#those flashback filters are such a pain

[aragarna]

Ioan Gruffudd as Dr. Henry Morgan and Eric William Morris as Dr. James Carter in Forever (2014, 1x03) - 1906 Flashbacks requested by @lulu-cat-princess

[toournextadventure]

when you love it pt.3

Summary: Enid brings one of the children over for an extended career day.

Word Count: 5.9k Warnings: Swearing, flashbacks of violence Pairing: Wenclair x Vampire!Reader (part 1) (part 2) (part 3)

If one more miserable soul dared to interrupt the single hour of peace you had somehow managed to thrust into your schedule, you would end up representing yourself in court.

“I think they want to bury you,” Sara said with a pathetically insincere laugh. She dropped yet another box down in the already overcrowded corner of your office.

With a sigh, you set your reading glasses down on the desk and looked up at the young assistant. Far too young, you weren’t convinced she was even old enough to meet the strict qualifications your office had set. Not even old enough to have the tired leaden look in her eyes that life brought upon those with the wisdom to know better.

Though, you supposed Wednesday would have qualified for the position at her age. Perhaps you should curb your judgment.

“I beg of you,” you said slowly, “don’t bring anymore until tomorrow.”

“But there’s still-”

“-Don’t,” you whispered. She met your eyes before nodding once and giving you a closed-mouth smile.

“I’ll put them away for today,” she finally said.

You watched closely while she shuffled back out of the door. Her smile was more genuine before she closed the door and you could, once again, fall back into your chair and breathe. Just close your eyes for a moment, forget the disaster of a case that was haunting your every waking moment, and breathe. Deep inhale… slow exhale.

Much better.

Soft light filtered through the closed curtains on the windows. Pain pierced the dark, leaving an ache in your eyes and a rumble within the very centre of your brain. You quickly placed the sunglasses until they rested comfortably on your nose. Or not, you thought as the glasses slid down slightly. It was, perhaps, time to go home and wash your face.

No, not home. An apartment, nothing more. No, that was a lie as well. It was slowly becoming slightly more home-like. The walls were no longer bare, holding precious pictures of the younglings and their mothers. On the kitchen counter was a rusted whisk your Little Bane had dug up from the park across the street. A black hair tie sat on the bathroom counter next to the hair dye-stained sink.

Your phone vibrated loudly against the wooden desk. Pain pricked the inside of your mouth, radiating from the point of your fangs. The words “Break Over” illuminated the screen. Taunting you. Slowly, your jaw opened, pulling your teeth from the fleshy sheath they had created within your cheeks. Your mouth was filled with a throbbing ache that was quickly sated with relief, much like removing a splinter from a wound.

A cold finger swiped over the screen, turning the alarm off. So much for a chance to breathe, you thought. Perhaps you could use the busy work once again. Each moment your eyes were closed was another moment stolen by desire of the past. A useless endeavour if ever you had seen one.

Your phone vibrated on the desk once more. The image that appeared left your lip curling in disgust. Nonetheless, you picked it up and answered the call as you stood up from your desk and walked toward the ever-growing mountain of boxes.

“What do you want, Bas?” You asked, annoyance already dripping from your tongue.

“Always so hostile,” he said with a chuckle. “Can’t a brother call just to talk with his sibling?”

“No.” You pushed a box onto the ground and watched the contents spill out.

“One day, you’re gonna miss talkin’ with me,” he said. “You’ll be in a bind and think ‘Damn, I sure do wish Bas was here to help me out.’”

“What do you want, Bastien?” You repeated. Your fingers itched with the wanton desire to hang up.

“How’s your little rougarou?” A chair creaked on the other end of the line. Asshole. “Or your pretty little witch?”

“You have two seconds to get to the point,” you said gently. The bones of your spine cracked as you bent to pick up a file.

“That witch’s blood turned you rancid.”

“Good day, Bas-”

“-Hold on!” Your finger froze over the “end call” button. Something shifted on the other end of the line; you waited impatiently. “You heard from Constance lately?”

“Why would I?”

“'Cause she’s your sister.”

“I barely talk to you,” you mused. Pages flipped past your fingers. “Try again.”

“She got one a’them on her heels.”

You hissed and dropped the file. A small bead of blood engorged itself on the small papercut on your fingertip. The lack of light left the droplet appearing dark and ominous. You needed to get home and have a drink before long.

“One of what?” You asked. You lifted your finger to your mouth, licking it clean. The small cut healed over quickly.

“Daddy’s friends,” he whispered. “The mean ones.”

Your head lifted slowly. “Mawmaw Laveau?”

“Mawmaw would never,” Bas huffed in indignation. “Although word on the street is she’s achin’ to give you a whippin’.”

“What for?” You asked. “I ain’t- didn’t do anything.” You slammed the pile of paper down on a box. “Who’d you hear that from anyway?”

