#the world was beginning to fluoresce into wounds

[mychoombatheroomba]

The Enemy of My Enemy

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 54

An unexpected ally gives you some insight, and the hunt begins.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

After Raccoon City, in those first weeks of training - before he’d properly met you even - Leon had found a numbing comfort in routine. Wake up. Train. Eat. Train some more. A schedule had helped him. It broke up the day into predictable steps. In this facility they were in, wherever it was, there was no such luxury. Days after the interrogations and still, Leon was unable to leave his room without supervision. He ate there, slept there and tried to find a way to keep himself sane there. Easier said than done. The days fogged into one continuous expanse, each one longer than the last. 

Habit led him to train in the room’s limited space. Krauser had taught them enough that even four concrete walls and a shitty bed could become a usable work room. Still, there were only so many push-ups he could do before his mind started to wander. 

Didn’t matter if his eyes were opened or closed, now. He could see them. All of them. 

Marvin and Ada and the rest of the lives lost in Raccoon City had company. Uninvited, their memories made those four concrete walls their home too, stuffing in around Leon and suffocating him. Too many bodies. Too many faces he would never forget. 

Alejandro, staring into the dark sky in shock. 

Doc, his face torn and barely recognizable. 

Alenko, his eyes pleading and pained right up until-

You. Leon thought of your face just as much as he sat in that room. He thought of the smiles he’d coaxed out of you over months and months together. The way your eyes, normally, would soften when they turned his way. 

He thought of how you hadn’t even looked at him as you’d passed him in that hallway. 

Those were the thoughts he was stuck with for days. Right up until the door opened at last and Leon was ushered out of that little prison cell. He was marched down the hallway, falling in line behind a familiar friend, her broad shoulders bowed with the weight of the world. 

“Dina,” Leon said, his voice soft with wounded hope. 

Williams, for her part, managed a small smile as she looked back at him. “Hey, Kennedy.” 

More cells were opened. More of their squad joined them in the line-up. Valeria, Doc’s assistant, Grayson . . . and, of course, you were there, towards the other end of the line. Leon didn’t get more than a glimpse of you before you fell into formation. No, instead, it was Krauser’s eyes that caught his own. The Major was pulled from a cell just like the rest of them. His gaze passed over you, a direct omission. Instead, it fell on Leon. An accident, the younger man was certain, and one that betrayed too many emotions Leon had never thought to see on Krauser's face.  

Exhaustion. Pain. Rage. Leon saw it all as plain as day. 

He could sympathize. 

The contact was over in a moment, and Krauser filed in, Hellman joining from his cell last. 

All of the survivors. All that was left. 

“What’s going on?” The question was whispered to Williams as they began moving. 

She didn’t have an answer for him. 

He didn’t have to wait long for one. 

Benford was waiting for them in the room they all filed into, his glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead. When he told them all to take a seat, Leon couldn’t help but feel he’d stepped into some strange new world as Major Krauser obeyed alongside everyone else. A world where everything was wrong - somehow turned upside-down and inside-out and even worse than he thought it could be. 

The only thing that seemed right was the moment Benford confirmed what he’d known in his heart. 

“Agent Andrew Reed is our chief suspect for the recent attack.” The air changed, then. How could it not, when a room was full of attack dogs that had finally been given a scent to go after? “Our intelligence has tracked him as far as Russia, but beyond that, we don’t know where he is.” 

Russia. Reed hadn’t just slipped away, he’d all but disappeared. Vanished. There would be no justice for what he’d done while he was there. 

“Then send us out.” Krauser spoke with a snarl. “We’ll have him in a week.” 

Benford’s expression was sympathetic, but his answer was predictable. It wouldn't be that simple. “We can’t sanction sending you all into Russia. Not on a wild goose chase. If we can find a more clear course-”

“Every day,” Krauser stood, “every minute we sit here and wait, that bastard has time to hide. To call all his friends in Umbrella and get protection. If we don’t move now-”

“I’m aware, Major,” Benford said, his tone cool. Even. Same as always with these suits. Bastards that they were. It had crossed Leon’s mind more than once in the past few days that he couldn’t trust Benford any more than he could trust Reed. That didn’t change the fact that the man in front of them all held their leashes, whoever might be holding Benford’s in turn. “We are moving as fast as we can. The moment we find anything, we will act on it.” 

That was all they were given, along with the freedom to roam the facility they were in now. A freedom that rang hollow as you were all dismissed and you slipped out of the room like smoke through fingertips. 

He could have chased after you. He almost did. 

Instead, he let you be. Leon would do all he could do. 

He would wait.

⧫⧫⧫

Sunlight bleeding into darkness. Blunted steel. Moves and countermoves. 

It was uncanny how so many familiar things could feel alien to you. That was all down to the man holding the other knife. Hellman moved differently from any of the other STRATCOM recruits. Different training. You’d seen some of his skills shared in Reed’s style, when you’d assisted him in training. That was the reason you’d sought the agent out. Well, one of a few. 

The other two reasons . . . you’d avoided them since Derek C. Simmons turned their names into weapons. Krauser and Leon, for their parts, had done the same. Had they been threatened too? You wouldn’t be surprised. Didn’t matter. Just like the comfort you longed for in Leon’s arms didn’t matter - the way you wanted to go to him. To pray that he didn’t hate you for what you’d done. Just like the questions you had for Krauser didn’t matter - the way you wished you could understand why he’d risked so much to protect you. Even if some part of you knew. That didn’t matter. Right now, only the knife across from you did.

You suspected Hellman had reasons of his own for agreeing to this. Shame, most likely. Good. You hoped he felt shame every time you managed to slip your knife past his defenses. 

Let him feel over and over again the cost of carelessness. 

Bruises were the best teachers, weren’t they?

Over the last few days, you’d had plenty to learn from the agent as well. Now, you were pulling your knife back as he pressed a counter-cut down where you’d gone to attack. Fast, just like Reed was. Calculating, too. Good at thinking a few moves ahead. He kept catching you in the same patterns. Old habits you’d fallen into since your injury. 

“You’re protecting your ribs more than anything,” Hellman pointed out. His notes weren’t as welcome as Krauser’s. You would take them, but not without biting back. 

“Someone broke them, remember?” It might get under his skin, childish as it was. Maybe guilt would make him sloppy. You hoped it would. Guilt likely wouldn’t work on Reed when you found him, but right now? You would settle for hurting Hellman in his stead. 

It nearly worked, too, as the agent just barely batted your attack away, a followup to a series of feints. Chest, leg, chest. Hellman stayed in place, trying to grab your arm. To run his knife up in a move that would have filleted the flesh from your bone. Your knee driving upward into his stomach stopped him. The knife dropped from your right to your left, stabbing towards his gut. Another near miss. 

You had him on the defensive.

“I shouldn’t have let him-”

“What?” you pressed, trailing after him. Each slash, each thrust, you paired with sharpened words to match. “Shouldn’t have let him break my bones? Cripple our soldiers? Poison an entire base of people?” 

Hellman’s skills as a fighter were all that saved him from bruising blows with your practice blade, and even as he managed to slash at your arm in a riposte, you kept advancing. Kept forcing him up against the wall of the facility that now housed you. 

You knew better than most how a cornered animal could fight, though. 

Krauser had often warned you not to let your feelings get in the way in a fight. Now, you paid the price for not listening to him and to Hellman both. Anger made you sloppy. As you blocked a high strike at your face, you realized his free hand was going low, a fist aimed at the ribs he’d just warned you about. You inhaled sharply, moving to defend with your other hand. His knife slipped around your upper defense. Yours moved in tandem. Then, you had knives at each other’s throats. 

A draw meant death, and your own stupidity had your anger rising. 

“I should have seen him for what he was,” Hellman panted, and you realized that he was feeling much the same way you were. You’d seen honesty from the agent plenty of times before, but nothing like this. Nothing so full of all-consuming remorse, because ultimately, he had been the best equipped to catch Reed before anything happened. He’d failed, and everyone else had paid the price. “I should have seen it sooner.” 

You were past the point of pity, your world reduced to red and black. So, you didn’t waver, even with a knife to your throat. “You should have,” you declared, sinking the blade of those words into Hellman’s heart. 

Your vengeance was short-lived. 

“Don’t be so hard on the agent.” You hadn’t even noticed someone approaching, you’d been so caught up in your fight. You didn’t know the voice, smooth and steady, and that made your head snap to its source. Your blunted blade fell away from Hellman and was now ready at your side. The man you found standing before you looked utterly unimpressed, the dark glasses that hid his eyes making disinterest appear effortless. Slicked back hair, a well-pressed suit . . . if not for the blond shine of that hair in the low light, you might have mistaken him for- “Reed was well-trained. You might be surprised how well Umbrella has embedded itself in the world. But perhaps you’d like to find out.” 

As if those words weren’t enough to make your grip on the knife tighten, Hellman tensed beside you. 

Tall, which meant a long reach. Not as well-muscled as Krauser, but it was hard to tell what physique hid beneath the suit jacket over the man’s shoulders. A jacket that could conceal a weapon as well. 

“Who the hell are you?” Hellman asked, his eyes narrowed.

Thin lips curled up before the strange man spoke. “An interested party. One with knowledge of use to you.” 

Not CIA. And anyone with knowledge of worth- 

“You’re with Umbrella.” The accusation was spat from your lips, your body thrumming with potential energy. The promise of violence, even as the man stood perfectly still and straight before you. 

His smile only widened. “Interesting theory.”

"How else would you have any knowledge of use?"

There was a moment of thought, the man choosing his words carefully. "Umbrella has outlived its usefulness. You and your government aren't the only ones interested in seeing it dismantled." 

You didn't have time to question what the hell that could mean. “Then you’ll have no problems coming in for questioning,” Hellman stepped forward, a warning buried shallowly beneath his words. 

“On the contrary,” the blond man tilted his head, “you won’t be taking me in, agent. You can have the information I’m offering, and you can determine what the cost of that information will be.” 

There were security cameras. Guards . . . and that hadn’t stopped this man from getting here. It hadn’t stopped him from not only finding this facility, but breaching its defenses seemingly unnoticed. You took a steadying breath, your muscles coiling, trying to put a plan together in your mind.

“I can’t let you leave,” Hellman said. “Not if you know what you claim you do.” 

The man took a breath, then sighed it out.

You knew when a fight was coming. You could feel the shift in the air. 

Even so, you never stood a chance. 

Not when the man, who had been a good ten paces away one moment was in front of you the next. Your knife arced up, your free hand moving to a defensive position, and none of it mattered when a hand closed around your throat, the force of it making you sputter.

No time to react. No time to question. 

