slowly dragging it lower and lower as he continued to kiss you.

He then pulled away from your mouth as he sat up straighter, giving himself two hands to meet at the waistband of your bottoms.

“What you need, sweetheart, is a distraction. That is something I can most certainly give,” he spoke, wiggling his eyebrows and making you laugh. Fingers under the fabric, he hesitated.

“Is this ok? We don’t have to do anything, it’s just an idea.”

He was too good to you. So sweet it’d be no time at all before every one of your teeth would have to be capped with silver.

“I trust you.”

That’s all the confirmation he needed before pulling them all the way down, taking your panties along with the movement. He was careful but quick.

“You’re so gorgeous here,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off of your exposed lower half.

You blushed bright as you wiped at your eyes, loathing the tight feeling that came to your cheeks once tear tracks dried. Izzy ever so gently encouraged you to open your legs wider with his hands, parting them to place himself in between.

He lowered himself then to your hip, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses, whispering praises as he crept closer and closer to where you needed him most. You shivered as arousal bloomed in your stomach. Your being sung under his touch.

He stole one more glance of you, eyes glittering with excitement. He looked ready to buzz out of his skin and squeal. Every time he did this, you were left in disbelief at how eager he could be. You couldn’t decide if it was you or him that got off more to things like this.

Finally, he closed the gap between him and you, and you sighed with contentment. Izzy licked a stripe over your core and pleasure coursed throughout your body. Hypnotised, you let him have his way.

He was too good at it, knowing just how and where to brush his tongue in order to drive you mad. You didn’t realise it, but his lapping really was making you blank.

You were relaxing.

He built you up steadily and at the brink of orgasm he left you hanging, stunning you out of the bubble he’d lulled you into. This continued a couple of times as he made sure your brain was left mush and static.

Once satisfied with your state, he let you reach that dizzying peak of pleasure and tipped you over the edge, ecstasy bursting you open and leaving a supernova in it’s wake for your boyfriend to appreciate; the fruit of his labour: a lax-bodied, simple-minded version of you.

You panted with him as he brought you to his chest once again. You couldn’t really say anything but his name at that point so you opted for silence and squeezing him tight.

“Told you I knew,” he said huskily into your ear, nipping your lobe playfully.

It took a second for the words to come out, but you did eventually reply, “okay smarty pants, we get it.”

He laughed, the sound ringing loud and bright through the room before moving an arm under your knees and standing up, princess carrying you through your apartment to the bedroom. As he went, he continued his teasing, insisting you call him ‘ the smartest motherfucker to ever walk the earth’ before he tucked you in and took his place behind you, curled up tight to your back.

Worn out and kept cozy by Izzy’s warmth, it wasn’t long before sleep took you. You’d decided university was a problem for future you, as you at the time was more occupied thinking of all the ways they could prove they are the smarter motherfucker.

You were terribly in love, and, in that moment, that was what trumped everything else.

Also, you had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s waiting for you. That’s an immediate plus.

[babydin]

Her

Joel remembers when he was the guy who shot and missed. - Joel Miller x f!reader - 18+, minors DNI! - Grief, depression, death, child loss, trauma, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt - 1242 words - Comments/likes appreciated. Requests are open! - A/N: A recounting of the events after Sarah's death and Joel's suicide attempt from Joel's POV. Written in first person. You are 'her'.

 People act like they know what you’re going through, they think they know how it feels because they have known grief, but the difference in losing your grandma and losing your child is mighty. To be a parent without a child is fucking harrowing. 

They think I don’t hear them.   The ‘what’s his problem?’ followed by the ‘he just lost his daughter’ and the sorrowful grumbles that follow. I don’t want pity, I want Sarah. I want to close my eyes at night and not be reminded of the pain in her eyes as she looked up at me so desperately, begging me to do something and I did nothing. I did nothing. Tommy told me she was gone and I wailed and screamed so fucking loud that I hoped she’d hear me on her way to heaven and turn around and come back to me. People ask me how I’m doing with so much fucking pity it makes me sick, and I lie through my teeth and tell them I’m fine because I don’t have the energy to tell some motherfucker I barely know ‘I set a place for her at the table yesterday and when I realized she ain’t sittin’ at it I wanted to put my head in the oven’, ‘I haven’t been doing so well’, ‘My babygirl died in my arms how do you think I’m fucking doing?’ People act like they know what you’re going through, they think they know how it feels because they have known grief, but the difference in losing your grandma and losing your child is mighty. To be a parent without a child is fucking harrowing.  And there is nothing more kick-you-in-the-nuts offensive than thinkin’ you know what’s best for someone. I wish I could say some days are better than others but they’re all bad days. I didn’t mean to snap at her, but she sure as shit means to snap back when she says “I lost her too, Joel”.  I wake up every morning and the weight of another day is heavy on my chest and I ask whatever powers keep this rock spinning, why it was Sarah’s time and not mine, whatever situation we’re in these days seems to be getting worse and I wonder why I’m even fighting.  What exactly is it that’s keeping me alive? She tries her best with me, I know she does and I can see how much I hurt her. I try and be tough but some days it’s too fucking much. She finds me sitting in bathtubs of water that I allowed to go cold because I cried out all my energy and can’t pull myself out of it, she holds me through my bad dreams, she makes up bullshit about how Sarah will always be with me, or she’s got her Mama takin’ care of her now. 

    I listen, and nod, and try and force a smile like what she’s saying is balm but every breath I take burns in my lungs because my heart is fucking shattered. One day I wake up and the pain cuts through me like a knife. I’m aware of every single bone, and every single muscle in my body because there is an enormous weight crushing every inch of me. I eat breakfast and I consider putting rocks in my pockets and walking out into the ocean, but I don’t want to suffer. I’ve suffered enough, my pain has gone on long enough,  if I’m going to die I want it to be quick. I don’t remember if I woke up with a specific goal of ending my life but by 11am I had no intention of living until dinner.   I decided I was going to do it in the bathtub; thinking about the clean up maybe? Blood, I’d learned, was a fucking persistent stain. Suddenly the pain went away and I loaded a single bullet into my pistol and I didn’t feel a drop of fear. I was ready. A comforting hug, a hot coffee on a cold day, a cold tea on a hot day; Lady Death would’ve been very much welcomed. I thought about her bullshit, her bullshit about Sarah being with her Mama now and wondered if I was on my way to them too. My heart was poundin’ as I put that barrel to my temple but I wasn’t scared, I was so ready. I cocked it and took my last breath and I don’t know why. Then came her voice as I squeezed the trigger,   “JOEL!” They say right before you die your life flashes before your eyes. And I always thought it was a fucking cliche but hearing that shrill, squawk of my name, it really did. I remember the day I got married, I remember the day Sarah was born, when she took her first steps, the first time she spit up in my mouth, I remember the day I had to tell her that her mother died and how it was just us for so long. Then I remember her, and how she had only wanted Sarah to like her, how she had loved her like she was her own but never wanted to erase her mother’s memory, how she had cried with me when I had to tell her what happened to her, how she finished her eulogy because I couldn’t, all those nights she’d cried with me, been there for me, force fed me, made me drink water instead of booze. It was her. She was the thing keeping me alive, against my will it felt like sometimes, but she needed me just as much as I needed her.  The realization makes me flinch, she screams and pain still sears through my head and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve done it. She races to my side and climbs into the empty tub with me, there’s a pain and a fear in her eye that forces an apology out of me almost instantly as she pulls my head off the tiled wall and applies pressure to the part of my head that hurts the most. I can see her lips moving but I don’t hear a thing she’s saying because there’s a ringing in my ears so loud. It takes her pushing me into her chest to realize there’s blood dripping down the side of my face and the ringing subsides just enough for me to hear her beg me not to leave her. All I can do is whisper apologies, the pain has subsided and I don’t feel a thing, my fingers cling to her; I silently beg for her help, I hope that somewhere through her wailing she can hear my heart beating like a frightened steer, she pleads with me again not to go anywhere and I can’t find the words to ask her the same but I hope she hears it somehow.