“You remember TJ?” You hummed in the affirmative. “He heard it from his ole lady, and she heard it when she was gettin’ her hair did.”

“Sue’s place?” You sat on a box.

“Where else?” He replied. “The ladies always talk way too loud, and one can’t help but to listen. They were talkin’ how Mawmaw’s been askin’ if you’ve been around, say she just wants to talk.”

“Mawmaw ain’t never wanna just talk,” you mumbled.

“Say she’d at least let you pick your own switch.”

You sighed. “She mad as hell.” The box groaned underneath you. “You sure she’s lookin’ for me?”

“That’s what TJ’s ole lady said, and she ain’t never got gossip wrong.”

“Shit,” you whispered. You’d need to call Mawmaw soon; you were too old to be picking a switch.

Wait.

“Who’s chasing Constance?” You asked. Feet planted firmly on the ground, you stood up and started digging through files once again. Not that it mattered; you weren’t paying attention.

“Hmm? Oh, them Hunters are after her.”

“She better not bring those classless bastards up here,” you said. “I have a reputation.”

“And your forbidden loves.”

You were drowning in the blood you had stolen. Your head lolled to the side even as you coughed again, spewing blood into the air like some demented fountain. A werewolf was across the room, hovering over Wednesday even as it transformed back into a person. Back into Enid. Her bare skin was shredded.

“If she shows up, I’ll turn her away,” you said with a shake of your head.

Bas sighed on the other end. “Family used to mean somethin’ to you, ya know.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Bas’ words gently bounced off the inside of your skull, moving back and forth like the old DVD logo. No, he wasn’t going to guilt you into putting yourself and everyone else in danger. If Constance couldn’t keep her head down, that was on her.

“She would help you out.”

“Jesus, Bas, fine,” you groaned. “If she comes by, I’ll do what I can.”

“Knew you loved us,” he taunted.

“Good bye, Bastien.”

“Bye, cher-”

-You ended the call before he finished. A shaky hand placed the phone back on your desk before you returned to looking at the files. That you had pushed onto the floor. Like a petulant child.

“Why would I do that,” you whispered to yourself in disappointment.

Instead of picking up the papers like the sensible, mature adult that you were, you plopped onto the floor. They were going to remain a mess whether they were in the box or not, so you might as well make yourself comfortable. From the looks of it, you had at least another two weeks of nonstop work ahead of you just to sort what was useful and what wasn’t.

The passage of time marched ever forward. With your phone across the desk and all clocks removed - after The Great Skip, as Sara called it so fondly - you kept track by the drinks that appeared by your hand. As the afternoon passed, teas were left in the nicer, law firm-branded mugs. When the sun set, tall glasses of cola were set neatly on the hotel coasters you had stolen and brought back. The moment morning rolled around, steaming coffee in your personal, broken mugs brought you comfort.

You had only gone through six boxes.

Every fibre in your body stiffened when your office door opened. Janice poked her head in, blinking frantically in what you assumed was an attempt to see in the dark room. When unsuccessful, she mumbled a “for Christ’s sake” before the overhead light flickered on.

In a disgusting caricature, you hissed and lifted a hand to cover your eyes.

“You have a call on line two,” she said.

You rubbed your eyes harshly, leaving stars in your vision. “Who is it?”

“A Wednesday Addams?”

Come on, Willa, put it down.

Your mouth watered.

“Want me to push it through?” Janice asked.

Pages flipped past your fingers. Wednesday’s mug sat dutifully by your knee, nearly empty of the coffee it had held. Black, for her. You were supposed to call her a few days ago. She had made you promise after your Little Bane had finished talking with you over some sort of game they had wanted you to learn for them.

“I’m busy,” you said against the knot in your throat.

Janice looked down at the paper in your hand with a raised brow, but otherwise shrugged. “I’ll let her know.”

She slipped out of the door, leaving you alone in the overly bright, oppressive room. Perhaps, with the added threat of Wednesday calling back again - and again, and again, and again - you could work more efficiently. After all, the longer you were at the office, the more likely Wednesday would just show up.

That in itself was terrifying.

You were nearly finished with another seven boxes when the door opened once again. Janice threw it open, allowing it to slam against the wall. Nothing new for your office, you didn’t even flinch.

“Just a moment,” you said, pushing the glasses back up your nose as you searched for a particular name… ah ha, there it was.

“Go home,” Janice said.

“Mmm after a while,” you replied.

The file in your hands lifted upward.

“Hey,” you griped.

“Go home,” Janice said again.

A woman with more kids than you could count - all boys, bless her soul - and a husband who actually pulled his fair share, Janice was not a woman to be trifled with. The moment her hands rested on her hips, everyone knew they were done for.

Just as you were in that moment.

“I’m not quite done, darling,” you said softly, hoping the gentle words would ease her anger.

It did not.