You saw Hellman move, but a kick sent him flying back against the wall. Your air supply cut off, your only option was the blunted blade in your hand. One that you aimed straight for the dark lenses of the man holding you-

Only for him to catch it by the steel and, all while looking at you with a smug smirk, he squeezed. Your eyes widened as you watched the metal bend like dough beneath his grip, and then those same eyes bulged as his other hand tightened at your throat. You kicked as you were lifted easily off the ground, your free hand beating against his arm, terror setting in as your vision blurred. 

He could snap your neck like a toothpick. 

He could and would.

“I’ve wasted enough time talking,” the man said, looking down at Hellman as he held you, oblivious to your struggles. Kicks that landed like hammer blows on most did nothing to move him. 

You could die here, after everything, unless-

He let the bent knife go, then reached into his pocket. He pulled something small from it. Indiscernible in your wavering state of consciousness, your grip on his wrist tightening as you gasped for air. “Take this,” he said, tossing it at Hellman's feet. “Make good use of it.” 

Just as the world was about to go black, just as you felt your grip on his arm loosening, air rushed to you and you were falling. 

"You will need every soldier you can get." 

The ground met you without remorse and you grasped at your throat, coughing and sucking in air desperately. “Sergeant!” you heard Hellman, calling for you. Footsteps and scrambling against the dirt. Your perception was all hazy images and dying light, but you were alive. 

Still alive. 

Of course you were. 

Of fucking course you were. 

You forced yourself up, your arms full of pins and needles as you moved. You saw the warped remains of your knife, and empty space where the man had once stood. Too late. Not that it would have made a difference. You never could have won that fight. At most, you would have cost him a few seconds from his time to escape. He’d done what he’d come to do.

It lay in the dirt, sealed in a protective case. A little piece of what looked like plastic, wrapped around metal. Information, he’d said.

Information that a man who could crush steel in his hand was willing to give up. 

There was no doubt in your mind; that man had been a creation of Umbrella, in some way shape or form. He knew Reed at least by name. He was setting you all after something. Something he didn’t want to handle himself. 

Another player in a game you had no control over. Another person who’d taken your life quite literally in their hands without a thought or care. You were just a piece on the board. Always had been.

All it left you with, as your lungs finally refilled with air, was more anger. More rage. If this was what the world was? How your life shaped up to be? Fine. So long as you had something to sink your teeth into. 

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Chapter Index

A/N:

Wesker: Don’t go picking a fight with me. I could make your life difficult. Sarge, sarcastically: Wow. I wonder what it’d be like to have a difficult life.

You know I had to get the third blond freak in there somehow. Anyway I hope you enjoyed your mandatory dose of Deus ex Wesker, he will probably not be back lol. Literary structure can kiss my ass for this cameo in particular (meaning I know this is shoehorned in but ya know what, in the spirit of Resident Evil's goofiness, I kept the idea).

Anyway, APOLOGIES for the literal month this chapter took me to post, I was moving this last month! It was a lot of work but I'm very happy with my new place! Happy enough that I immediately left on a vacation - so I've been a little busy as of late. In any case, we're coming up on the end of this story here and I'm so so excited to finally write all the craziness I have in mind! Thank you all of you for your patience, hope you enjoy the end of the ride (and will follow me into the sequel when I get to it!)

Also, fun fact, apparently Wesker dropping off a flash drive could have happened if he's got cutting edge tech, the USB flash drive was invented in April of 1999! Bro absolutely stole the design for that. What a menace.

Tag List: @greywardensaywhat

[rustingcat]

Heist

She heard Lena's angry steps as she got closer to the med bay. She should've probably heard them sooner, but her current condition left her more exhausted than she realised.

The door opened with more force than necessary as a furious Lena Luthor headed in her direction. 

"Good luck sis." Alex provided her with a small pat on her shoulder before leaving the room. Giving Lena a small nod as she left.

"You better have a very good explanation for that." Lena's tone carried so much untamed anger, it almost sounded like a threat.

"It was just a heist gone wrong." She started, attempting to sit up on the bed and failing as she felt the wound on her stomach pulse in excruciating pain. She let out a small groan she tried her best to suppress, and continued with the best smile she could master. "I'm fine though!" She promised. "I just didn't know about the alien weapons. Don't worry Alex is looking into them."

"You were reckless and stupid!" she hurled at her. "You could've waited for reinforcement when you suspected they were using something bigger." She took the seat next to her, seemingly needing to ground herself.

"It was quicker that way! I had the element of surprise and as you can see I'm fine." Kara tried again, attempting to put a hand on Lena's before she shook her hand away.

"You're clearly not fine Kara! Look at you! You should've taken the safer option. Always take the safer option."

"Lena, I really am fine, I promise."

"No!" Her eyes were beginning to water when she met her gaze. "You listen to me Kara Zor-El Danvers! In a few months we are going to have children together, kids who are going to need both their mothers, do you understand that?"

"I– "

"And they don't need you to fighting criminals in the streets for them–"

"It was a heist–"

"They need you home with them!" She didn't think she’d heard Lena this emotional, not since the fortress. Kata turned off the sun lamp so Lena could get closer. Lena didn't hesitate and embraced her, making sure not to squeeze her too tightly. "I need you Kara." She whispered in her ear between sobs.

Something bloomed within Kara's chest and she didn't think it was the blast from earlier. Lena felt perfect in her arms, she always did, but there was something about that moment that  - Kara realised she didn't want to let her go. Simply holding Lena in her arms felt more healing than a thousand sun lumps.

"Sorry," Lena cleared her throat as she pulled back.

"No, no it's fine. I'm sorry." Kara smiled back, her heartbeat quickening all of a sudden. She moved a stray hair from Lena's face and felt as if the world stopped. Lena's face was all that existed, her eyes still red glistened in the fluorescent lights of the bay, they were the most beautiful things that Kara had ever seen. And her lips were so full and red. Were her lips always so soft looking?

"Kara!" Alex's voice broke her out of her haze. She wasn't sure when she got so close to Lena's face. "Are you okay? Your heart rate skyrocketed!" 

Despite not having superspeed, she moved back from Lena faster than she thought was humanly possible, her face red as a tomato. She groaned loudly as she did once the pain from the sudden movement surged through her body.

"Why is the sun lamp turned off? Kara, do you need me to remind you of the importance of continuance healing?"

"I know, it's just–"

"Sorry Lena, I think I might have to have some words with my sister."

"It's okay. I'll be on my way." Lena composed herself quickly and walked out of the room. Kara couldn't help but follow her figure with her eyes as she went, even after she left her field of view. 

She wasn't sure what, but something felt different.

Read everything in order on AO3

[theseventhdimension]

Seedless Seedlings, the End and Beginning.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word Count: 1.6k+

DNI: All are welcome, but death is described, DNI if this makes you uncomfortable.

Author's note: See.. this was meant to be a drabble, and then I *Sigh*..added more adjectives, and then a little more description, added backstory, a bit of dialogue and a *splash* of angst and it turned into this mess.

No beta, we die like whatever your gender is, cause we ain't sexist round these parts.

Death via Gunshot is described in this fic, do not interact if it makes you uncomfortable.

Spencer wandered through the grocery store, his mind a thousand miles away. The fluorescent lights hummed above, casting a stark, clinical brightness over the aisles. The world around him felt distant and muffled, like he was moving through a dream.

He moved through the familiar routine, picking up items almost on autopilot. Cereal, milk, bread—each item found its place in the cart without much thought. It was a ritual he had performed countless times,

yet today it felt different, heavier.

He reached the produce section and stopped abruptly. His eyes landed on a sign:

"Seedless Grapes."

His heart clenched. A small, wistful smile tugged at his lips, though it was tinged with an unshakeable sadness. He reached out, picking up a bunch and turning it over in his hands, the cool, smooth texture grounding him momentarily.

The memory of you flooded back with such intensity that he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. You had always hated grapes with seeds.

Spencer could clearly remember your exaggerated grimace whenever you bit into one by mistake.

You would always meticulously pick out the seedless ones, joking that seeds were nature's way of ruining a perfectly good fruit. He often teased you about it, enjoying the playful banter and the way your eyes would light up with mock indignation.

The memory was so vivid, it felt like you were standing beside him.

He could almost hear your voice, feel your presence, but when he turned,

..there was nothing but empty space.

The ache in his chest was as raw as it had been on the night you died, a wound that time had not yet begun to heal.

It felt like a physical weight, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe, like a grape was stuck in his throat.

He could almost see you standing there, plucking a grape off the bunch and popping it into your mouth with a mischievous grin.

"Just to test it out, you gotta know what you're paying for! Get the best for your buck, y'know?"

He knows that what you'd say, playfully nudging him with your elbow. Spencer would laugh, shaking his head at your antics, but always loving the way you found joy in the simplest things.

It had been months since that fateful night.

The unsub had cornered Spencer, his gun aimed with deadly precision. Without a second thought, you had pushed Spencer out of harm's way, taking the fatal bullet yourself. The pain and chaos that followed were a blur, but one moment stood out with haunting clarity: your final breath, your hand slipping from his grasp as you whispered your last words.

Spencer could still see the crimson bloom spreading across your shirt, the deep red almost black in the dim light. You clutched at the wound, your fingers slick with blood as you desperately tried to stem the flow. Each breath you took was a ragged gasp, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination.

"Hold on," Spencer had pleaded, his voice breaking. He pressed his hands over yours, trying to apply pressure, to do anything to keep you with him. The warmth of your blood seeped through his fingers, sticky and unyielding, a stark reminder of the life slipping away beneath his touch.

Your grip on his hand was weak, your strength fading. "Spence," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the din of sirens and shouting. "I'm sorry."

Tears streamed down Spencer's face as he shook his head, refusing to accept what was happening. "Don't talk like that. You're going to be okay. Just stay with me."

But even as he spoke, he could feel you slipping away. Your eyes, once so full of life and mischief, were glazing over, your breathing becoming more labored. You squeezed his hand one last time, a faint smile on your lips. "Love.. you.." you managed to say before your hand went limp in his grasp,

your eyes closing for the last time.

Spencer had screamed for help, his voice raw with desperation, but deep down, he knew it was too late. The memory of your blood on his hands, the warmth turning cold, haunted him every day. It was a weight he carried with him, a constant reminder of the price you paid to save his life.

Spencer closed his eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. No, he wasn't going to cry in the middle of a grocery store.

He placed the seedless grapes into his cart and continued through the store, trying to focus on the mundane task of shopping.

The sound of the cart wheels on the linoleum, the murmur of other shoppers, it all felt so far away. But his mind kept drifting back to you, to the way you had always known how to make him smile, even on his darkest days.

Arriving back at his apartment, Spencer unpacked his groceries with mechanical precision, having done this time and time again.

The apartment felt emptier without you, the silence more profound. The walls seemed to echo with memories of you, your laughter, your voice, now only a haunting reminder of what he had lost.

He set the grapes on the counter, their presence a small, bittersweet reminder of you. He sank into a chair at the kitchen table, staring at the grapes.