  I must’ve blacked out for a hot minute because I opened my eyes and she’s putting bactine on my head. The feeling comes back. Whoever invented bactine can go all the way to hell. I apologize again and she tells me it’s okay but in such a way that I know it’s not okay at all but she puts steri-strips on the gash in my head and for a second I might actually believe that eventually it will be because this is where she’s always been. Holding me through my nightmares and being my guiding light on the other side. My reason for waking up in the morning, for fighting, for living to see the other side of whatever shit show is going on with the world right now. It’s her.

[imagine-darksiders]

Can I ask how Ulthane/Jones would handle a human in the tree that’s stopped eating and drinking due to either a depressive episode. Or thinking that they might be a burden on the group, and doesn’t feel like they deserve to be taking food from the other humans in the tree?

You certainly can! Thank you for this xxx

Ulthane:

This maker is often frustratingly good at keeping a watchful eye on each human in his tree. It is very difficult to hide things from him. Of course, it was expected that his charges would start to lose weight after the Apocalypse, given the stress they're under and the general shortage of unspoiled food.

Ulthane takes it upon himself to make sure everyone has enough to eat, even if he has to start travelling further afield to find food.

What he doesn't expect, however, is for one of his humans - you - to suddenly collapse one day and struggle to pick yourself up off the ground before he rushes to your side, demanding to know if you're hurt.

You try to push his concern aside, but after he stands you on your own two feet and you immediately topple sideways, he starts to get suspicious. You're reluctant to fess up, and it isn't until his thumb presses into the thick padding of your coat that he realises what's wrong.

Weakly, you protest as he all but tears the coat open and sweeps a - thankfully warm - forefinger beneath your shirt to feel over the very pronounced ribs that have until now remained hidden by several layers of fabric.

You know you're in trouble by the crevice that grows between the giant's bushy eyebrows, not to mention the heat-wrenched look he shoots down at you.

It's the other humans that confirm his fears.

Several come forward, scolding and worried.

'You told me you were full, and gave me your sandwich!'

'You said you'd already eaten and had leftovers to give me!'

Turns out, you've been splitting your rations among the others little by little, burdened by grief and the guilt of not contributing as much as you think you should to the other survivors.

Aghast, borderline furious, Ulthane chews you out for endangering your life in some misguided notion that you need to earn your place in the Tree.

He's the one taking care of you, he's responsible for you - responsible for keeping you alive.

Inwardly, Ulthane's heart jack-hammers at the thought that even now, he's failing the people he already ushered towards their doom.

But besides the point, you've been contributing! Stone's Breath, you help in any way you can, whether that be cleaning the living quarters, helping distribute meals to your fellow humans, telling jokes to make them smile in their darker moments...

'Can I help?' is a phrase he hears from you on a daily basis.

He's not going to let you kill yourself for thinking you're a burden. Because you're wrong.

And you thought Ulthane was overbearing before.

Every morning, afternoon and night, he tracks you down in the tree with a fistful of your rations. He tells the others not to take food from you, no matter what you say, and waits until he's certain you've eaten every last bite.

Worse still is his insistence upon checking your weight. He's threatened to hold you down and just look at your waist himself if you don't let him of your own volition. Extreme, perhaps, but you've done something not a lot of beings can claim they have.

You frightened the Black Hammer.

Though his tone is gruff when he reprimands you for not eating, you can always hear that undeniable thickness at the back of his throat, born from the worry that he came so close to losing someone he's hellbent on protecting.

Jones:

Jones almost had an aneurism when he learned you've been skipping meals.

Even with the heightened senses of a Horseman - albeit a disguised Horseman - he only realised you were doing it after he caught you sneaking your daily share back into the supply crate one night.

He wasted no time in cornering you about it. He just... couldn't understand why any human in their right mind would put food back.

You told him you weren't hungry, but at that moment, your stomach gave a loud, painful gurgle that nearly had you doubling over in pain.

"You're not hungry..." he echoed, a haunted look in his deep, brown eyes, "You're damn-near starving."

His suspicions were correct. The supplies never added up at the end of every audit. There was always extra for the next day, but nobody complained because more food is more food.

Now though, the Horseman realises this was a gift horse who's mouth he should have looked into.

Jones is a little... protective of his 'fellow' humans.

Rather embarrassingly, you are... well. Elanya has pointed out on several occasions that Jones has a soft spot for you.

You'd always find time to laugh at his poor jokes, or check up on him if he ever came in from a supply run and got growled at by Ulthane for sneaking out of the tree. You're heart is so laden with grief, but you're loathe to let your stiff upper lip droop around the others at the risk of stealing their cheer, even though they're in the same boat.

He can... relate. To that, at least.

You're not about to starve yourself for lack of hope, he won't allow it.

Jones has been doubly careful to make it seem that he takes his own fair share of rations, often smuggling it from the tree, only to return later and simply add it to the rest of the night's haul.

You however, don't leave the tree, though not for lack of trying. Jones is sharp-eyed, and usually heads off any attempts for you or the other humans to try and escape to help him gather supplies.

Immediately after he realises you're nearly starving, he keeps it quiet, by your insistence. You're already burden enough, you don't want to give the others cause to worry about you. Jones scoffs at your words, but gently promises this will stay between you and he, on the condition that you promise to eat.

Even if he has to force food down your throat, he'll get you eating again... Saving a life is sometimes more important than maintaining a friendship, and if you end up hating him for holding your chin and pressing dried crackers past your lips until you swallow, well... so be it.