“Go home now or I’m changing the locks on you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“I’m calling your bluff,” you threatened.

You were wrong. In reality, Janice was no match for your strength, you both knew it. However, when she packed your bag and pushed you out the door, what were you supposed to do? Fight her? Absolutely not, you were no fool. The sun was bright and you were tired, and with that, you returned home.

—---

You had just finished drying off from your shower when you heard a knock at the door. Four rapid knocks, a little heavy handed. Deft fingers tied the string on your sweats as your bare feet padded across the living room. Three more knocks.

“I’m coming,” you said just loud enough for whoever was on the other side to hear. For the love of the maker, you hoped it wasn’t Consta-

“-Hi,” Enid said with a gentle smile.

All the breath left your lungs. “Hello.”

“You two are disgusting,” Ophelia grumbled, pushing her way into your apartment as if she owned it.

Definitely Wednesday’s child.

“Don’t touch my things,” you called back to her. The Addams’ child was nothing if not a particularly adept kleptomaniac.

“Don’t tell me what I can’t touch,” she called back.

You opened your mouth to argue, but promptly shut it. Keep it together, you thought. The child was well aware of what she was doing, and she did it every single time you had the misfortune of crossing her path. She was your mortal enemy, and if she wasn’t the eldest of your lost loves, you would have slain her where she stood ages ago.

She was your favourite.

“Sorry,” Enid said, “she’s in a mood.”

“Since when is she not,” you questioned, stepping aside and ushering Enid into the apartment. She, too, knew where to go.

“You’re out of food,” Ophelia called as you entered the kitchen.

“Then get out of my fridge,” you shot back.

“I’ll put it on your card.”

The child grabbed your wallet from the counter and walked into the living room, throwing herself on the couch. You cringed when she lifted her feet, putting her shoes on the furniture. Animal, you thought with a sneer.

“Are you simply here to steal my money and dirty my furniture?” You asked.

“Yes-”

“-No,” Enid said quickly. “Ophilia had something to ask you.”

“And she couldn’t have called?” You asked.

“Ew,” came from the couch.

“Wednesday tried a few times,” Enid said. “You… never answered.”

Her smile fell slightly and the drop crushed your unbeating heart. Of course. Wednesday wasn’t one to call over frivolous matters. If you had been a sensible person, you could have avoided all of this. Including the teenager that was still flipping through your wallet.

You sighed. “What is your question?”

Ophelia slammed the wallet shut. “I’m so glad you asked.” She stood up and stalked over to you, much the same way her mother did. “I have decided to become a criminal defence lawyer and, as such, would like to shadow you for a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” You asked.

“Well a day simply won’t cover all the necessary information, and one week is barely scratching the surface,” she explained. “No, a few weeks is necessary for an optimal learning environment.”

“And where do you think you will stay?” You asked.

“Here?” She replied quickly. Sassy. “If I’m shadowing you, I need to witness every part of the lifestyle, not just the job.”

“Gomez already looked at renting an apartment for us,” Enid chimed in.

“There’s no need for that.” You gave her the most comforting smile you could manage against the onslaught of thoughts speeding through your mind.

“So you’re saying yes?” Ophelia asked.

You held your hand up, and silence fell upon the room. Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out. One thing at a time. The case you were working would be slow going and rather uninteresting, which would either bore the girl or excite her, you weren’t sure. Nonetheless, she would not be meeting actual criminals, which meant it was the perfect time.

Housing. Gomez had always been overly generous. One of the few people you had met that actually spent their obscene wealth instead of hoarding it. If Ophelia were to be staying for a much longer time, you would accept the rented apartment. For a few weeks? She could stay in yours, you had a spare room anyway.

You supposed you would need to stock up on more food so she wouldn’t wipe you out with disgusting takeout. And blood. She had the nasty habit of smelling like her mother…

“You cannot have access to anything confidential,” you said.

“No gorey secrets?”

“None.”

“Shame, but fair,” she said with a shrug.

“And you relinquish control of my wallet.”

You held your hand out toward her and waited. And waited. Enid giggled beside you but quickly hid it behind her hand. Well, attempted; you could still hear her. Butterflies swarmed in your stomach and up through your throat. Thank the maker you couldn’t blush.

Ophelia rolled her eyes. “Fine, take it.” She slammed the wallet into your outstretched hand.

“Thank you.” You slid the wallet into your pocket. “When would you like to start?”

“Now,” she said quickly, “I’ll go get our stuff from the car!”

Oh. Oh, they had already brought their stuff? You turned slowly and looked at Enid. She couldn’t hide her own blush, but you didn’t mind. You found it rather attractive to see her face flushed with blood. Delicious even. Fangs pricked at the inside of your lips and you quickly turned your sight elsewhere.

“She had an entire argument ready in case you said no,” Enid said softly. The floor creaked before you felt her warmth against your arm.