"You still hate the ones with seeds, don't you?" he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "You always loved the seedless ones."

He picked up a grape and popped it into his mouth, savoring the sweet, seedless fruit. It was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like a connection to you, a way to remember the love and joy you had brought into his life.

The taste was bittersweet, a reminder of the simple pleasures you had shared in comparison to the dark horrors you used to experience together.

The BAU team had tried their best to support him in the months since your death.

Hotch had given him time off, Garcia had inundated him with cheerful messages and care packages, and Derek had been a constant presence, always ready to lend an ear or a shoulder to cry on.

But despite their best efforts, nothing could fill the void you had left behind. The emptiness was like a shadow, always lurking at the edges of his consciousness.

Spencer knew he had to keep going, to keep fighting and living in a way that would honor your memory. You had given your life to save his, and he owed it to you to make the most of that gift. The weight of that responsibility was overwhelming, but it was also a source of strength.

Popping another grape into his mouth, Spencer allowed himself a moment of peace. It was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like you were with him, guiding him through the darkness. The taste of the grapes, the feel of them in his hand, it all served as a reminder that you were still a part of him, woven into the fabric of his life.

He imagined how you would react if you had made it home, safe and sound. You would have walked into the kitchen, your eyes lighting up at the sight of the grapes, only to narrow playfully when you saw Spencer eating them.

"Spence! You're eating my property!" you would exclaim, a mock frown on your face. He could see you crossing your arms, tapping your foot in exaggerated annoyance. Despite the fact that Spencer paid for them every single time, you loved to tease him about it.

A chuckle escaped Spencer's lips as he envisioned the scene. "You know I can't resist," he'd reply, pretending to defend himself. "Besides, I like to make sure they're up to your standards, get the 'best for your buck'."

You'd roll your eyes and shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips. "Fine, but you owe me," you'd say, grabbing a grape yourself and popping it into your mouth. "And don't think this gets you out of doing the dishes tonight."

The imagined exchange brought a bittersweet smile to Spencer's face.

It was moments like these he missed the most—your playful banter, your ability to make even the most mundane tasks feel special.

But theres no use in imagining now, because you're not here to snap him out of it with a calling of his name and a light punch on the arm.

Spencer picked up another grape, savoring the sweet, seedless fruit. It was a small thing, but it connected him to you, reminding him of the love and joy you had brought into his life.

As he sat there, he made a silent promise to you: to keep your memory alive, to carry you with him in his heart, and to strive to live a life that would make you proud, no matter how hard he tried to subconsciously shut you out.

The world seemed a little less bright without you in it, but he would find a way to keep moving forward, holding onto the memories that kept you close.

In that moment, the taste of the grapes was not just a reminder of your preference but a testament to the enduring bond you shared.

And for that, he was endlessly grateful.

[beneaththelamina]

"Can't be unhinged without loosening the screws a bit every day."

Kishibe - Chainsaw man

.

.

Screws keep things together. All wound up like a white-collar employee with deadlines. Bloodshot eyes, sweat between the brows, and yellow armpit stains that never seem to wash out on a shirt that prides itself on restricting movement with neat folds and stiching.

Spine in a perpetual crescent shape as the joints stiffen. Jaw biting down on itself, the tap tap tap of his heel—a staccato against the linoleum floors. 

The buzzing of the fluorescent lighting further agitates him, and the screws they’ve drilled into him can’t seem to contain the internal pressure.

Something wants to come out.

A little leaks out as some screws are pushed from their original point of capture. 

When the screws loosen, what do you find?

Something gooey and sticky? Maybe something sharp or blunt? Sweet or sour? Nuanced? Blatant?

The variety of what you find is much more enriching than the wound up casing it was in.

And what a funny kind of relief when it’s released. Like the feeling of menstrual blood and clots sloughing onto the pad in your underwear upon standing.

Relief as the pressure has been reduced, but an uncomfortable, unsettling, tingling sensation nestles in your gut as it feels as though the relief has gone against the grain.  

But sometimes, it's wound up so tight that it cannot be undone in a day.

It takes time.

Maybe so much has leaked out that the screws begin to rust in a final attempt to keep you trapped within their own decay. 

This is where many give up. People confuse the decay of the screws with their own, forgetting that something is inside. They forget that the screws work to hold a disguise in place. How disorienting it is to see what you think is yourself dying through eyes that don’t belong to you!

Just like newborn kittens, what’s inside is blind and deaf; its been closed off to the world for so long, it hasn’t had the chance to develop. At this stage, its only means of navigation are warmth, kindness, and love. 

It needs to be nurtured day by day until it becomes you.

Then other disguised people will point and jeer at you, calling you unhinged. 

[sealingfan]

A Pigeon Sat On A Branch Reflecting On Existence

There are three things with which this film hits you over the head in its opening sequence: it is about death, the tone is lighthearted if miserable, and the use of sound, color, and still shots foreshadow a meticulous and deliberate symbolism. I have loved film, art, and media for some time now and recently have begun regulating my consumption at a new film a day. This film has inspired me to document my thoughts.

We are introduced not to our protagonists, but to the film as a character with simple and otherwise mundane vignettes of people living in a world whose color seems to vary widely between shades of beige. The color (or lack thereof) and apparently deliberate set dressing immediately prepares us for contrast: children blowing bubbles and playing in colorful clothes, a mother's red leggings with her stroller in the park, a red-haired woman stealing a puff off her lover's cigarette, a young couple making love on the beach, dressed in red, soldiers going off to war, men dying in literal representations of corperate machines. It seems color exists only in the lives of people with drama, with emotion. The gray-and-beige world of bar scenes, of our protagonists' flophouse, of shops and even streets are devoid of intensity and are bathed in an omnipresent fluorescent office lighting.

Our protagonists are door-to-door novelty salesmen, whos self-described purpose is to help people laugh. The obvious irony being that they lack energy and their wares are not funny. They move like mobsters, threatening their clients who are behind on payments for rubber masks. In essence, they are sad, poor, and unexceptional.

As we watch Johnathan and Sam fail their way through town, their pitiable sales pitch in yet another bar is interrupted by the army of King Charles XII of Sweden evidently marching to fight the Russians in the Great Northern War. If we payed attention in AP Euro, we'd know the young and inexperienced King Charles would force each member of the anti-Swedish coalition into submission save Russia, and upon invading Moscow would suffer wounds resulting in his army's defeat. As the young king is escorted into the bland, beige-and-pea-green bar, we see intense and bright color in the navies and golds of the Swedish military uniforms. This, to me, cements the presence of color as a physical representation to contrast the pervasive ennui and boredom of the protagonists with their lot in life. We know these soldiers will return from war wounded and defeated, if they return at all, and yet they follow a cause, they are inspired, and they have decided upon a meaning in life, disagreeable and tragic though it may be. They march to war singing a song introduced in a particularly characterful bar scene about "Limping Lotta" and her tavern in Gothenburg, with the lyrics changed to fit Charles XII's ten thousand men. We see here that persistence remains the same even when the nature of the struggle changes.

We continue to loosely follow Jonathan and Sam as Jonathan begins to feel a sense of existential aimlessness. He is listening to a song on repeat late at night when Sam comes to talk to him, concerned for his wellbeing. The source of Jonathan's misery is a fear of meeting his parents again in heaven; he is afraid of dying, and maybe even having died so plainly, in a place so dingy, without having been colorful, as those three mundane deaths we see in the beginning, set to insistent, even petulant music. He wears one of the play masks they had been trying to sell perhaps in an attempt at coloring himself so to speak.

Sam, however sympathetic to his friend, is uninterested in this childishness. They have work to do and the people they report to are on their asses about their low sales records. They end up fighting and we see them part ways and make up. The friends are frustrated with their lot in life. They are uncertain of what to do. They are lost but they are friends. They have to keep living and they will do it side by side. Sam's apology to Jonathan is really touching. It is clear he isn't sure exactly what he's done wrong but he won't do it again. It is genuine and confused.

The next time we see Johnathan, he is recovering from a vision of black men and women and children being forced into a huge brass contraption which is then set alight. It begins spinning after a while and we see the name of Swedish multinational metals corporation Boliden. This long, agonizing shot ends when we flip to a window, out of which appear the cast of background characters, dressed up in black and ivory. This shot begins to bring together the themes of the film. The senses of meaninglessness and alienation begin to become attributable to bureaucracy and the complexity inherent in global forces - forces too large to observe with ripple effects too broad-ranging and complicated to wrap one's head around. Why do we march to war? For our king! Why do we drink? Because it makes me feel better. Why do we sell our novelties? Because we are told to. Why must we continue? Because we must. This scene has music that is somber and contemplative and new. It is not a callback or a reprise. Sam wants to get to work but Johnathan is full of turmoil. He asks thrice whether it is ok to use others for your own benefit to no answer.

The film ends at a bus stop as a man waiting for the bus is confused as to what day it is. His intuition failed him. It's an understated but fitting end. One can't expect satisfaction out of a film such as this.

Ultimately, the film is a depiction of the confusion innate in life as an individual in a society too vast to understand. Systems and machines overwhelm. One scene begins with the words homo-sapiens only to show us a monkey, wires sticking out of its brain, screaming, as a scientist ignores it entirely in the background, on a phone call. This is an obvious depiction of the film's perspective on the state of the individual human in a global world: buffeted by forces beyond understanding, suffering and unable to escape. A mind-numbing, boring, purposeless suffering envelopes contemporary society and salvation lies in ignorance and the simple joys of company. One may find it comforting that those with means still wear black even if they have slightly warmer lighting.

I am still contemplating the scene from which the film draws its title. As I understand it, children play a rather significant role in the symbol language of the film which I've yet to parse through entirely but I'm certain the three bots that read this will figure that out and tell me.

Anyhow,

I give Roy Andersson's "A Pigeon Sat on a Branch Reflecting on Existence" flaming Kafkaesque brazen bull turbine out of 5

[fudanshipoe]

the brightest star in the sky 🌌

— g rated, sigma & dazai pre-relationship, 1.7k

- they/them for sigma (Sigma is transfem nby in this au, but this is set pre-transition)

- pre-ADA member sigma

- stargazing, descriptions of hospitals and panic attacks

- day 5 of my fem sigma week event (stars)

- first in series of ada sigma au oneshots

- cross posted on my ao3

The first and last thing Sigma sees is a bright light. No light at the end of the tunnel, bit a blinding, fluorescent glow above them. What feels like needles prickles from head to toe, a dull throb vibrating through every vein in their body, somehow scalding hot and ice cold to the touch. They hear the faint, monotonous drone of a– heart monitor? Sigma was hardly familiar with medical equipment, but they were briefed on it concerning the Casino having a clinic room, and had limited knowledge from the past. They were watching their body behind a mirror, eyes cracked under the blinding– fluorescent?– lights.