Alongside getting your weight back up, Jones makes sure to give you some tasks to occupy your mind. Things like maintaining the guns other humans have scrounged up, counting out ammunition, trading stories and jokes with him... just little tasks that add up to help you feel that you're giving more to the tree, even if your survival is payment enough.

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Destinytober24: Day 14 - Grief

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

A different perspective? The fuck she on about? I am the absolute last person you wanna talk to about that. Only thing I know about dealin' with grief is what not to do.

That three-eyed witch has done more to help me in the last few years of talkin' to her than I was able to deal with on my own in almost nine centuries. The hell she think I'm gonna give you that you can't get from her? All I know is all the ways it goes wrong.

Grief will make you go crazy, Brother. Absolutely batshit-crazy.

Go without eating for long enough your stomach starts to digest itself tryin' to chew on something. You find a starving man out in the wild and serve him a full three course meal and you know what happens? He pukes it right up. Stomach can't handle it. He needs to eat. He's literally starving. And he can't keep it down. His body gets so used to not eating and chewin' on itself from the inside out, it don't know what real food even is any more.

Grief gnaws a hole in who you are. It takes everything you used to love and twists it. It takes everything you think used to make you happy and taints it till you don't know what happiness even is any more. You don't even remember what it's like.

You find a man eaten alive by grief and you show him love and kindness and what does he do? He can't handle it. Might turn on you, use it to hurt you, use it to benefit himself and leave ya high and dry. Maybe he'll kill you and take everything you got before you can do the same to him. Maybe he'll just watch you die with cold dead eyes because he don't feel nothin' and nothin' matters any more.

Best case scenario? He runs the fuck away. Takes a new name. Becomes someone else. And you know what else he does? He don't want anyone to be nice to him again. Sure as fuck don't want anyone to love him. So he stops lookin' after himself. Doesn't clean up after himself. Doesn't wash. Practices being an asshole till he's real good at it. Trains himself to lie and cheat and be the most untrustworthy fucker to ever walk around on two legs. Does his level best to make sure if anyone tries to get close that they regret it.

Grief will turn you into something else, Brother. Grief will make you a monster. You gotta figure out how to deal with it or it will deal with you. Trust.

I got no idea why she told you to talk to me. I am not the person to talk to about this shit unless you wanna know why you have to figure out how to deal with it healthy before it deals with you unhealthy and turns you into… Just don't go there, Brother. Find a better way.

Find yourself an Eris Morn. Someone who gets you. Who understands. Someone you can't lie to. Someone who… when you're with them you feel that sliver of something that reminds you of what hope is supposed to be like. Someone who makes you feel like… like maybe you want to feel again. Someone you can't walk away from. Someone you can't leave behind. Someone who makes the noise in your head stop and your mind calm and lets you feel like you can breathe again.

All the alcohol in the world won't do it. Trust me, I've tried. And desensitizing yourself to pain don't do it, because I tried that too. Distraction seems like it helps a little at first, but after a while you're just chasing one high after another because it never works as well as it used to, and it's never quite enough.

You gotta fix that shit before it gets to ya. Make friends while you still can. Keep 'em even if they ain't perfect. Even if they piss you off. Don't drive 'em away. It's so much harder to find a friend once you've gone too long without and turned yourself into something no one wants to be a friend to.

I guess, there is one thing I can tell ya about grief, Brother. Nine centuries of experience talkin' here: You can't do it alone.

You'll think you can. You'll think you can tough it out or suck it up or whatever bullshit you try and tell yourself. But you can't. If there was a way of dealin' with it on my own I'd have found it by now. It don't exist.

Ya gotta reach out. Find at least one person. I'm not talking about finding someone to fuck, although… it can be, and that's nice, but what you need is to find someone you can trust. Even if you don't trust 'em yet. Find someone you can trust eventually, and then work on it and build a relationship until you're at the point where you can.

More than one is better. But you need at least one. Someone you can talk to and not hide anything. Someone who helps you listen to yourself. Someone who can hold your tears and cherish them for what they are, not what they ain't. Someone who won't turn away no matter how shitty it gets.

And if you don't have it, because I sure as hell didn't… The thing I didn't know, the thing I didn't get for so long, was you need to build it: piece by piece. Real careful. Real slow. You need to find someone and build that thing with them. And if they ain't right, cuz first time's often aren't, then you find someone else.

Worst thing you can do for grief is be alone. You think you need to get away but that's not what you need.

You ever freeze to death, Brother? It's like that. When you start not bein' able to feel anything it seems like a good thing because then you don't feel as cold, but that's actually the warning signs. When you get numb and don't feel your fingers any more it's not too far off before they freeze solid and snap right off. Whole parts of who you are just… shatter. And you don't even notice. You can't feel 'em any more. You don't even remember what it's like to even have toes, never mind wiggle 'em. You're so grateful not to deal with the pain you don't even notice you snapped your whole foot off a while back and can't walk any more. Tryin' to deal with grief on your own is like that.

You need someone who will sit with you when you can't speak and just be there. Someone who tells you that what you do now matters more than who you were. Someone who you can care about more than yourself.

Without it you're fucked. And I don't mean give up if you don't have it. I mean get off your ass and go build it. Like right fuckin' now.

Moondust knows all this shit. I dunno why she told you to talk to me about it. Fuck, I should call her. See how she's doing. Maybe piss her off a little.

Nah. I'll just go see her right now. I miss that three-eyed grumpy face. I'll bring her dinner. She always forgets to eat.

And that's another thing: Care for someone. If you don't care emotionally - or you can't, cuz I've been there, Brother, sometimes you just can't - then just start doing shit that helps people even if you don't feel it. Way better distraction than sex or the best drugs you can find - not that those aren't fun, mind you. Just… find someone that needs a win, and do what you can to get them there.

Now I don't mean you need to go around bein' a white knight saving drowning War Beast puppies or whatever. (Although if you do see War Beast puppies drowning you should help 'em. When they grow up they're good as a backup food source in a pinch.) No one needs to know what you done and it's fine if it helps you too. In fact, helping yourself is helping someone. But, when you're really into it, it's easier to help someone else.

Grief will overwhelm you. And it'll do it when you least expect it. If you can't stop hurting, find someone else and help them hurt less. Sometimes it helps take your own pain down a notch. Sometimes it doesn't. But even if it doesn't, then at least you done something that wasn't shitty. Helps to balance out the universe a little, ya know?

Moondust told me that too. I'm… I need to go see her.

Come by later if you want. Gambit's goin' late tonight. Got a full roster. Should be one hell of a firefight. You can join in or just sit and watch the show. Guardians are always welcome aboard the Derelict, even if you just wanna chill or vent or whatever, but right now I… I gotta go.