“I’ll have her turn it into a closing argument,” you said. “Give her a chance to practice.”

“Careful,” that warmth turned into a soft hand resting on your bicep. “She is 100% Wednesday’s daughter. She’ll have you here for a week.”

“She’s already holding me hostage in my own apartment,” you teased.

Then you hesitated. Enid’s nails absentmindedly scratched against your skin, just light enough to tickle. You had kept her at (mostly) arm’s length for a long while. If you ever snapped, you refused to allow her to be on the other end of it. Not again.

But you missed her touch oh so much.

Small gestures, you could manage that. You lifted your opposite hand and placed it over hers, fingers instantly finding the small scars that littered her skin. Not all of them were from you, which left an uneasy peace within your mind. Just the feel of her hands underneath yours brought joy back into your cold chest.

“Will you be staying?” You asked quietly, your eyes meeting hers.

Until she looked away. “I wasn’t sure if you would be comfortable with it.”

You wouldn’t. If you hurt her, if you hurt Ophelia, it would kill you. You would walk to the nearest hunter - perhaps the one chasing Constance - and offer yourself. With her being so close, it was almost inevitable something would happen. You couldn’t rely on luck to keep them safe. After all, where had luck gotten you before?

But if there was ever one person that could stop your violence, it was her.

“I would love if you stayed,” you said.

The look on Enid’s face was exactly like the one you had seen back in college. When you would bring her one of her sweet treats after a rough day. After offering to draw her a bath when she was tired. On those nights when Wednesday was out studying and you both sat watching the stars, waiting for her to come home.

It broke your heart.

“I’m not staying if you two are going to act like that the whole time.”

Enid’s face reddened. “Would you like some help with your stuff?”

“Yes please,” Ophelia said. “If I don’t keep you busy, we might end up with another Addams.”

“To your room,” you said, pointing in the direction of the guest room. Not like she didn’t already know where it was.

“My room?” She asked, looking you dead in the eyes as she passed. “Seems we get another Addams anyway.”

Enid rushed off, and the warmth of her hand vanished too quickly. Within seconds, you were craving her touch again. It left an unusual tingle on your skin that you couldn’t quite describe. Pathetic, really. And yet, surprisingly, you weren’t afraid. Not this time.

—---

The change of pace within your miniscule household was… nice. Enid slept in your room, even though she had argued for a solid 13 minutes over the fact. Yet you had prevailed, insisting on sleeping on the couch because “family does not ��couch surf’.” Ophelia had, of course, taken notes through the entire debate, and you were thoroughly interrogated afterward.

Dinners were shared at home. No more late nights at the office, not when a child’s health was at stake. Not to mention Janice wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. Enid was a spectacular cook, Ophelia as well, and they teased you each time you attempted to help. Instead, they relegated you to grocery shopping (though they teased you for that as well).

The two of them worked like a well-oiled machine. While Enid claimed the girl was all Wednesday, you disagreed. You could see it in their humour, or the specific way they fidgeted with their hands. While incorporating a few more blacks than her senior, their fashion sense was identical.

Time at home was something to crave instead of dread. There was joy and laughter within the walls. What once was a dwelling of anguish and blood was now… bright. For the first time in a long time, you had something to look forward to again. All that was missing was Wednesday.

One step at a time, you reminded yourself each night. Wednesday’s blood was tempting even after finishing a meal. Bas had suggested what he called “micro dosing.” Small moments with her, enough to get you used to her scent again until it was nothing more than background noise. You begrudgingly agreed it was… a wise idea.

Perhaps, with Ophelia smelling just like her, you could get to that point sooner rather than later.

“Don’t forget lunch!” Enid said as you ushered Ophelia out the door. The prosecution had delivered another two dozen boxes to your office, and you needed to get a move on.

“Thanks,” Ophelia said quickly, grabbing the lunchbox Enid had gotten her. It matched yours.

Enid pressed a kiss to her cheek and rushed her forward. You gave her a small smile and thanked her for the lunch as well. Before you could leave, you felt warm lips on your own cheek. Every nerve in your body short circuited, freezing you in place.

When had you last felt the warmth of her lips?

“It’s just a kiss, let’s go.”

Enid pulled away first. Unlike the small touches she left throughout the day, this left a lingering heat. It radiated from where her lips had been to the rest of her face and… oh. Oh, that was what a blush felt like. You were blushing. She had made you blush.

Oh.

“We’ll go for a walk after work,” Enid said. “Now go, you’ll both be late.”

She pushed you - with more force than necessary for a human, but the perfect amount for you both - until you were out the door with Ophelia. Your mind was still a jumble of feelings, no words would form. Nothing but warmth.

“Mother would laugh at you,” Ophelia said. 