A hospital. That was where they were, likely. It was the most they could deduce in the thick fog in their brain. Sigma stirs, their body heavy, all energy drained. Their eyes squint against the harsh light while they try hard to recollect their scattered thoughts.

A noise, someone clearing their throat, cuts through the monotonous buzz surrounding Sigma. They blink a few times, focusing their eyes and moving their head to the side. It's a hard feat, taking what nonexistent energy they have. Dazai smiles back at them. It's Dazai, Dazai is in their hospital room. A thick lump forms in their throat, and they swallow the questions crawling through their mind.

A weak groan bubbles in their throat, and the sound catches Dazai's attention. He speaks with an even tone, a reassuring demeanor carefully crafted through his relaxed posture, “Ah, I was starting to think you'd never wake up! A regular Sleeping Beauty, aren't you? Escaped the kiss of death, it's rather unfortunate, don't you think?”

What an absurd response, Sigma thinks somewhere in their clouded mind. Everything about this strange man was, from his mind to his behavior. It made Sigma more exhausted to even try to figure Dazai out. Their eyebrows knit together, and another low moan is all they can manage to respond with, but Dazai doesn't seem to mind. The book he held in his hand is set on his lap, Sigma doesn't bother trying to be nosy and read it from that far away. Not when their head is pulsing from the inside out. Dazai stands up, striding over to Sigma's bed.

Like the mind reader he is, Dazai begins to answer the string of questions circling through Sigma's mind. “You were in a coma for a few weeks. After that rat Dostoevsky left you for dead, Chuuya and I were able to take him down. The others took care of the rest. Everyone is in remission now.” His arms are spread out by now, and the high, overacted lilt to his voice grates Sigma's ears. They shift, pulling at the IV connected to their arm without meaning.

Dazai reaches out, putting a firm hand onto their shoulder, “Don't do that, you'll rip it out.” The tone of his voice drops, and Sigma can tell he is speaking in earnest now, “Things are still being figured out. I was able to get Yosano to help you, so that knife wound won't bother you.”

And he was right, they noted. Of all of the bone-deep aches coursing through Sigma's body, none of it feels at all like a stab wound. Yosano was the doctor, they were sure. None of this was important, though, and Sigma knit their brows together with hard focus, any effort at isolating their thoughts.

Sensing that Sigma could understand him just fine, Dazai continued. “Rest for a bit, alright? You can fill me in later, I've done my part."

There is nothing left in Sigma to refute him, so they reluctantly nod. Any conversation after that goes unheard by Sigma, blurring in the background along with their vision as the exhaustion overtook them.

The world continues to be dark, even after Sigma's eyes are open. It takes them a minute to register that it is late at night, or early in the morning, they can't begin to tell. A soft grunt escapes their lips as they arouse in a stir. It takes a valiant effort to brace their arms against each side of the hospital bed and pull themself upright. The one positive note Sigma can make is that they can at least sit up now. To Sigma's surprise, Dazai is still in the same chair as before. Sigma can see the vague shape of him in the darkness.

They struggle to untangle themself from all the wires, but Sigma takes caution as to not yank their IV needle. The room is eerily silent. The long twisted shadows of the surrounding medical equipment spurs an unfamiliar, dreadful sensation in the pit of their stomach. Sigma has dealt with being thrust into alien situations countless times, it's one of the simple things they experience being in their place. The uncertainty of it plummets them into emotional turmoil they know all too well.

Sigma makes the brilliant decision to slide off of the hospital bed, using the IV pole as a form of support. It slips from their grip a few times while Sigma tries to keep themself steady, though the effort proves failed. A soft thump is heard when they finally collapse into the chair next to Dazai's, all energy depleted by that little action. Hospital chairs certainly are uncomfortable. The cheap material sticks to Sigma's legs through the thin hospital gown material despite the low temperature of the room. They push the IV pole away from them finally to beside their chair.

Sigma folds their hands neatly in their lap, surveying their surroundings. Though the room is bathed in shadows, a bit of light spills in from the moon above, casting just enough so Sigma can see the room. Now that they're up and awake, they can really take it in. The room is falsely welcoming. A sterile smell lingers in the air accompanied by the blank wash of the room itself. Everything was white, except for some beige accents like the chairs, the small table between them, and the average looking painting of a flower vase above the hospital bed. Their eyes sweep over the room with disinterest until they look out the window. Sigma can only assume they're in Yokohama, which is evident by the amount of light pollution. Not that it was an obvious enough assumption to make beforehand, on account of Dazai's information earlier. The sky is muddled between hazy artificial whites and yellows against the stark black above. Blurred together in an unrecognizable mass. The stars are hardly visible beyond the clouds. It is a sight causes them to sigh.

A sudden interjection is heard, a sharp contrast to the thick silence from before, “I'm glad to see you're up and moving.”

Sigma's head whips over their shoulder to face the tired smile on Dazai's face. They swallow before they nod once, blinking at him. “You scared me.”

“I could say the same. My apologies, I'm a light sleeper. I haven't gotten any rest, cleaning up this mess has been so busy.” It's an awfully honest statement coming from Dazai. Sigma can't find any indication that he is trying to play a little game, which takes a bit of weight off of their chest to worry about.

“It sounds like it.” No other words can be said right now, so they relent to stare back out the window to avoid conversation.

Dazai, on the other hand, does the opposite, and continues to prod Sigma with a question, “Is there something interesting out there? I suppose you've probably never been around a big city before.”

Hesitantly, Sigma shakes their head. The reality is they haven't really done much in their life. What has there been to do? Three years of qualms over their own existence and place in this distant world doesn't exactly leave much time to experience regular life. A few awkward moments pass before Sigma is too antsy to let the silence hand over, “I was trying to see the stars.”

“The stars?” Dazai rubs the back of his stiffened neck, stretching his limbs from the ache of napping in a chair. Sigma watches him closely, and Dazai returns the favor back.

It's unclear what either of them are searching for anymore, so Sigma confirms his inquiry. “Mhm. I think they're pretty.” That was at least one of the things Sigma had time to do. Staring up at the sky, some silly attempt at escapism into their own imagination.

“I see.” The simplicity in that response can only irk Sigma. Their grievances dissipate quickly, for once, when Dazai continues. “Do you actually know anything about them?”

It's a difficult thing to answer. Knowledge about the nature of the world is understandably limited for Sigma. They start, “Oh, not much.” The conversation can't go dicey again, or else Sigma will die, so continue to keep up the impression that they can still feel their own limbs. That they aren't about to collapse under the weight of their own situation in front of someone else. “Um– they make shapes?”

Dazai squints his eyes against the darkness before a look of recognition forms on his face. “Constellations.”

“Con– constellations.” The word falls messily off of Sigma’s tongue. “Yes, those, thank you. I know a few by their shape, the um– the spoon one?”

Their face flushed when Dazai laughed at them. It was ridiculous to even try conversing with him, everything was a joke to this man. Thoughts race through Sigma's head while they curl inwards on themself, but those thoughts are quieted when Dazai's flurry of giggles dies down. “It's called The Big Dipper. There's the Little Dipper too, connected to the North Star.” A confused expression must be visible upon Sigma's features because Dazai continues on, “The very bright one, that you use for navigation.”

“I see.” At a loss for words, Sigma echoes Dazai's earlier remark. “Thank you for the information.”

“You're so formal about everything, you remind me of Kunikida.” Fondness colors Dazai’s tone now at the thought of his friend and partner.

A wall is put up in Sigma’s mind as they nod, the action catching Dazai's attention. He leans forward in his chair a bit, easing some of Sigma's worries as he speaks. “Don't worry, you'll be introduced to the rest of my coworkers some time soon. I know you've met Atsushi.”

Sigma casts a glance back out the window, before they nod curtly. “I would like to meet them.”

[elizaxspears]

SebWill: Señorita

Honestly, this just came from listening to the song Señorita because it can oddly fit them? It’s a bit of a spicy piece but nothing overly explicit! Just something I think fits the vibe of the song!

It’s not his usual place to go after work. It’s not his usual place, period. Yet, he can’t stop. He’s tried multiple times to find something else to keep his attention off this place, to spend time with the few reapers he considered friends but nothing would take his mind away from it. He was addicted, but not for the reason many assumed.

The modern world had brought many modern things and one of those things was clubbing. Now, it’s not something he would have ever indulged in on his own. Loud, crowded spaces? It’s not something that ever sounded appealing but Grell and Ronald were insistent he go with them just once to help take the edge off a particularly stressful collection. While normally, he would outright slam the door in their face, he found he was too wound up to properly relax after work, so he took them up on the offer. Perhaps a few drinks would do him good and take the edge off.

He doesn’t like the crowd, he doesn’t like the music and he doesn’t like the atmosphere. He regrets coming the moment he’s pulled through the doors. The music pounds in his ears, the lights are fluorescent and hard on his eyes. He’s bumped into nearly constantly as he’s pulled through the large crowd and the drinks taste cheap on his tongue. He’s surely showing his age.

Grell and Ronald are trying to encourage him to loosen up but he tunes them out in favour of trying to stave off a headache. He doesn’t belong here and he would never belong here, no matter how much they tell him he needs to relax.

Grell’s the one that pulls him onto the dance floor, physically dragging him onto it but he wouldn’t call this dancing. If anything, it feels more like clothed sex with how provocative some of these people moved. Of course, Grell and Ronald blended right in, Knox already off with some pretty woman he’d been chatting up at the bar and Grell already finding her eyes on other men. He encourages her to go and put the moves on them which she thankfully does.

He plans on sneaking out, hoping to avoid being caught by either of them. The door is his only salvation and it’s just in his reach; he stiffens up completely when hands find purchase on his hips and a warm body pressed tightly to his back. Normally, he’d spin around to physically punish whoever dared lay their hands on him but he can’t bring himself to do it this time. There’s a scent there, a familiar one under the layers of sweat, cologne and perfume that permeate the air of the club. It’s one he’s used to but one he hasn’t felt in years.

Slowly, those hands glide up his sides then up and over his chest and down his arms, taking his hands to pull him back onto the dance floor. He can’t bring himself to pull away. He simply follows along with the man behind him.

Those hands are back on his hips and slowly, he’s convinced to sway his hips in time with the man behind him. The song is just slow enough that he can find the proper rhythm and the man’s lips are pressing just behind his ear. His own hands are secured on the ones on his hips, his heart hammering behind his ribs. What he had thought was a forbidden fling for the time the butler dealt with his master and he with his reapers, a way for them to rid the stress plaguing them daily, he fully expected never to see this man again when the contract came to an end. He thought he was more than happy about that prospect.

It’s why he’s kept returning. The first time was out of some form of curiosity. The rest that followed only happened because he couldn’t stop.

When he’s on the dance floor again, awkwardly trying to blend in with lack of a partner, he begins to wonder if their silent agreement was broken when that familiar presence didn’t appear. Some asked for a dance but he quickly shot all of them down. They weren’t him.