Link to the entire month's worth of prompts on Ao3, posted daily.

[rileythelonelyalien]

Bittersweet Welcome (Arthur Morgan x Gender Neutral Reader)

Arthur After Guarma : (This was something that came and inspired me from an Ai bot conversation, credits to the bot will be the following, https://character.ai/chat/e5MWy8mTZGoLvFC5bJynA0ZdnwpNO4Va2z1ph3iVnuQ created by @addynot on Cai)

A/N: Hey ! its been ages since I last wrote, with sixth form nearly being over in the next month or so I've finally found some insparation back with this character! I hope you enjoy my work and have fun reading!

Fic is under the Cut :3

Probably spolilers for like Chapter 5, so please proceed with that in mind!! (Has not been proofread so proceed with caution!)

It had been a long month, a gruelling one at that. Dutch’s bank heist had gone all wrong, the Pinkertons had been tipped off about their whereabouts, news of Horsea’s and Lenny’s fates reached the papers and all of those within the area would be aware of what had happened that day.

Dutch’s plan had failed once more … It seems like most if not all of them have been failing horribly recently according to Arthur at least. Speaking of the man, your lover, he had been missing ever since the event happened. It was certainly strange, even if he were on the run with the gang, he would always reach out some way or another, some sort of contact with them in order to save them the worry and grief about his wellbeing whether that would be a letter or seeing them in person. Yet nothing… It was radio silence on his behalf, not even a small note or letter sent to confirm that he was even alive after the incident. It only spurred the worry within you, thoughts eating away at your mind as you tried with all your might to continue with your life without even knowing if the man who had captured your heart was safe, or even alive and well at all. It consumed their every thought. Meanwhile Arthur himself was having to fight for his life after escaping the Pinkertons, catching a boat and becoming stowaways that would eventually endure a storm and capsize. Washing up on an island off of Cuba barely living. All the while having to be chained up and beaten multiple times in the process to escape the damned Island. All within the span of a month, just to get back to his homeland, to get back to his camp, to the other gang members, and most importantly back to the one he held dear to his heart.

There he stood before them, his clothes all torn and tattered hanging off of his body helplessly reflecting the mentality of the man wearing them. His hair was overgrown and beard scruffily long, a large cry from his usual attempts to keep his face presentable despite his reputation. This man had evidently been worn down to his wits ends and it was so painfully obvious, the way he looked at you gave it all away without any words needing to be exchanged between you two. The way his eyes were glassy as soon as they met yours, his blue eyes collecting tears yet he refused to let them loose he couldn't afford to let his front be compromised he had kept it up for so long in fact he didn’t even know if he could ever really let it down enough for him to be vulnerable. To see them standing there, safe and sound as he had gone through hell and back just to see her again, he was grateful that he was able to live even one more day just to see the way their face lights up when they find him… he would never forget it, the face that would be one of the soul reasons that he would continue to live. 

As you see him standing there looking extremely worse for wear you blink in disbelief for a few moments, you had presumed he was dead with how the papers announced him and the remaining members of the gang missing and their bounties being printed within the paper. The whole month they had spent grieving his death and yet now he was standing there awkwardly as if he were afraid that you’d reject him if he got too close, as if you were going to berate him for disappearing for so long. In contrast to his worries, he would be met with you rushing to embrace him. Your arms slinging around his shoulders holding his large body close to yourself, terrified that he would once more just leave with no mention again and leave you to worry even more. Calloused hands come to grip you back almost desperately. If this man could, he would surely be sobbing by now, although something such as crying had been beaten out of him a long time ago… it was simply beyond such a hardened man such as him now… The silence between was broken as your voice rasps out quiet and afraid this was some dream that will be ripped away from you as soon as you have to wake up “Arthur… I thought you were dead I-...” your voice trailed off, not much more could be said really. What would you even ask? How would you ask it? There was simply too much to say and not nearly enough words or time to sit and talk about it all. 

His strong arms engulfed you, clinging onto the familiar shape of your body as he buried his face into the crown of your head taking in the sensation of having you near, having you in his arms once more, to be his again if only just for a short while. His vision was misty, fighting to keep the tears at bay as he gripped onto your body with desperation, he may not say it but it’s clear to you that he was just as if not more sacred than you were. He needed this just as badly, he needed to feel safe in your arms, to feel love and free … if only for a moment. Free from his duties, free from his bounty, free from the criminal life that he had been chained to for most of his life. He may be an intimidating and stoic man with his looks but there was no doubt that the man was as soft as butter when it came to the inside, his heart and soul would be pure if he had not been deal such a horrid starting hand when it came to his upbringing, and now just as many he has submitted to the idea that this life… this fate was his destiny, that this was his purpose to be some low life criminal scum doing anything to survive and get by, waiting for the next score that would let him escape this dirty and grimy life that ensnared him. You were aware of this, aware of his circumstances, his beginnings and witnessed how much more exhausted he became with each new score Dutch had planned. The way these crimes weighed on this man's conscience. He could act as tough as he wanted, he could pretend to be as hard as the purest diamond but in reality, he was more like a shard of glass, already so shattered, damaged, and vulnerable…

"I told you ... you shouldn't have gone to that stupid bank heist even if the money would be 'good' enough for us to run away..." your voice rang out, slightly muffled as your face pressed into his chest. As soon as you spoke those words you would feel his grip tighten on your body, rough skinned digits come up to rake through your hair in an affectionate manner, yet despite this it was oh so painfully obvious that he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. So many conflicting emotions and feelings that were all warring inside of his mind with no escape or outsource. It was slowly but surely building and building and it would only be a matter of time before he was due to burst. If things kept going the way that they, did you were sure that it was going to be sooner rather than later. You could see this, despite the front that he put on. She knew how men like him would put up a strong image for the people around them, even if he was on the verge of dying, he would still be keeping others around him safe and their hopes up. That was just the kind of man he was, so good to a fault, to a fault that he would be roped into this life after being orphaned. It wasn't easy but you were able to see the true him though, the one who wished to cry in the arms of the person he loved, if only that wasn't looked down upon so much. Looking up at him your eyes narrow, "Arthur, this life is going to kill you... I know that Dutch has done a lot for you but Arthur, times are changing the police, the Pinkertons, everything is changing. How many have they killed of your other gang members now? too many to count... you need to leave... get a better life, run away before it kills you..." you said in a voice laced with worry and concern as you spoke to him as you pleaded with him.