She wasn’t much better as she grabbed your hand and pulled you with her, leaving a second heat on your skin. It was… nice to hold her hand. Like she wanted you to be near, desired your presence. Was that… was that how Wednesday and Enid felt with all their children?

Was this parenthood?

Janice handed you both a mug of coffee on the way to your office. She had taken a liking to Ophelia - who wouldn’t? - and made it her goal to keep the girl fed and hydrated with whatever she wished. ‘Don’t spoil her,’ you had begged to no avail. It was a fruitless endeavour, you had abandoned it within a day.

No surprise in the least, Ophelia was rather good at digging through documents. You had said she couldn’t read anything confidential but… well, it wasn’t like your clients were the most upstanding citizens. After all, you simply had to tell the judge once that it was an internship, and she had readily accepted the arrangement.

The routine was rather simple. Together, you had hammered it out within two days. Ophelia would look for anything involving the criteria you had given her, and you would dig deeper to see if it was useful or not. On occasion, she would make the executive decision if it was helpful or not. Her intuition was rather impressive.

Half a dozen boxes had been searched and removed by the time lunch came along. Neither of you would have noticed if Janice hadn’t told you she was going to pick something up. She had smirked at your matching lunchboxes before leaving.

You both ate in silence. It was rather nice. It reminded you of the countless hours you spent with Wednesday. Not a single word, just enjoying each other’s presence as you did your own thing. You shouldn’t compare Ophelia to her mother as often but it was the only thing you had.

“You’re the one who tried to kill my moms.”

You choked on your tea, barely recovering before shooting a look at Ophelia. She wasn’t looking at you, just eating like normal. For a moment, you weren’t sure she had spoken at all.

She looked up at you. “I know what vampire bites look like.” She shrugged. “And claws.”

Her face remained impassive. You couldn’t gauge a single thought or emotion. A useful skill for a lawyer, not so much for someone who had somehow pieced together that damning piece of information.

“What makes you say that?” You asked.

“They didn’t tell me,” she said quickly. “I pieced it together myself.”

Her icy blue eyes stared into the spot where your soul should have been. The chill sunk deeper into your bones.

The women you loved. They were bleeding out.

“I figured that’s why you flinch when mom touches you,” she continued. “It hurts her feelings.”

You killed them both.

“Auntie Yoko says I smell just like mother,” she said, finally setting her sandwich down and forcing you to hold her gaze. “Do you wish to drain me too?”

It only exacerbated the sharp pain in your chest to see just how much you had taken from her. From your girl. Your Wednesday.

“No,” you said softly. “I would rather be staked.”

The thought of being so near to her forced a shake into your fingers. Your words rang true, whether she believed them or not. If anything were to happen to her by your hand… the thought wouldn’t even form in your mind. It was unfathomable. Nothing could cause you to lay even just a finger on her. You couldn’t.

“Good,” Ophelia said just as softly. She rolled her shoulders back and grabbed her sandwich once again. “Because mom would totes wreck your shit again.”

The day continued as usual, for everyone else. Work was completed, more boxes were removed, and the weather on the walk home was nice. Ophelia talked of the things she had discovered and you knew you should be proud of her. Her work ethic was admirable, and she was beyond clever.

At home, your girls talked of their days. Endless, animated discussions about the weather, what they had done, the cute little frog they had seen earlier. Like mother like daughter, of course. They just talked and talked and took no notice of you setting your things by the door and walking to your office.

The door closed with an almost inaudible click. Everything was in its place, and you quickly reached for the mini-fridge in the small closet. Inside were three bags of blood. Like an animal, you ripped the top off the first and devoured it, the cool liquid pouring down your throat.

It didn’t quench the pain.

You repeated the action with the other two bags, feeling engorged yet unsatisfied. The ache was still present. It was a small miracle you couldn’t see yourself in the mirror; you could feel the damp spots on your shirt and the stickiness on your lips. You opened your mouth to speak and felt the liquid spew from your lips, falling down your face in all directions. You fell into your chair, eyes glued to the red dripping from your fingers. Why did it not help?

Knuckles rapped lightly on your door, but you didn’t comprehend what it meant. The blood stained your fingers quickly. Even if you scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off. It never came off.

A soft hand rested on the spot where your neck connected to your shoulder. You flinched. Their nails scratched lightly against your skin. Fingers pushed past skin and now-exposed muscle. You would recognise the warmth even in the fires of hell.

“So,” Enid said softly. “Ophelia knows.”

“Do you believe I would hurt her?” You asked.

In the mirror, you could see Enid looking down at you. The look in her eyes was different. Pitiful, maybe? Gears turned behind those blue eyes, considering your question. Her answer would dictate the next step. If they were both concerned you would hurt her, you would leave. There was a couch in your office, you could sleep there. It was comfier than the one at your own apartment, you wouldn’t complain.

Enid’s other hand rested on the other side of your neck. Your eyes fell shut at the pure comfort from her touch alone. You could die happy with her hands around your neck, if she so wished it. It would be a rather intimate way to go.