Just as he’s about to give up and go home, feeling silly for even having this routine, those warm, slender hands are on him. The moment they are, he feels the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders. He’s no longer a Grim Reaper. He no longer has rules to abide by. He’s merely a man.

He lets out a relieved sigh, throwing up his arms to hook them around the slightly taller man's neck behind him. He closes his eyes, letting himself follow his partner's lead, leaning his head back to indulge in the kisses peppered over his exposed neck. It feels so good. It’s so wrong, but it feels so good. He knows that this should have never happened, even back then. That each touch, each kiss, is breaking so many rules but none of that matters at this moment.

His eyes remained closed even as he spun around to press chest to chest with the other man. He knows, seeing his partner, will break whatever spell he’s under and he doesn’t want this to end. Not yet. Not even when he’s kissed, does he open his eyes. His fingers curl tightly into his partner's shirt, indulging in his carnal desires that he usually never has. He wants this to last as long as it possibly can.

Even when he’s pulled from the dance floor and pushed against the wall, he still refuses to open his eyes. He allows himself to be pliant under his partner's hands, smirking to himself as he feels a hand grab under his thigh and lift it up his leg so his partner can slot even closer between his legs. “Open your eyes for me.” his partner whispers into his ear.

His breath is hot and the kisses he places on the ridge of his ear nearly make him obey. “No.” he tilts his head. “Not yet.”

The words stop there when his lips are once again captured by the other man. His fingers find themselves entangling into raven black locks, pushing their lips closer together. He’s even so bold as to playfully bite his partner's bottom lip, pulling at it before he’s forced to let go as a gasp escapes him. The man pushes him harder into the wall, those lips back on his neck. He can feel a dark mark being sucked between his neck and collar bone; he needs to bite back a moan. He has to remind himself, they are not in the private butler quarters of the Phantomhive mansion. He’s allowing himself to do this in front of the eyes of the public, but for the moment, he can’t bring himself to care. “Open your eyes for me, William.”

The sultry voice is right by his ear again and this time, he finds himself obeying without even realising it. His eyelids only half open, his gazed hooded as he peers into the same devilishly alluring red eyes he had many decades ago. He nearly laughs as he pulls him closer, pressing their foreheads together as his lips barely brush the once butlers, “I wish it wasn’t so damn hard to leave you.” All he gets in return is a smile he knows all too well, one that promises him a good night to come.

[mothsimp]

drive thru deez nuts: Jack in the Box x KFC mascots

experimental ai generated fanfic. credit to chatgpt. i am a worm and this is my purpose. enjoy at the risk of your own sanity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Summary: In the bustling world of fast food mascots, Jack, the mischievous and lively Jack-in-the-Box mascot, finds himself in an unexpected encounter with the Colonel, the esteemed figure of KFC. What begins as a chance meeting soon develops into a curious friendship filled with laughter, secrets, and maybe even a hint of something more.

Chapter 1: Unexpected Encounter

The fluorescent lights of the fast-food convention hall buzzed overhead as Jack bounced through the crowded aisles, his oversized head bobbing with excitement. He couldn't contain his enthusiasm; these gatherings always brought a thrill of anticipation, a chance to mingle with fellow mascots and entertainers from the fast food world.

As Jack rounded a corner, his eyes caught sight of the regal figure of the Colonel, standing tall amidst a sea of attendees. The Colonel's iconic white suit and distinguished beard made him instantly recognizable. Jack's heart skipped a beat. He'd admired the Colonel from afar, always fascinated by his charm and authority.

"Hey there, Colonel!" Jack called out, bounding over with a playful grin plastered across his face.

The Colonel turned, a twinkle in his eye as he greeted Jack with a nod. "Well, well, if it isn't the lively Jack-in-the-Box. What brings you over to my neck of the woods?"

Jack shrugged, his springs creaking with each movement. "Just thought I'd say hello. Can't resist the chance to chat with such an esteemed figure."

The Colonel chuckled, a warm sound that echoed through the bustling hall. "Charmed, I'm sure. Care for a stroll?"

With a nod, Jack fell into step beside the Colonel, the two of them weaving through the crowd with ease. They exchanged stories and jokes, laughter bubbling up between them like fizz in a soda. Despite their vastly different personas, they found common ground in their shared experiences as mascots.

As the convention wound down and the crowds began to thin, Jack found himself reluctant to part ways with the Colonel. There was something comforting about his presence, a sense of camaraderie that Jack hadn't expected.

"Say, Colonel, would you be interested in grabbing a bite to eat?" Jack asked, a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

The Colonel's smile widened, a glint of mischief sparking in his gaze. "I know just the place."

And so, the unlikely pair ventured out into the night, their laughter echoing through the streets as they embarked on a new adventure together.

Little did they know, this chance encounter would be the beginning of a friendship that would defy expectations and bring joy to both of their worlds.

[the-uptake]

The only acceptable way to ring in 2052 is with a Manhattan Premier and a slap to the face hard enough to rip your spider bites.

[sacredflamingart]

can you feel me breathing down your neck? you’re just a perfect metahuman wreck but i like you enough to destroy you, tear you down

[that1emowitch]

OKAY SO i started writing this, and here's a little preview of the first scene! If anyone can think of a good name for this pls comment it, i have no idea what to name this

and yeah if there's anything i can do better, also lmk! :D

.

.

.

Martha remembered getting shot.

The cold grip of fear had frozen her limbs as she stood in that dark alley, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She could still feel the dampness in the air, smell the faint stench of Gotham streets. Of Crime Alley. Thomas had been the first to fall, his body crumpling to the ground with a sickening finality. The mugger’s voice was a low snarl, scared but maddened, demanding her pearl necklace, his gun gleaming in the dim light. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the pearls, too terrified to move.

Her eyes had flicked to the side, to the small shadow hiding behind the dumpster. Bruce, her precious baby boy, cowering, his eyes wide with terror. She’d willed herself to move, to scream, to tell the mugger to take everything, just leave her family alone. But her voice wouldn’t come. She had been trapped in place, helpless. She’d begged in her mind—Don’t see him, don’t hurt him, just let him go.

And then the gun was pointed at her.

A sharp, deafening bang, the world tilted, and she fell. The last thing she saw was her little boy rushing forward, his small hands shaking her shoulders, his voice cracking as he called out to her.

"Mom, Mom, please!"

Then, nothing. Just darkness.

But now, there was light. Bright, sterile, too white. The sound of beeping machines pulled her out of the fog. Martha’s eyes fluttered open, her pulse quickening as the unfamiliar room came into focus. She was lying in a bed, the sheets stiff, the walls bare. A hospital. How am I alive?

She inhaled sharply, her hands trembling as she touched her chest. There was no pain, no sign of the gunshot wound. No blood. Was it a dream? For a brief, fleeting moment, she thought that maybe she had survived the unthinkable. Maybe she had been in a coma for a while, and recovered, and Thomas took care of Bruce, she’d get to see her baby again��

No. Thomas… Thomas was dead.

She remembered that first, terrifying shot too vividly.

Her eyes darted to the cot next to her, and her breath caught in her throat. Thomas. He was there, as pale and motionless as she remembered him when he fell in Crime Alley, trying to protect their family. But his chest rose and fell, the same rhythmic beep echoing from his heart monitor.

He was breathing.

Her mind raced. This can’t be real.

She sat up slowly, her body strangely stiff, her muscles unresponsive as if they had forgotten how to move. Panic swelled inside her chest. What is happening?

Before she could find the strength to call out, the door creaked open. A tall man stood in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor. His features were familiar, achingly so. For a moment, she thought she was looking at Thomas again, but there was something different about him. His face was chiseled, littered with pale scars, his eyes dark and haunted.

He stepped closer, a sense of desperation washing off him in waves, and her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t Thomas. It was… him.

It couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense.

“Mom…” the man whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Mom, it’s me.”

Martha blinked, confusion clouding her thoughts. He looked so much like Thomas—like her. But older. Stronger. Sadder.

“Bruce?” she breathed, disbelief thick in her voice. He looked nothing like the boy she remembered. How could this man, this stranger, be her son? She didn’t even know why she’d called him that—but she had this gut feeling. 

Mother’s instinct, perhaps.

Tears welled in his eyes as he nodded, his lips trembling with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s me.”

Martha’s heart raced. Her mind spun with questions she couldn’t begin to ask. Why were they alive? How long has it been? What has happened to our son?

She slowly reached a hand to her face again, this time feeling her wrinkled skin. She wasn’t that old. She was barely 32, she wasn’t… old. Had she… had she grown? Had she been in a coma? Who’d taken care of Bruce? Had Alfred stepped in? Was Alfred still around? What happened to her baby?

As if sensing her unspoken questions, Bruce took a step forward, his hand trembling slightly as he reached for hers. “Mom, Mom… There’s… so much I need to explain,” he said, his voice tight. “So much has happened.”

.

.

Ik it's a lot of angst rn but im planning on adding a shit ton of cracks (re: batkids' antics) later on, and post the whole thing as a oneshot hehe

(taglist: @halfdeadjasontodd, @booksareportal, @vanaquetta, @discar, @whenicarusflies, @thursdaysworld right now, if u wanna be tagged or untagged just lmk :D)

What if by some magical whoosh martha and thomas wayne came back to life to find their son as a 40-something-y/o with two dozen kids who all dress up and play hero at night

YES. just YES.

I WILL WRITE THIS I SWEAR

if anyone wants to be tagged in this just lmk in the comments pls :)

[quiltedpomegrantes]

Bygones.

TW!Noncon!!

M!Robin x PC

Robin was your childhood best friend. You remember running around the orphanage together, walking with each other to school every morning, and how you'd comfort him after particularly traumatic events. You even took on his payments. He knew what you sacrificed for him, and he worshiped you for it. He loved you for it.

Robin always knew that you had resorted to less than pure methods. Whether it was stealing or, alternatively, selling yourself. He never would have had an issue with that. I mean, sure it hurt. Thinking of you doing what you did with him at night, underneath the cheap polyester sheets before falling asleep tangled together. But he knew it wasn't the same. You wouldn't tell them I love you, you wouldn't hold hands with them, and you would never leave him for them. You were each other's top priorities.

Atleast, he thought so. He was cemented in that fact. So when he was proven wrong, it sent him into a spiral.

The first time you really shook his world was when you agreed to go into the businessman's car the second time. After Robin told you he felt uncomfortable. Before you admitted you had sex with the snob for money. And before you were whisked away.

Willingly.

Willingly whisked away.

As in, your stuff was already packed before Avery even spoke to Bailey. As in, you kept your door locked most nights. As in, you ate lunch with others. He, by default ate lunch alone.