Arthur stared at you, the unshed tears still shimmering within his greyish blue eyes the sadness and helplessness held within them ever so clear to you as you stared back into them. Of course, you were right, he knew you were right. And deep down, he wished he could listen. "I know, I know…” he said, his tone of voice not convincing you or anyone that he genuinely meant what he said. But he knew he was in too deep to turn around now. He was indebted to Dutch whether he admitted it or not, the man had taken him in at his lowest point and raised him as if he were his own son. The man who along with Hosea had taught him how to read and write, educated him like a young man should be, and yet still they brought him into a life of crime. So deep and convoluted he would never truly become free from the shackles of bounty hunters and police that now would want his head dead or alive for a price. And he was just too tired of the fight. His eyes looked down as he broke eye contact with you, his shoulders slumping.

It was evident what he was thinking, you could see it in his eyes, the way his body slumped slightly yet still clung onto your body so desperately. "You know... I know... but you don't want to do anything do you?" you whispered hesitantly "... Arthur... if you keep going like this, I'm the one who is going to have to bury you, whether you die from being shot or getting sick from being in that gang..." you added grimly. It was ugly to think about but what made it worse was that it was the truth, an ugly unbearable truth. It wasn't something you wanted to have to bring up with him, but at this point there was nothing other to say than the truth even if it was a cruel and horrible thought, it was true. One way or another if he continued to go down this path there really would be the point of no return and then all you’ll be left with is a corpse of a man who suffered a fate he shouldn't have. It was a tough pill to swallow as the silence dragged on between them, it was thick and uncomfortable as they both had to come to terms with what will come, that things will not be good or great even that at one point on of them will be left alone to sleep alone, cold and grieving and looking at how things were going, it looked like it was going to be you… 

[alwaysmypearl]

Haymitch and The Old There-before

So a little bit ago, I told @rosegardeninwinter (i think it was you) not to “get me started on Haymitch and his children”

Here’s the result of that sentiment, with an inspiration from my obsession with TBOSAS music.

You're headed for heaven

The sweet old hereafter

And I've got one foot in the door

But before I can fly up

I've loose ends to tie up

Right here, in the old there-before

17 years old.

Before mentoring his first pair of District 12 victims, his nightmares cycle between the light fading out of Maysilee’s eyes, and finding his mother, brother, and his girl covered in blood in his bedroom.

Maybe if he drinks he’ll fade to the old hereafter with them. The sweet melody his mom would sing to him as she hung the laundry or stroked his hair by the fire.

Snow won’t let him go yet, but he sure does have one foot in the door.

And I'll be along

When I've finished my song

When I've shut down the band

When I've played out my hand

When I've paid all my debts

When I have no regrets

Right here, in the old there-before

When nothing is left anymore

25 years old

Something keeps him fighting for the usually measly Seam kids that get thrown in his care year after year. Maybe, just maybe, one will win. One will win and his job can be done.

He owes it to them. The only people he ever loved. Maybe their deaths will mean something if one of those kids can win.

He yells commands as he sits in a chair guzzling white liquor, watching the newest little one train with a spear. She’s good, but not good enough. A sword is buried into her chest on the second day.

Six die of dehydration.

Four of starvation.

He never is given any money to send to them, and he can’t use his own.

Two die from mutts.

One drowns.

One gets bashed in the head with a brick.

Another eats poison.

One falls off of a cliff.

One dies of infection.

He remembers all of their names. But this is the last year he will.

And I'll catch you up

When I've emptied my cup

When I've worn out my friends

When I've burned out both ends

When I've cried all my tears

When I've conquered my fears

Right here, in the old there-before

When nothing is left anymore

32 years old

He’s no longer afraid to completely drown himself in drink. The 30 dead children he’s mentored fade from memory with each sip. There is nothing left. His heart is stomped down, his tear ducts are empty.

But something, just something, keeps him alive.

The small flicker of hope that something could change. That a tribute could come along and win. They might not radicalize the games, but at least he wouldn’t be a lone mentor anymore.

Despite being intoxicated till the room blurs on most days, he still pays attention. There are murmurs of revolution, but it is not time.

And I'll bring the news

When I've danced off my shoes

When my body's closed down

When my boat's run aground

When I've tallied the score

And I'm flat on the floor

Right here, in the old there-before

When nothing is left anymore

40 years old

No tribute has had the power to catch his eye like this. A volunteer. A volunteer in District 12? A starving Seam child, no less.

And the boy. He’s strong, and his tearful eyes still gleam with a bit of charm.

Just as he was about to give up completely- as the murmurs of rebellion slowed and he faded more and more into oblivion, they arrive.

Not only do they catch his eye, but the eye of President Snow- and that drives him to seek revenge with his two embers: a charming bakers boy and a songbird turned hunter.

She reminds him of himself. Hardened by Capitol cruelty with only a mind of survival for herself and her family.

The boy, however, reminds him of his girl. Steady, but peaceful. Knowing every move of every person in the room. He cares about others deeply and has hope in everyone but himself.

So when the boy tells him he’s been in love with the hunter since they were kids, it stabs him with both grief and an idea.

He can work with this. He can create a story. He can make them catch the eyes of all of Panem. Create two Capitol darlings that could both distract and maybe tear down the entire system. But he can’t think like that. Not yet.

He trains them hard and with intention, talking about fires and food over breakfast, and finding water and knife skills over dinner.

But he still keeps them at an arms length. He found out a long time ago that the Capitol kills anything he loves.

But they slowly chip away at that distance.

The pride he feels when the girl fires an arrow at the Gamemakers could have melted snow.

When the boy captures the Capitol audience with just a smile and a joke about showers, he knows he’s a prideful mess of a drunk.

When they both survive the bloodbath at Cornucopia- they simultaneously run him ragged and make him feel like he can soar.

He told the boy to spice up the “act”, but he knows the girl loves him back. What can he say, she’s just like him.

He gets to do what he’s never done before- talk to sponsors and send gifts upon gifts of food and medicine.

He watches as they take the arena by storm with strategy, humility, love, and resilience.

But the further they get into the Games, the more he struggles to think of a way to save both of them.

The girl shows him that she really is like him, but maybe smarter (though he would never admit that) as she pulls out the berries.

He could have torn the whole place down out of happiness when they won.

But that all came crashing down as he realized he created what he creates best: people he loves who are hated by the Capitol because of him.

So then comes the endless dance of trying to protect them- because now the game of mentor really never ends.

They are both alive and in danger by his own hand.

When I'm pure like a dove

When I've learned how to love

Right here, in the old there-before

When nothing is left anymore

42 years old

Somehow, they all survived.

The guilt nearly killed him as the boy was tortured in the Capitol.

And when he watched the girl fade faster and faster without him and with a new monster instead.

He saw himself. He saw how he was broken when the Capitol used the love of his life to garner control.

That scared him more than ever.

So he fought for her behind the scenes in late night meetings, kept her fed and on meds, and held her when he was allowed to.