You felt helpless as she tilted your head up. When your eyes opened, you were met with her unwavering gaze.

“If I believed that,” she started slowly, “I wouldn’t have let her stay here.”

Her nails scratched the underside of your jaw. She was close enough that you could smell the perfume she sprayed directly behind her ear. A delectable scent that was entirely Enid. Not overly sweet with a hint of citrus. After all these years, she still wore what appeared to be a strawberry lip gloss.

She was too close.

“You wanted to go on a walk,” you said quickly.

Enid didn’t move.

“Ophelia wanted to go out,” she said. “She’ll be gone for a while.”

“How do you know?”

“She took your wallet.”

You sighed. Of course she had. If she kept it up, your wallet would be kept under lock and key, not even you would be able to use it. That girl was going to rob you blind one day. And by the looks of it, you were going to let her.

“Want to watch a movie with me?” Enid asked.

“Are your parents home?” You asked.

“It never stopped you before,” she said with a smile that you couldn’t help but mirror. “Please?”

How could you say no to her perfected puppy-dog face?

“I’ll change while you get it ready,” you said.

Your undead heart raced in your chest as you both went your separate ways to get ready. The sounds from the TV echoed through the apartment. You stood in front of your dresser, looking at the options, as worried about what to wear as you had been on your first date with her. It left you as giddy as a college kid again.

It took only a moment to put a shirt and shorts on, determined to keep it cozy. You rushed to the bathroom to clean the blood from your face and hands; you needed to be presentable. Thankfully, Enid was wearing the same and already had a spot saved on the couch. A spot directly beside her. Where you would be able to feel her warmth against your thighs.

Deep breath in. Hold. Slow breath out.

“I picked a good one,” she said enthusiastically. “It suits you.”

You couldn’t hold in your laughter as she pressed “play” on Legally Blonde.

“That’s going to be Ophelia one day, just you watch.”

“She’d never be caught dead in pink,” Enid teased.

The movie started, and Enid placed a bowl of popcorn between the both of you, held in place by one of your thighs and one of hers. Strategic. It put just enough space between the two of you that you could feel yourself relax. You couldn’t hurt her over popcorn.

College flashed before your eyes. Watching movies with Enid, which inevitably ended in not watching the movie at all. Her lips on your neck and hands on your hips. Her smooth skin under your carefully controlled teeth. The movie longnce, t forgotten on even the worst of days.

Warm fingers brushed against yours. You blinked once. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Enid’s fingers brushing against yours in the popcorn bowl. Breath caught in your throat. What should you do? Enid never did anything accidentally.

Fuck it.

With buttery fingers, you flipped your hand and wiggled your fingers between hers. It was messy and childish. Enid instantly squeezed your hand owice, three times. Something the three of you had done in college when words were too much, but a gesture was just enough. Three squeezes for three words. Your chest ached.

You turned to face her. She was already looking at you with those hooded eyes that had always been a weakness for you and Wednesday. Enid would play dumb to get ahead, but it never worked for the both of you. You were painfully aware of the tactics she used. The only difference was you still fell for it.

It couldn’t happen. Your eyes searched out every scar she left unhidden. Each bite and clawmark she had received by your hands. You had marred her skin permanently; she would carry you with her until the day she died. It couldn’t happen.

She bit her lip.

Fuck it.

The popcorn bowl fell to the ground as you rushed forward to press a kiss to her lips. Almost instantly, her hand lifted to wrap around the back of your neck, pulling you closer. She tasted of fake butter and too much salt. Her lips were just as soft as you remembered. Softer even, if you were being honest. Blood rushed beneath her skin, sending an electrifying jolt everywhere you touched her. You could hear each heartbeat, forcing your own to match the erratic rhythm.

It was a clumsy kiss. Enid leaned forward to capture your lips again. Something sharp stung the inside of your cheek. Your eyes flew open. You pulled away quickly and turned your face, readjusting your jaw in an attempt to keep your fangs back in check.

“Are you okay?” Enid asked quickly, sitting up and following your movements.

You hummed in reply but started focusing on the pieces of popcorn littering the floor.

“Fangs?” She asked.

Silence. You nodded slowly.

“Performance issues aren’t uncommon in older vampires.”

Your head turned so quickly the bones in your neck cracked. Her hand was already covering her mouth, which you knew hid a smile.

“How dare you,” you whispered.

“I’m just saying, it’s fine,” she said with a shrug. Her hand finally lowered to her lap. “No pressure.”

“That’s pretty rude, Mrs. Addams,” you said.

Enid moved across the couch until she was leaning against your arm. You remained still, allowing her to do as she wished. She removed her hand from yours - you instantly missed the warmth - and pulled your arm over her shoulder until she was cuddled securely into your side.