Oh, sure he still saw you at school. Sitting with different friends in History. Ignoring all the times Whitney "visited" Robin. Bailey left him alone at least. However, the thought that the slime who owned you paid it off made him feel sick. You arrived in a nice car, and left in an even nicer one.

It hurt.

It ached.

You were rubbing salt into the rawest wound he's ever had.

Every night was 10 times worse than the previous one. He'd stay awake thinking of you. Thinking of your cute forest picnics. How you'd talk about getting married after escaping Bailey. The way you'd twirl your hair around your finger. The way those lips looked stretched around his cock. He'd have to fuck his hand at least once a day, just to make up for your nightly sessions. All he could think of was you. Your pretty little cunt. How you'd gasp his name.

He missed all of it, and that was just the beginning.

Days turned to weeks, which turned into months. Which turned into half a year.

But then one day, you sat back down at Robin's table. And he knew, he had to have you again. Your clothes were new and shoes scuffed. Little elegant pearl studs glimmered in fluorescent lights. He never knew you as the type to do makeup, or hair, but here you were. All dolled up. Acting as if nothing happened. Robin restrained his urge to just flip out, and played along. Most of what you said was blocked out by the sound of pure unadulterated rage filling his brain. The wheels in his head started to spin. He knew how to get his revenge.

He would ruin you.

He would ruin you to the point that you'd be forced to come home to him.

To the point that your owner wouldn't even take you back.

You acted like a well trained dog. All your speaking quirks were smoothed out. In class, you never daydreamed or socialized. Or, even though Robin would never let you indulge, masturbate. He missed it. Missed catching you slipping your hand beneath your skirt. Missed how you'd huff and blush when he'd stopped you. Your kinks ran a bit too extreme for him. Maybe you hated how he wouldn't "indulge" you. But he'd certainly satisfy your darker side with what he was planning.

He built up your trust. Fuck, he even earned Avery's trust. He'd make sure to help you keep up with Winter's assignments. Avery wouldn't settle for anything less than a distinction. One time, he even let you cheat off his own exam. He'd walk you to the shiny BMW and Avery would have the grace to say thanks before speeding off. You were allowed now to go to "pre-approved" places with Robin. Like the mall, the museum, and the cafe. No beach.

Definitely no more forest picnics and no more movies. No visiting places outside of the list.

But, it didn't take much to convince you to visit the orphanage. You didn't even say goodbye to the younger ones. Feigning a need to pick up something from his room, you followed.

Like a lamb to the slaughter.

He held the door open for you, only to shut and lock it behind you. Robin knew after this, he may never see you again. At least, not like this. Happy, serene, and affectionate. It almost stopped him. Almost. But before you could really realize what was happening, his hand was already covering your mouth, and you were bent over the bed.

The Robin you knew and loved would have never taken you like this. You would have been taken with love and care. Like you were his most valuable treasure. Sweet borderline chaste kisses. Missionary was his favorite. But the Robin you knew also didn't have deep dark circles underneath his eyes nor this cold stony look. He wouldn't have shoved you over the bed. He wouldn't rip apart the center of your panties out, just desperate to get inside you.

Avery's going to kill you. Or him. Or both of you. Tears roll down your cheeks as you try to scream for help. You struggle against him, but he's pressing you down and your arms are tightly pinned to your side. There's no escaping his presence.

Then you hear his pants unbuckle and slide down. Fear strikes you into silence and submission. Is he really going to fuck you? Warmth prods your cunt before his cock pushes in, stretching you out. It burns and without any prep you know you'll ache tomorrow. It's barely wet, but shame fills you. Heavy tear drops slide down your face, and you can almost taste them. How could you enjoy this? His cock continues to ravage you and you feel yourself responding. As he presses down further into you, a moan pops out. Despite being muffed by his hand you know he hears it. His hips quicken in pace and you're a little sobbing moaning mess in his arms.

Your stomach starts to tighten and cramp. Legs feel unstable. He unwraps his arms from around you and sits up. When his hands grab your hips, you know you're going to have bruises there. Forcefully, he brings you to the brink of orgasm, before burying himself to the hilt inside you. Warmth fills you from the inside out as he releases himself up against your cervix. Panic stricken, your mind begins to run as you realize today was not safe at all. Avery specifically left you alone on these days. There's no way you can hide this.

Why hasn't he pulled out yet? But before you can garner the energy to sit up, there's a piece of fabric stuffed in your mouth, and a scarf tied around your head, through the mouth. Soft hands flip you onto your back as he begins his assault of kisses. He keeps muttering apologies but it's all drowned out. All you can think, is that, this is your Robin. The Robin you love.

[sallysoot]

୧  a vessel of wasted potential [ .01 ] ☆ ╮

wilbur has slogged through eight thousand, six hundred and eighty-three days of this so-called miserable life waiting to find you: the cool balm over his fetid wounds.

this is... a 2.1k reader insert fic written from wilbur’s POV. it contains: just... simpbur, generally, referenced past bullying, unhealthy obsessions/fixations, “love at first sight,” and the impending doom vibe from my angst addiction. get ready for some secondhand embarrassment in part one of what will probably be two! requested by... nobody. only i wanted this. sorry. SFGHLKDFJGHL author’s note... i come back and the first thing i do is start writing THIS stuff again. whoopsies! i just wanted to do a different take on simpbur compared to my past works, something a little more pathetic insightful, y’know? also, i got this title from my simpbur playlist of the same name. give it a listen if you’d like! also leave me alone about the “graphic design is my passion” looking ass header i- i i ii i--

       Wilbur has always found a type of comfort in reconstructing the world as if through the elaborate lens of a seasoned director, demonstrating with unmatched expertise that what is true need not be what the camera has really caught on film— it can be his own framing, instead. And he will call this deception a ‘perspective,’ and he will call those that cannot see it the deceivers.

       Wilbur Soot does not lie and he does not cheat. Wilbur Soot is an artist—surely someone, of all the people in this vile world that never wants to bend with ease to his elaborate cinematography, would understand that.

       In the length of his personal film reel, the one that begins at his birth, there is no scene he recalls with such fondness as the first time he met you. There are plenty of moments that he would choose to leave behind: the moment he found himself face-down in the playground with another child's sneaker slotted against the base of his skull, the times his father had looked at him with such contempt that it was as if he wished he'd never been born, every second he'd spent in the dark of his room wondering why life hated him, only him, when everyone else got to be happy.

       But he'd be eager to live them all again if it meant he got to experience that chance meeting in the metro station again, too. It's early into the evening on a foggy Friday, and his world has gone from being a bearable amount of noise to a boisterous cacophany that itches beneath the thin skin laid gauntly over his skeleton. His hands wring in the pocket of his worn black hoodie, knee bouncing while he stares down the time upon the marquee. Every second that passes is a test of will, a resistance against his impulse to crawl into somewhere quiet and dark until everyone has gone.

       Yet, amid it all, there is you. 

        The first words you speak to him are a murmur that he can't comprehend; the sound is distant, but he knows it must be close and it makes him turn, somewhat wide-eyed, to look at you. 

        "I'm sorry, I really just need to sit down—my ankle got twisted on the stairs. There's really nowhere else for me to go, do you mind?"

       How lucky he is that you did him the honor of repeating yourself, because his gaze fixes on your face and all rationality rushes out of him. Wilbur knows this moment long before he ever experienced it; it's the love at first sight he's vicariously watched a dozen and one actors live out on a screen. This time, though, it's his— he’s done it, today, he’s gone out into this grey city that breathes smog into his dreams and found you. It’s all there, in the perspective he lives through; the fluorescent lights of the tunnel turn warm for you, forming a halo around your silhouette. Your outstretched hand is pressed reluctantly to the wall and he’s lost for breath to imagine that, in some way, it’s like you’ve cornered him there for yourself. 

       And all you’ve asked of him is to share his bench until the train comes. Wilbur realizes he’s been quiet for a little too long and your expression has turned a bit pleading, darting eyes seeking for somewhere else you could go if he kept staring so blankly at you. All at once, he rights himself, drawing in his knees a bit so that he’s not sprawled across the bench and making room for you.

       “Sure, yeah,” he says, nodding a few too many times to affirm that yes, yes, of course you can sit next to him. Wilbur cherishes the look of relief that you give as you— somewhat cautiously, he supposes on account of your injury— slide yourself onto the bench.

       Wilbur wonders what this moment is like to you. If he’s got a halo, too, and if your heart flutters up into your throat so quick you might get sick, just like his is doing. He’s never cared to know how another person thinks before. He decides that this only confirms you are meant to be special to him. There have been people before, that have caught his eye. None like you, of course, but he recalls days spent in school following objects of his fleeting affection from a few yards back. Most often, they’d ignore him. Two or three times, they’d tell him to go away. And just once, the last one he’d loved before you, there was a boy with grand ambition and such intelligence to fulfill it. He, with his beautiful, silky hair like raven feathers and ochre skin had turned on his heel to tell him, “You can talk to me. Or even mug me, if it means you’ll stop creeping around back there.”

       He’d not known what to do, then. All that he could manage was an unimpressive stutter that might have been ‘sorry’ and to run far, far from that street he’d added to his after-school routine just to follow the one he’d dubbed his Alex in his mind.

       Now, he knows it’s for the best; what if he’d become too occupied with him all those years ago to have the chance to meet you now? It would never have been right without you and this blissful realization that something’s different, now, and this will be like no time before. Even so, Wilbur has his shoulders drawn up and his eyes cast down because he doesn’t know what to say to you at all. He can’t let this happen again— he can’t lose someone to his silence.

       “I’m Wilbur,” he suddenly says, a little hoarse with nerves and just as stiff as when he sticks his hand out for you to take.

       “Oh!” you exclaim. The surprise lights up on your face like you are your own little sun, warm and inviting. You take his hand, so kind to not even grimace at how clammy it is, and give it a firm shake. He’s so swept away in your touch that he almost misses your name. God, if he’d never learned your name he might have cried himself to sleep this night like every other. Instead, he hears it and it sends a little chill up the length of his spine. Wilbur can’t help himself but repeat it back to you so he can taste the way it moves from his mouth, delectable and sharp like the best exhale of a cigarette that he’s ever had.

       “That’s right,” you reply, (regrettably) pulling your hand away to settle atop your bag again. 

       “Are you going home?” Wilbur asks, just as sudden as before. He hates how unnatural it sounds every time he speaks; you’re as cordial as a cherry, though, and he feels lucky that you don’t flinch from his awkwardness.

       “Ah, well.” Giving a little shrug, you respond, “That’s classified. But I will say, wherever I’m going, that I’m looking forward to having some tea and kicking my feet up. I’m cold right down to my bones. Does the cold bother you?”

       Wilbur shakes his head. “No... no, I don’t mind it. I think it’s nice.”