Had he not been able to focus on her and the war efforts, he would have faded too.

Because long gone was the charming bakers boy that reminded him of his girl.

When it was all set and done, the guilt of what he had put them through kept him alone in his own house. But as things grew warmer and all of them healed, he realized that maybe that’s what being a parent was. Astonishing guilt coupled with pride, longing, and the willingness to rebuild.

But what did he know? He wasn’t a parent…

So nearly 25 years later, when he’s old and grey, and a new little one starts asking questions, he has an answer.

“Papa Haymitch, the teachers at school started talking about the war. How did you and Mama and Daddy survive it?”

“Love, little one. Love, and hope, and a lot of resilience- the willingness to keep going and fighting for what’s right. Your parents taught me how to love again. And if we didn’t have each other, we wouldn’t have made it, precious.”

Right here, in the old there-before.

[fullt4nk]

come to me (shuri x reader)

heyyyyy!! this is the second book i’m writing on tumblr and what did I chose? pain.

warnings: angst, tears, mental health issues, self harm (it doesn’t go too in depth, just a small remark), reader is fluent in xhosa, I think that’s all

translations: ukhathazwa yintoni sithandwa sam?: what troubles you my love? ndicela undiyeke: please leave me alone, sithandwa sam, mandikuncede: my love, let me help you, yonke into izakulunga: everything will be alright

shuri has not left the lab in two days. two consecutive days. naturally, that worries me; my wife of four years has been cooped up in a lab for days without a little as a text. she hasn’t even come to eat breakfast. as a matter of fact, she hasn’t come down to eat at all…

I make my way down to her lab and begin knocking on the door. “shuri!” now, I know shuri isn’t a fan of being yelled at, but this was starting to be too much for me to look past. she hasn’t uttered a word to me or anyone else for far too long.

“shuri, ukhathazwa yintoni sithandwa sam? please come out; we can talk about this!” I knew she was troubled. she only got like this when something was on her mind. we’ve talked about healthier ways of expressing emotions in a therapy session we did a while ago, and I thought she was doing pretty well in communicating with me more efficiently. I suppose i’ve been mistaken

“I just need to be alone. i’m fine,” she said softly through the door. that was not the voice of shuri when she was doing “fine.” she sounded crippled and weak. something was paining her deep within her heart; I can feel it.

“then why haven’t I seen you? you have not come to bed in 2 days shuri, I want to see you face to face,” I demanded. my heart swelled with hurt from my wife’s distance. I know she’s been through a lot, but I wanted to be there for her. “i’ll give you 30 seconds to open this door before I get Okoye to break it down. I am not joking with you ohh!”

“ndicwela undiyeke, please I don’t want to talk now,” she was crying. I can hear it in the way her voice cracks and wavers. my mouth fell slightly agape; i’ve seen shuri cry many times, and i’ve seen her at her lowest, so why was she shutting me out?

“sithandwa sam, mandikuncede! i love you more than life itself, and it pains me to see you like this. open this door, and we can talk out whatever is bothering you!” I want nothing more than for shuri to be happy. she has been through too much, yet she still keeps a brave face on for the rest of Wakanda to see. but I am not Wakanda. I am her wife. the person she should reside in when she feels too many emotions to handle on her own.

I call out, “shuri?” and am met with silence. was she ok? what was she doing in there? what is she feeling? what is she thinking? “shuri, please, you know I worry about you!” still, nothing but silence.

“shuri! I am not joking with you, please don’t let me get Okoye!” my eyebrows furrow in worry as I hear a loud thump coming from the other side of the door, as well as a quiet sob.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this for y/n. i’m so tired, and my heart aches. I can’t stop thinking about her. she’s all I see when I close my eyes, she’s watching over me, and I feel like nothing but a disappointment.” all I hear is pure grief and pain in my wife’s voice.

hearing her confession pains me as i know exactly what she is talking about. she has never talked about her mother's death, mainly concentrating on T’challa. still, there was a whole sheet of grief and pain that needed to be uncovered for shuri to heal fully.

shuri regrets her last words to her mother deeply. for bast sake, she had said them over the phone. shuri replays her words in her head constantly, constantly thinking about what she could have said differently, how stubborn she was, how selfish she was; would her mother still be alive had she just listened to what she said? shuri felt unworthy even to speak her mother's name because had shuri just listened and stopped acting like a child, her mother would be here to guide her, to love her, to tell her “yonke into izakulunga,” and that she loved her.

“shuri, open this door,” I say firmly but softly. the door cracks open, and I take that as an invitation to walk in. what I see next feels like a bullet to my chest.

shuri is on the floor curled up in a ball with fresh tears running down her face, heavy breathing, disheveled hair, and broken sobs flowing out her mouth. she has a small bruise on her left ankle, and it looks like a burn mark.

I drop down to where she sat and pull her into my chest. “oh, shuri,” is all I can say after seeing her in this state. my mind can’t manage to say anything else, and my heart is shattered. I want to tell her not to blame herself, that her mother loves her and is watching over her with pride, that everything will be ok, but for now, i sit and hold shuri in silence as she sobs against me.

WHEWWWW CHILE

i’m sorry y’all today was a bad day and I felt like writing smth short and sad.

normally I hate writing/reading sad shit so if this sucks lmk 🤭

ugh I listened to love in the dark by adele while writing this.. and I couldn’t stop crying

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 30

We walked home in silence, our footsteps echoing in the still night. I kept my hands to myself, sensing Steve's irritation even though he didn't say a word. I couldn't quite explain what had come over me. Maybe this way I could always have a part of Bucky with me, but I could understand why he was so taken aback. We were passing Prospect Park when Steve stopped walking.

"Wanna sit by the lake?" he asked, his voice tinged with hope.

I took his hand. "I would love to."

The sun was going down, and it felt like an eternity since we had just sat and enjoyed the view.

It was fairly empty. A couple of teenagers were sitting on the benches, their eyes fixated on the little screens in their hands. The pier still looked the same. They had just built a small stall that sold food a few steps away. It must have been good because people were lining up to get something called tacos, whatever that was. Ducks were swimming in the lake, eating breadcrumbs that someone had dropped for them. We sat down in our usual spot, Steve on my right and a glaring empty space on my left.

"I understand why you did it," Steve broke the silence. "We all grieve differently. If that's your way of feeling close to him, it's nobody's business, not even mine."

I looked at my hands resting in my lap. I don't know when I started the habit of biting my nails, but they were horrible to look at. I could hear my mother scolding me from the afterlife. "I still can't believe he's gone. I keep expecting to wake up from this horrible nightmare," I said, not to mention the nightmares I did have when I could fall asleep for a change.