“This works just fine,” she said. She shimmied a little more until she was situated perfectly. “Wednesday will be jealous.”

Her fingers interlocked with yours again as she fell silent, watching the movie. Your fangs still pricked the inside of your mouth, but it was manageable. Enid was horrifically warm against your side, and her fingers scratched against your skin, and for the first time in over a decade you let yourself lean back on the couch and relax with one of your girls in your arms.

[yv0nn1e]

"we were born to a world with dead ends."

gravity — rafayel

summary: to be betrayed in one timeline, to find out the truth in another, and now, to seek revenge in the current.

pairing: rafayel x non!mc fem!reader

cw/tw: angst? mean reader, some twists from the myths and the actual lore itself.

note: an alternate version of my backburner rafayel fic where instead of falling in love with rafayel, reader gets angry when she realizes lemuria's fall is actually because of rafayel.

word count: 2k+

non!mc reader who remembers the excruciating pain of losing her life in every single timeline where rafayel was involved.

non!mc reader who, in the current timeline and at eleven years old, starts to get flashbacks of her past lives, not knowing what they were until the memories fill each other in as she matures. the older she gets, the more refined those visions become, until she reaches the age of fifteen where a rough vision of rafayel, her beloved, gives up his heart, and lemuria for this strange yet certainly unforgettable girl. non!mc reader who, realizes that she might have died at rafayel's hands— that lemuria fell under rafayel's sacrifice and love.

non!mc reader who, at fifteen, decides to walk away from the sea and from her dearest friend who, she now knows, had betrayed their people in their past lives. she goes to land with her aunt, finding solace in her passion for acting and the dramatics. rafayel had tried to stop her, or at least, get him to accompany her yet he could never forget the underlying anger that had filtered her eyes.

"you're really leaving? but why?" rafayel asked. he wasn't sad, not exactly. perhaps just a tad bit melancholy at the thought of his truest friend walking away, leaving him all alone to face the pressure of the sands and seas all by himself.

"i can't achieve anything here." she replies, the duality of the meaning behind her words floating above rafayel's head. she can't achieve anything if she stays right where she had always been after all these years, after all these lives: right next to rafayel. she will be bound to the same ending if she stayed any longer.

they bid each other goodbye, and non!mc reader was more than ready to start a new life. perhaps, if she stayed away from rafayel, if she had stayed away from lemuria, then she cannot befall the same painful fate that she would during her previous lives.

non!mc reader who physically and internally experiences the actual pain of the lemurians' sufferings in her past lives whenever she would get a vision despite the fact that she had already stirred far far away from the sea.

talia looks at her worryingly as non!mc reader sits on the plush of the luxurious couch, her hand in her chest as she took in deep breathes— each and every inhale activating that painful tightening in her chest, the same sensation of internal stabbing.

"did you get another vision?" talia asks, her soft and delicate fingers rubbing non!mc reader's back. the girl could only nod as she takes one last deep breath before slumping her back towards the headboard of the couch.

"how much longer will i have to endure this? do you even get visions like mine too?" non!mc reader chokes out as she takes a glass of water. her aunt talia visited her on set today. it had been long since non!mc reader had decided to live above water and join the humans. she's an adult now, in her twenties, and a successful young actress at that.

"dearest, you know i don't. we've spoken about this. you're— you're different." talia says in a hesitant tone. these two have tried to figure out the root of non!mc reader's visions, how do they happen, and why they're happening in the first place. but nothing. they have nothing. the only thing they were certain about was the fact that the visions are highly implied to be true. the tales and myths about lemuria align with the visons and flashes.

"perhaps, there is a reason that you, out of everyone, has been bestowed such gift." talia comforts, a gentle pat glides over non!mc reader's shoulder blades.

she could only scoff. "this is no gift. this is a curse."

non!mc reader who falls into shock as she stumbles upon a familiar purple set of hair on a tall figure during a banquet. could it really be— "yn!" her name rolls off his tongue so softly, gently. all so familiar and nostalgic that for a second, non!mc reader forgets that the man whom her love transcended one life over another for had been the cause of her impending doom.

"rafayel?" she minds his presence. he looked a lot older than she'd last seen him. he was a lot taller, his lean figure built stronger with grown muscles, his aura being more elegant and confident. and yet, she questions whether or not he had changed. "what are you— why are you here?"

he tells her that he's settling in linkon for a while. he says that he's got a lot of business advocates and opportunities to stumble upon the city as he pursues his artist career. he then reveals to her that he too had left the sea not long after she had gone, saying something about how the sea's weight felt a little too heavy under ground.

"does it really get easier up above the water?" she throws the question out rhetorically as they find themselves in a secluded seating area of the banquet.

rafayel wasn't dumb. surely, he felt the venomous tone in her voice or the unwelcoming glare from her gaze. he wishes it would be his mind playing tricks on him but the more he stares deeply into her eyes, the more he feels as though something was not right between him and his dearest friend.