       Eyebrows raised, you ask, “Do you?” He’s watching your every move like a hawk, though he doesn’t really mean to do it; that’s all he’s ever known to do with other people: watch and wait. When he doesn’t respond, you seem to decide he’s missed the invitation to, and politely hand him another. “I guess it’s kind of nice to bundle up, anyway. It’s like a hug.”

       Tilting his head to the side a little, Wilbur ponders over your statement until he thinks he knows what he must say. “I don’t know what that’s like. I just feel right when it’s cold.”

       “Ah... that’s good, too!” you cheerfully reply, taking hold of your coat a bit and drawing it around your body a little more. Maybe it really does bother you that it’s cold. He’d like to offer you his jacket, really— but the thing hasn’t been washed since he bought it, and he doesn’t want to count out how many weeks that’s been.

       “We should...” he begins, then trails off, staring at the brick wall next to your head instead of looking at you. “Um, tea. Next time you’d like to have some, we could go... somewhere together.”

       Wilbur doesn’t know what the look on your face means, only that it’s gone in an instant. “Okay, alright,” you say. There’s a tremble on the edge of your tone. Maybe you would want his jacket even if it’s gross? He dwells on that thought for a little longer, until he realizes that it’s become his turn to speak again.

       “Do you want my phone number?” Wilbur waits for the little nod you answer with to pull it from his pocket. He angles it a little bit away from you so you don’t spend too long looking at the well-rendered anime girl on his lockscreen, cheeks a little hot as he fumbles for his passcode. God, it’s incredible how much he can start to care about what someone thinks when that someone is you. He’s only just met you, but he’s so concerned with how you’ll be thinking of him tonight— he knows that he will be thinking of you, until the moment he sees you again.

       Resisting his urge to pry when you hand him your phone, he puts information in every available slot on the list before he gives it back; even his address, because he likes the idea you could decide to show up unannounced. He’s a little disappointed to find that you’ve only written your first name and number, but he’s still excited to have it. He eagerly readies himself to take a picture of you for the contact, just for you to widen your eyes in shock and hide behind your hands. 

       “Do you really need a picture?”

       It’s so adorable how you peer through your fingers and him, the anxious giggle on the edge of your voice betraying your shyness. Wilbur doesn’t hesitate to nod, though, insisting that he’s not good with faces and doesn’t want to forget. Technically, it’s not true; he could never forget yours, but he thinks it’s a fair thing to say anyway. 

       Awkwardly, you sit up a little straighter and put your hands back on your back. You’re really doing the best you can, he thinks, and it fills him with a unique type of glee to have captured your shy little smile in a picture. He grins, tucking his phone away because he knows he’ll get distracted staring at it otherwise. There’s a long pause, until the voice over the speakers announces a departure that makes you quickly stand up, a little wobble in your stance as you instinctively try not to put weight on it. He stands up with you like a mirror, and he’s still grinning with excitement that he can’t contain. The flood of bodies interrupts, though, and he’s devastated that you have to go with them.

       “It was nice to meet you, bye!” you say all in a rush, words falling against one another as you shuffle into the stream of other passengers. 

       Wilbur is shaking when he sits back down on the bench to wait for his own train. He’s not cold— he’s just so fucking happy. He gets to be happy now, like everyone else with their comfortable, easy lives, he can scarcely believe how fast his happy ending has begun. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to stare at your picture, lost to the world and his rush of euphoria so much that he almost misses his way home. He doesn’t, fortunately, which means he gets to listen to the low rumble from inside the cabin as he keeps grinning at your contact, your perfect name, your perfect face, even a string of numbers that couldn’t be more wonderful. With a giddy sigh, he clasps his phone against his chest, warmth coursing through his body. He’s never been one for the heat but tonight, it’s lovely, because it’s from you and you are so, so lovely.

       Beneath his blushing and thrills, old wounds unstitch inside of him on account of the shoddy thread he’d tried on himself and he knows, in a feeling that goes beyond even certainty, that all of them had waited for this moment to come undone. For you to arrive in his hollow life, to fix it. Fix him.

[skiitter]

A prompt: whatever you want to write

"It's yours."

Self sacrifice is easy when the future doesn't exist. Now she drowns in black water and her lungs are coded membrane. The body was an easy trade when the only thing waiting for her was a short end to a shitty life. In the face of eternity, abject and non-euclidean, V begins to nurse the spark of regret.

"I don't want it."

A life of excess. The thrill of the chase for the ecstasy of the end. Johnny Silverhand flirted audaciously with fate, entombing himself in a violent, volatile arrogance. Never before has he been forced to pick the lesser of two evils. His legacy is that of the daemon slayer. Fuck your binary, he'll burn and pillage his way to a third choice. Only now, in the looming hour of their demise, fire and metal are but plastic playthings in the face of something greater, and deeper, than he can defeat.

"How could you?"

It's easy to judge when you're securely planted in a world of concrete truths. Never before has someone had to rip themselves, bloodied and bruised, from their designated meat, and accept that it is the only path forward. V wants for artificial sunlight, inky black titanium, all that glittering faux-gold befitting a chrome dragon in a city of neon blood. And she gives it up, the proverbial crown and all its illicit gifts, because the one time she should have been iron, she was water instead.

"Bring her back!"

Oh if he could. Johnny died for the cause, bled to the bitter bone in the name of all that he believed, and in the end, its but smoke wafting mindlessly in a dimly lit room. A body remolded to all his jagged parts, as if her skin could ever hope to cover the yawning pit he calls a heart. Or so they say. Or so Kerry says. Tits and an ass are all well and good but he'd set it all ablaze for the rasp of her voice on a cold morning breeze.

"Will it work?"

Hope is for children, for the infirm, for the fucking deluded. And yet, Alt whispers warnings wrapped tight in a foil of red potential and V is too fucking desperate to turn it away. She wants out, wants free, wants to rip the bars from her binary cage and eat the electric heart out of Night City's beaten chest. Fingers utterly beyond the scope of flesh and bone grip at the seams of the Blackwall, screaming for purchase. There is a body, somewhere, that used to be hers. And a killer inside that used to be no one's. She'll take it, take him, take the bite and the sting. Hand in the vipers nest, venom doesn't settle into the blood of an undead thing.

"Here's the thing,"

In case of emergency, break glass, release hell. Johnny is all wound up, coiled too tight in muscle re-knit to accommodate something profoundly fucking dumb. There is a hum, here and there, that haunts him. Something beyond words, as though he were the man to use them. So, he defies man and machine and corporate fucking greed. He severs the ties that bind them to the mortal and mundane and springs forth his daemon until the world anew.

"I'm sorry."

It takes an age. Time is a suggestion beat senseless by the insanity of it all. V was never patient, not in any version of her life, but like all things pertaining to Johnny, she's no choice but to wait. Incandescent in the fluorescence of a back alley ripper clinic, he drags her kicking and screaming into the here and the now. A body, close enough to count unless you're willing to look, encapsulates the sum and the total and the ugly in between. Apologies, like rainwater, spill forth from matching mouths. He's her when he should be hers.

"Not yet."

Torn asunder, as if he'd ever turn away, the pain is but a grim reminder of that which he is rejecting and that which he is becoming. Life is but a series of updates, a code ever changing. In the micro, it's shades of blue, constructed in a setting too familiar to divorce. Zoomed out, however, and observed from on high, all that she has wrought and all that he has claimed becomes another gleaming neon threat in an effusive black sky. A body frozen, thawed. A heart stopped, restarted. Lacking in appendages both chrome and digital, Johnny Silverhand takes a breath, and holds deep the air of a new day.

"Could we?"

Of course. The waiting end is still there, in all its romantic glory, and now more than ever, she knows the power of choice. V chose him, chose potential, chose a possibility totally beyond herself. Johnny chose her, chose retribution, chose a future within which she could bloom. It hurts, like all that is too good to be acceptably true, but a little blood and a little burn never bothered him. A creature, alight with arrogant conviction, he’s reshaped it into something important, something specific. She hated the demand people made of her feelings, as if she was beholden to their needs and not her own. Even firmly rooted in this most holy second chance, she is all needles. And Johnny is all leather, sun-cured and willing to ride out the sting.

“I’m here.”

A promise. A threat. Something she can analyze and observe. Dying makes for patience in a man such as he. It’s enough. It’s enough. It’s so very much enough.

“‘Til the end.”

Yet again. Once more, with violent feeling. Love is an action, a choice, a demand. V will take and Johnny will give, and along the way, they’ll choose to switch. Two people, one body, two bodies, one decision. It’s easy, even when it’s not. Even when it shouldn’t be. Even in the end.

[escape-from-arcadia]

How the Arcadia Gang Reacts When You’re Feeling Down

| 1 | 2 | ? |

Strickler gives some of the best advice around. So when you show up at his office, it feels less like you’re going in to see the school principal and more like you’re visiting a therapist, maybe even a close friend. He turns off the bright fluorescent lights and turns on his lamp, the warm glow softening the edges of the room, like a vignette. He plays on a vinyl record that you pick from his collection (they’re mostly impressionist piano), and you two play a game of chess by the window. He doesn’t make it easy and plays an honest match, but he occasionally points out ways to improve your strategy. Afterwards, regardless of whether or not you win or lose, he offers you a seat on the couch and a to-go cup of warm tea from the teacher’s lounge before joining you. He listens to what you have to say and gives you thoughtful words and reassurances in return. After your talk, he asks you what era of history you find most interesting, and he grabs a book off his shelf to read to you. Before he begins, he reminds you that there are people out there who love you for all parts of you, and that you always have the chance to grow and change throughout your life. It’s part of being human.

Barbara will patch up any wounds you have, be it emotional or physical. She has lovely bedside manner and can patch you up good as new in seconds flat. If you want, she’ll let you sit in for an abstract portrait while you tell her about what’s bothering you. And while she’s not the best cook, when the mom senses are a tingling, she’ll whip you up one of Jim’s recipes (or try her best to, anyways). She means well, and it’s with a mother’s love she treats you with. She tells you that no matter what there are people you can turn to who will help and support you unconditionally.

Nomura isn’t exactly the best with people, per se. But she does make a lovely cup of tea. If you visit her during museum hours, she’ll give you a cup of tea and walk you around the museum. She’ll show you her favorite exhibits (and maybe tell you a few interesting things about them if she was alive during those times). She’ll show you behind the scenes and show you how to safely handle ancient artifacts. She might even give you a sneak peek to upcoming exhibits! She’s especially drawn towards images and artifacts of hope, and points out the stories of the people who created them, the stories of the times these artifacts came from, and so on. She tells you that living beings have persevered throughout all time, and in the end, your true colors will shine through. When that time comes, you must learn to love yourself who all that you are and will be.