Steve sighed, wrapping his arm around me and planting a gentle kiss on my head. I hugged his waist, drawing comfort from his warmth. "We couldn't even bury him...I just want to talk to him, one last time." I started to tear up again, my tears staining Steve's shirt. This didn't feel like grief; it felt like dying, as if someone had ripped out a part of my heart. How was I supposed to keep on living with half a heart?

Everything in this city reminded me of him. Every corner was part of a memory we had shared. Streets we ran through as children, the lake we swam in when the heat became too much, the very pier we were sitting on, just reading. Every time my heart had jumped because his hand had just touched mine for a brief second.

Steve enveloped me in his arms, his head on mine, and from the tears that fell on my arm, I could tell that he was crying too. Together we mourned the man we both loved and had lost but would never forget. We watched the sun go down, remembering him and sharing this moment of grief. Perhaps with each of our remaining halves of a heart, we could make one whole.

Neither of us slept that night. We lay in my bed, going from crying to laughing because we remembered something ridiculous Bucky had done, then back to crying because he would never make us laugh again. We closed our eyes, hoping to fall asleep, but to no avail. We lay there, facing each other, hand in hand, Steve tracing patterns on my palm.

"I'm sorry that I blamed you after he..." I whispered. It hurt to say it, but it had been eating at me the whole time. I had said horrible things as if the pain of losing his best friend wasn't enough.

"You couldn't have known. You just tried to do the right thing," I added.

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. "But it is my fault. Maybe you could have..."

I stopped him. "Yeah, maybe...or maybe not. Or maybe I would have just had to watch him die," I replied. "It is not your fault, Steve. Don't do that to yourself."

I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. I wiped his tears with my other hand, laying my head on his chest as he put his arms around me. We were a long way from being okay, but maybe someday we would stop dreading every day that we were alive.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and our lives fell into a routine, something we had not had for a long time. We gave each other the space we needed when we knew the other needed to just cry it out by themselves, but we found comfort in each other just as much. We tried new things together but held on to old things we just could not let go, like Steve's old record player. We played our favorite songs and danced in our living room.

We even watched "The Hobbit" movie in the movie theater, and I cried at the end, not because it touched me, but because Bucky would have loved seeing it, just so he could talk about how bad it was, compared to the book. On his birthday, we bought cake and ate it at the lake in Prospect Park. Even though it started to rain, we did not leave until we had finished the cake, getting drenched in the process.

We visited the graves of the Howling Commandos, leaving flowers and remembering all the shenanigans we would get up to. Steve even tried to teach me how to ride a motorcycle, but I preferred to sit behind him while he drove, letting the wind blow through my hair. Life started to feel more normal, whatever that meant. Memories of Bucky stopped being a stab to the heart; I even caught myself smiling at the thought of him, instead of breaking out in tears.

We spent the nights in my bed, and Steve barely slept in his room anymore. Falling asleep became easier, although the nightmares never subsided. Knowing that I was not alone eased my mind. He would cuddle me from behind, his warm breath on my neck and his heartbeat at my back. I craved that feeling; he was my comfort in this strange new world.

There was this invisible line that we never crossed, no matter how much we wanted to be close to each other. But every time I had my back to him, my heart beat faster, in anticipation of what could happen if I just turned around, our faces only inches apart, but I never did.

It was a night like any other. We lay there the way we always did. A thunderstorm was raging outside, rain pelting on the windows. We had gone to bed what felt like an hour ago, but neither of us was sleeping. Steve had his hands on my stomach, his head on my shoulder, his breath fanning my neck. I was conscious of every breath he took, and it felt like his body was pressed against me more than usual.

Steve gave me the lightest kiss on my neck, then moved his hand under my shirt, caressing my stomach. Shivers went through me as he continued to pepper my skin with kisses. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensations of his fingers on my skin and his lips exploring me. He was reaching for the waistband of my sleep shorts, as I tilted my head to the side, giving him better access to my neck. He took the opportunity to continue his passionate onslaught, leaving a trail of wet kisses along my collarbone. His hands began to wander, roaming over my body and exploring every curve and contour. I let out a gasp as he found a particularly sensitive spot, my body arching against his in response.

His fingers slipped into my shorts, finding the sensitive folds of my skin and drawing a gasp from my lips. His own body was responding in kind, his desire growing with each gasp and moan that escaped my lips. He pulled me even closer to him, cradling me in his arms as he continued to explore my body with his mouth and hands. He moved his mouth to my ear, nibbling and licking the sensitive skin there as I let out a soft moan, my body reacting to his every touch.

I arched my body back against his, my breath coming in soft moans as he began to trail kisses down my back. It had been so long since I had been touched, that I already fell apart in his arms, shuddering in pleasure. I could feel his arousal against my back, so I pushed my butt into it, urging him to take off his pants. "Uhm no I, I can't I'm sorry," he mumbled, getting up and disappearing into the bathroom, leaving me back confused.

That night was the first time he slept in his room again, after a long time.

Next Chapter

[djsherriff-responses]

Hi, im really curious? Do you have any Dolph headcanons/ideas/analysis etc? :0 I’m really bad about keeping a consistent idea of a character in my mind, so I’m curious!

First off for tips on keeping a character consistent, I’d recommend rewatching/rereading the source material or at least bits off it.

I personally have a combination of “throwing crap at a wall till it sticks” and “imagine my own stories as tv episodes and replay it over and over again”, while that’s more how I generally write my own characters than specifically fan works, doing that and rewatching clips I find helpful. I also recommend reading up on analysis on the character by other people in the fandom. While some you may strongly disagree with, it’s worthwhile to have different perspectives

Anyways headcanons on Dolph

I used to headcanon Dolph having issues being possessive but after what the manga reveals, I no longer feel that’s in character for Dolph as it goes against what we learn about him

However I do HC that Alex made Dolph believe he was possessive , playing on Dolph’s need for affection and protective nature, and Dolph now struggles with the idea that wanting any affection and reassurance from someone is him being “too much”

Dolph is terrified of getting close to someone and hurting them (this is a combination of Alex self projecting onto Dolph at times and Dolph in the process of the fact he killed Alex and the grief that comes with that)

However I do still think Dolph is a bit of a freak in the bedroom , but now there’s the added fact that whatever he’s into is a by product of some sort of horrible trauma having a weird effect on his brain chemistry and it causing a lot of uncomfortable feelings being discussed