Blinky will offer words of sage advice. He has many books and many grandiose words to say, but he speaks with you softly. He picks an old storybook for young trolls and sits you down for a little story time. His voice carries well and is perfect for storytelling, and you get caught up in a fantastical (and sometimes mildly violent) tale of adventure, wit, and love. When he’s done, he takes you on a walk around Trollmarket. He tells you about troll history and lore, and recounts the tales of many brave Hunters of the past. He tells you that your passions and your determination to finish a task will see you through the end. In the face of fear and strife, you must continue on and see your dreams to the end. He believe in you, and knows that with enough hard work and learning, you will overcome anything.

Aaarrrgghh is moss dad and wingman. He’s a troll of few words, but when he sees you, he’ll give you a gentle pat on the head. “You okay?” If you’re up for it, he’ll give you a hug. His hugs are warm and soft, like he’s protecting you from the world beyond. At night, he’ll take you out for a walk through the woods of Arcadia, maybe go snack hunting. His mere presence warms the room with a gentle warmth and calm. One can’t help but feel safe around him. He tells you that who you were in the past is a part of you yes, but it’s who you are now that matters most. It's your actions now that define who you are and where you go from here.

Varvatos is trying his best. He really is! While most of his knowledge of humans comes from watching murder mysteries with Nancy and game shows, he will listen and try to understand what you’re going through. Like Aja, one of the best ways to get your emotions out in his book is by fighting. He’ll spar you and train you in the art of being a warrior. You two grab serrators and throughout the combat, over the sparks and flashes, he looks on at you with pride. Afterwards, he tells you don’t need fame, power, or even glory to live a happy life. What you need is honor, and faith in yourself and your values.

Merlin beckons you inside his workshop and waves over a comfortable chair for you to sit down in by the furnace. Its heat is blazing, and as you begin to sweat, he hands you a mysterious fiery liquid in a clear bottle. You uncork it hesitantly, but at his insistence, you drink and find your nerves much more calm. Depending on the energy you bring into the workshop, Merlin will hand you a different vial to help you with your feelings. Its effects are temporary, but it gives him enough time to speak to you about what’s troubling you. It may not seem like it and he may not even admit it, but the greatest wizard in the world does have feelings, you know? And he is willing to listen and will try to help you see the bigger picture. His words may not be exactly what you want to hear, but he will tell you as it is. He reminds you that your place in the world is small yes, but it is. You are here existing and you can create a bigger change than you could possible imagine.

Taglist: @seekerofblades

Requests for characters open. Comment or send in an ask.

[katnissmellarkkk]

Hiiii! Here’s part two of my Katniss and Peeta Taking Of Each Other bookcomb! It’s pretty long so … sorry 😬. There was a lot I didn’t include and a lot I wasn’t sure about including, because so much of Catching Fire and Mockingjay is about them wanting to protect the other but I tried to narrow it down to actual acts that were caring, or times they at least tried to care for the other.

-

Then, as if I can’t stand it another second, I start running. He catches me and spins me around and then he slips — he still isn’t entirely in command of his artificial leg — and we fall into the snow, me on top of him, and that’s where we have our first kiss in months. It’s full of fur and snowflakes and lipstick, but underneath all that, I can feel the steadiness that Peeta brings to everything. And I know I’m not alone. As badly as I have hurt him, he won’t expose me in front of the cameras. Won’t condemn me with a halfhearted kiss. He’s still looking out for me. Just as he did in the arena. Somehow the thought makes me want to cry. Instead I pull him to his feet, tuck my glove through the crook of his arm, and merrily pull him on our way.

-

“We’re going!” says Peeta, shoving the Peacekeeper who’s pressing on me. “We get it, all right? Come on, Katniss.” His arm encircles me and guides me back into the Justice Building. The Peacekeepers follow a pace or two behind us.

-

Effie starts giving me pills to sleep, but they don’t work. Not well enough. I drift off only to be roused by nightmares that have increased in number and intensity. Peeta, who spends much of the night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I refuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other’s arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment.

-

“He was poaching. What business is it of hers, anyway?” says the man.

“He’s her cousin.” Peeta’s got my other arm now, but gently. “And she’s my fiancée. So if you want to get to him, expect to go through both of us.”

-

When my mother has locked the door behind them, I slump against the table.

“What is it?” says Peeta, holding me steadily.

“Oh, I banged up my left foot. The heel. And my tailbone’s had a bad day, too.” He helps me over to one of the rockers and I lower myself onto the padded cushion.

My mother eases off my boots. “What happened?”

“I slipped and fell,” I say. Four pairs of eyes look at me with disbelief. “On some ice.” But we all know the house must be bugged and it’s not safe to talk openly. Not here, not now.

-

My mother gives me a cup of chamomile tea with a dose of sleep syrup, and my eyelids begin to droop immediately. She wraps my bad foot, and Peeta volunteers to get me to bed. I start out by leaning on his shoulder, but I’m so wobbly he just scoops me up and carries me upstairs. He tucks me in and says good night but I catch his hand and hold him there.

-

Peeta sits on the side of the bed, warming my hand in both of his. “Almost thought you’d changed your mind today. When you were late for dinner.”

I’m foggy but I can guess what he means. With the fence going on and me showing up late and the Peacekeepers waiting, he thought I’d made a run for it, maybe with Gale.

“No, I’d have told you,” I say. I pull his hand up and lean my cheek against the back of it, taking in the faint scent of cinnamon and dill from the breads he must have baked today.

-

Each afternoon he carries me downstairs for a change of scenery and I unnerve everyone by turning on the television.

-

Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls’ reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch’s name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place.

-

“Why would he paint a picture of me, Effie?” I ask, somehow annoyed.

“To show he’s going to do everything he can to defend you. That’s what everyone in the Capitol’s expecting, anyway. Didn’t he volunteer to go in with you?” Effie says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

-

I lock my fingers tightly into his and say, “Watch my feet. Just try to step where I step.” It helps. We seem to move a little faster, but never enough to afford a rest, and the mist continues to lap at our heels.

-

Peeta and Finnick and I position ourselves in a triangle, a few yards apart, our backs to one another. My heart sinks as my fingers draw back my last arrow. Then I remember Peeta has a sheath, too. And he’s not shooting, he’s hacking away with that knife. My own knife is out now, but the monkeys are quicker, can spring in and out so fast you can barely react.

“Peeta!” I shout. “Your arrows!”

Peeta turns to see my predicament and is sliding off his sheath when it happens. A monkey lunges out of a tree for his chest. I have no arrow, no way to shoot. I can hear the thud of Finnick’s trident finding another mark and know his weapon is occupied. Peeta’s knife arm is disabled as he tries to remove the sheath. I throw my knife at the oncoming mutt but the creature somersaults, evading the blade, and stays on its trajectory.

Weaponless, defenseless, I do the only thing I can think of. I run for Peeta, to knock him to the ground, to protect his body with mine, even though I know I won’t make it in time.

-

While I help Peeta coat his skin with the ointment, Finnick deftly cleans the meat from the shellfish.

-

I stretch out, pressing my hot cheek on the grass mat, staring at the thing in aggravation. Peeta rubs a tense spot between my shoulders and I let myself relax a little.

-

I know it’s stopped when I feel Peeta’s hands on me, feel myself lifted from the ground and out of the jungle. But I stay eyes squeezed shut, hands over my ears, muscles too rigid to release. Peeta holds me on his lap, speaking soothing words, rocking me gently. It takes a long time before I begin to relax the iron grip on my body. And when I do, the trembling begins.

“It’s all right, Katniss,” he whispers.

-

“Katniss!” I hear his voice though he’s a far distance away. But what is he doing? Peeta must have figured out that everyone is hunting us by now. “Katniss!”

I can’t protect him. I can’t move fast or far and my shooting abilities are questionable at best. I do the one thing I can to draw the attackers away from him and over to me. “Peeta!” I scream out. “Peeta! I’m here! Peeta!” Yes, I will draw them in, any in my vicinity, away from Peeta and over to me and the lightning tree that will soon be a weapon in and of itself. “I’m here! I’m here!” He won’t make it. Not with that leg in the night. He will never make it in time. “Peeta!”

-

I’m rattled by the turn in the conversation. The implications that I could so readily dispose of Peeta, that I’m in love with Gale, that the whole thing has been an act. My cheeks begin to burn. The very notion that I’m devoting any thought to who I want presented as my lover, given our current circumstances, is demeaning. I let my anger propel me into my greatest demand. “When the war is over, if we’ve won, Peeta will be pardoned.”

-

At the mention of my name, Peeta’s face contorts in effort. “Katniss . . . how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not in the Capitol. Not in the districts. And you . . . in Thirteen . . .” He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of me standing in front of the hospital at three-second intervals. But between the images, we are privy to the real-life action being played out on the set. Peeta’s attempt to continue speaking. The camera knocked down to record the white tiled floor. The scuffle of boots. The impact of the blow that’s inseparable from Peeta’s cry of pain.

And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

-

I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.” I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads LAMB STEW.

I press my lips together at the memories of rain dripping through stones, my inept attempts at flirting, and the aroma of my favorite Capitol dish in the chilly air. So some part of it must still be in his head, too. How happy, how hungry, how close we were when that picnic basket arrived outside our cave.

-

In the fluorescent light, the circles under his eyes look like bruises. “There’s still time. You should sleep.” Unresisting, he lies back down, but just stares at the needle on one of the dials as it twitches from side to side. Slowly, as I would with a wounded animal, my hand stretches out and brushes a wave of hair from his forehead. He freezes at my touch, but doesn’t recoil. So I continue to gently smooth back his hair. It’s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena.

“You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.

“Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation. “Because that’s what you and I do. Protect each other.” After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.

-

“Katniss!” He whips his head toward me but doesn’t seem to notice my bow, the waiting arrow. “Katniss! Get out of here!”

I hesitate. His voice is alarmed, but not insane. “Why? What’s making that sound?”

“I don’t know. Only that it has to kill you,” says Peeta. “Run! Get out! Go!”

-

It’s a long shot, it’s suicide maybe, but I do the only thing I can think of. I lean in and kiss Peeta full on the mouth. His whole body starts shuddering, but I keep my lips pressed to his until I have to come up for air. My hands slide up his wrists to clasp his. “Don’t let him take you from me.”

Peeta’s panting hard as he fights the nightmares raging in his head. “No. I don’t want to . . .”

I clench his hands to the point of pain. “Stay with me.”

His pupils contract to pinpoints, dilate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. “Always,” he murmurs.

I help Peeta up and address Pollux.

-

While Cressida and Pollux make fur nests for each of us, I attend to Peeta’s wrists. Gently rinsing away the blood, putting on an antiseptic, and bandaging them beneath the cuffs.

-

By the time I make it back to the fence, I’m so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people’s cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light.

My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he’s real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He’s come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn’t stand it there without her, so he came looking.

[…]

Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. “She’s dead.” I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. “She’s dead, you stupid cat. She’s dead.” A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won’t go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he’s there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night.

-

Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup.

-

I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway.

-

Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver.

-