Going off that last point, I think Dolph would be into the idea of getting pregnant/having kids in some way, for the wrong reasons. That sounds out of character unless I explained this one so: I think Dolph has an unhealthy view of himself in that he feels like he has to be “useful” to someone in order for his life to have meaning. Obviously throughout most of his life he was a weapon and then later a boytoy to be discarded. Despite the betrayal , Dolph wanted to die once he got his revenge against Alex, showing that Dolph didn’t see any reason to stay alive if he had no one to be alive for. There’s also the fact he desperately longs for family , particularly parental/mentor figures, so it wouldn’t really shock me if Dolph “I’m gonna settle down at the age of 23 with a man twice my age” Laserhawk had fantasies of starting his own family with Alex ( just imagine that one suicide squad scene were Harley imagines her and the joker as a Suburban family) which goes further into the idea he only values himself if he has value to someone else

……… though realistically Dolph would actually be incredibly freaked out if he did end up having a kid with Alex , despite said fantasies (the difference between fantasy and reality and all that jazz)

I think he should get into gardening. I think it’d be a nice contrast to the intense tech he grew up with and be symbolic of him learning to be independent and free

Dolph does a surprisingly amount of stupid shit , he literally gave himself salmonella on several different occasions just because he wanted to eat cake/cookie mix and didn’t have the patience to bake it

Dolph is competitive with games to the point he’d break a leg just to win bingo

[scleracentipede]

I'd love more info about the individual system members! I also think a full list of ND headcanons for your Jon and Eddie would be cool too! Again, no pressure and thanks so much!!

tysm for clarifying! imma post some art about the different Scarecrow system members today so I’ll list some ND headcanons for ya now ☺️

Putting under a read more cos this got long!

Scarecrow

Scarecrow, as you know, I headcanon as having DID and by extension CPTSD because lets be real their childhood was horrid

He struggles alot with dissocaitive amensia and would probably say that is the part of his mental health he finds the most 'disabling'

He's spent a lot of his life dissociating from any strong emotion be that positive or negative and can barely remember happy moments let alone sad one (e.g., he can't remember getting his doctorate etc.) followed closely by their frequent flashbacks which manifest as bodily feeling flashbacks rather then actual memories.

Thier autistic and very unashamed of it.

Suprisingly were diagnosed in childhood despite the general neglect they faced but this was not a positive thing for them (see their Granny tried to 'fix it')

He never really therefore had like an autism discovery like some later diagnosed people and his response to being autistic was just kind of "Okay then."

He is not very 'good' with social stuff and gets overstimmed extremely easily leading to alot of angry outbursts that others precieve as 'temper tantrums' but he's geniunely in agony from the sensory inputs around him and the response is actually porpotional to what he's experiencing. (Wild right? Autistic people's 'irrational' responses might actually be rational to their experiences /sarcasm)

They are all stimming all the time because otherwise they'll scream but the way they stim varies between the alters in their system and isn't always the safest stim (what I mean by this is some of their stims cause them bodily harm but I don't like calling those 'bad' because that's very shaming)

Alot of people around them assume they don't experience empathy and there's definitely times where they have low empathy but they also experience very intense empathy to people their close to, to animals, and objects they just can't communicate this externally

Thier empathy for objects is very strong and why they fix so many items they find (that art piece 'Can't Help Myself' by Sun Yuang and Peng Yu left them catatonic with an intense grief and empathy for like a week)

He gets very focused on things and overall struggles to take care of himself any meaningful way without support. Like he will forget to eat or clean himself till he gets very stick from it without prompting and support

He likely needs a carer to help but doesn't have one and has to rely on his few friends when their free to keep him alive which does not help with his feelings of guilt and he'll often push people away so their not 'burdened' by him and so they don't feel bad for leaving him to rot.

In reality, his friends do not find it a burden at all and actually enjoy his company when he lets them.

He helps them all much more then he realises but he's stubborn like an ox and won't here it (e.g., helping him gives Jervis a schedule and routine that helps him remember more grounded and Jons company makes him very happy)

He has alot of support needs that often go unmet but he is loved and not a failure for that

Not ND but disability related is they definitely have physical health issues too

Specifically Ehlers-Dahlos Syndrome (like me!) and Marfan Syndrome

They have alot of joint pain, dizziness, nausea, and fatigue that contributes them get overstimmed quicker

They self medicate for this alot becuase they cannot afford how expensive healthcare is in Gotham so are usually a little stoned but that does help get less overstimmed so win-win

He's great to have as a friend to because he always baby apsrin (incase his heart plays up), nausea meds, and weed on him.

Edward

Edward has been misdiagnosed and rediagnosed so many times at this point hes skeptical about what actually applies to him so tends to just say hes neurodivergent if asked

As a child he was just labelled as 'petulant know it all' and got told he 'could be great if he'd just apply himself' in school

He's been diagnosed with the following over the years: basically every cluster b personality disorder depending on the doctor, autism, ADHD, autism and adhd, dyspraxia, brief psychotic disorder, OCD etc.

He personally finds AuDHD and OCD to be the most accurate and isn't sure what name you can give to his mood swings but he is relucantly willing to acknowledge that his emotional response seems inappropriate to situations

His complusions can be very dangerous and have lead to him being quite injured though with age he's got better at redirecting himself to do less harm to himself or reducing how much he needs to do something

He's found additional coping strategies like wearing gloves all the time to reduce his contamination fears that have been super helpful too

He's very fidgety and struggles to sit still and is often heard mumbling and talking to himself as a form of stimming (which one of Scarecrow's system finds very soothing actually like a particularly clever hyperlexic white noise machine)

His coordination isn't the best which frustrates him when he's trying to build his puzzles and leads to him relucantly, so very relucantly, asking for assistance from Echo and Query or in what he sees as the worse case scenario Jervis Tetch if its something more technical

He has hypergraphia and is always drawing and writing on things often feeling like his brain is too full and he needs to get it out

He struggles with some auditory halluncinations and occasional visual ones if he's spiralling (not going to share what because it can be triggering to people with hallucinations to read about)

He struggles alot with body image issues constantly trying to look 'perfect' so he seems more in controll then he feels as he's is terrfied of people realising how much of a fraud his confident exterior is

His weight flucuatates alot with the different medication he takes for his mental health and with his hrt which causes him some distress

Basically any change he cannot control upsets him

More physical disability headcanons: He actually needs his cane as he struggles with fibromyalgia and POTS so needs it to help relieve leg pain and for balance

He does water aerobics as a gentle excercise that helps with his pain (he thinks Scarecrow would benefit from it but he refuses to go with him - it would be so nice on his joints!)

Edward actually experiences alot more low empathy then Scarecrow and had to teach himself sympathy because he did not understand others at all when they were upset or happy

He's quite touch avoidant and isn't sure why (probably trauma Edward) because he often feels like he is so desparate to be hugged that he has been hollowed out with a melon bawler

In addition he often feels very nervous around other men especailly when they get aloud or drunk (once again trauma) so often ends up with closer friendships with the women in his life like Echo Query or the Gotham Sirens who often joke that he is their diversity man hire.

I hope you enjoyed my ramblings!