"i don't really think so." he replies to her rhetorical question.

one thing about non!mc reader is that she isn't entirely certain that her snarky remark wasn't applicable to her. over the years, she often doubts whether or not trying to escape her home was better for her.

the both of them stare at each other. one pair of eyes gazing at the other's figure filled with confusion and nostalgia. wondering where he went wrong or if he had done something wrong. the other set of eyes staring in regret, unsure of whether or not joy or anger should control her thinking as of the moment.

the silence was louder than ever, until it was interrupted with that even louder ringing in non!mc reader's ears, that stabbing pain becoming stronger— probably the strongest she's ever felt as every fiber of her being was aching.

and yet she was too stubborn to let a slither of her vulnerability and truth slip past the cracks of her facade.

"i have to go." she tries to say confidently or rather, in a more composed way as she stood up, grabbing her purse and clenching her chest with her free hand which earned her a concerned and confused gaze in rafayel's face.

"are you okay? i can take you—"

"im fine, rafayel." she insists, pushing past him as he stood up to reach her.

"it was certainly something to see you again." she coughs out a fake scoff as she takes one step forward, only for a gasp to slip past her lips when her ankles bend, cause her whole body to not only pulse in excruciating pain, but to fall.

she feels the pain take her away from consciousness, a flash of white turning into a silhouette of a younger boy, his hair the same shade of violet as rafayel's, his voice more playful, as the image of her childhood in the prosperous kingdom of lemuria in a previous life takes place in her mind for a while, but the realization did not go unnoticed.

no, it does not get easier above water. as long as gravity exists, the weight of the world will always pull you down to the ground where one must acknowledge the truth.

non!mc reader who realizes that the pain she feels whenever she gets visions started when she left the sea.

she finds herself waking up in a bed of soft silk and fluffy pillows. this wasn't her home, the ambiance was rather softer and cleaner as the sun's rays painted dawn against the windows.

"you're finally awake." she gets taken out of her trance as she turns her head to the doorway, a smiling rafayel leans against the frame of the door. "you good now? maybe next time, don't insist that you're fine when you're not."

"what?" she's confused. she's never passed out from a vision before. sure, at first the pain was unbearable, but years of endurance has built her some kind of immunity or rather, suppressants that makes the ache less painful.

"you had a really high fever last night. what's worse is that, the tides weren't even low. we don't usually get that sick but i guess you're just a bit helpless without me, yeah?" rafayel teases as he brings her a tray of food and medicine. she stares at him in awe, that buried affection for him attempting to break past the cracks, but she does not let it go.

non!mc reader starts to see clearer visions now that rafayel is back in her life. with the added age and maturity, the flashes are longer and less vague. so when the moment a full vision of what happened during the sea god's ceremony played, anger resurfaces her mind.

non!mc reader who swore to avenger herself and lemuria, her beloved land. which is why, when rafayel introduces his new bodyguard, she immediately knew that she was the sea god's bride. that rafayel's miss bodyguard had his heart. literally.

and if it was what's needed to restore lemuria, she would stop at nothing to have it in her hands.

non!mc reader who is staring as the main lead in a new linkon tv series that depicts a tale about an ancient underwater civilization called lemuria. she could only laugh hysterically at her role. was she really playing the role of the sea god's bride? the sole thing she could never be in whatever universe or timeline she was in? oh how destiny loved to mock her.

non!mc reader who asks rafayel for help, feigning vulnerability and saying that she needed his bodyguard too, saying something about her old bodyguard going away for a while, even offering to pay double what rafayel was paying her.

non!mc reader who takes this chance to let her suppressed anger over the centuries and lifetimes that have passed out. it started with complicated coffee orders to fetch then upgraded to delivering her wardrobe, only to accuse miss bodyguard of practically sullying the dress with her reckless actions. in general, just treating her like the worst. miss bodyguard could quit whenever she wanted but rafayel had asked her so persuasively to induldge in non!mc reader's request since she was one of his closest friends.

non!mc reader who gets attacked by one of her visions, the pain stronger than what she assumed was the strongest attack when she met rafayel in that banquet before. what's more severe was that she could practically feel and hear the screams in her more recent visions.

non!mc reader who is sick and tired of suffering the regrets of the past, tired of carrying the weight of a future that is clearly telling her to take responsibility. so, one day, she flat out says to rafayel to do something about lemuria. to take his heart back, to end his people's sufferings. and yet, rafayel, like in all those visions she would see and remember, only replied with the same thing: that there would be other ways.

non!mc reader who damns it all, never stopping at one ask to convince rafayel to take his heart back. every chance she could, she would try to bring it up with rafayel which results into the man questioning his bestfriend's eagerness. she wasn't usually like this. she was never this insistent. despite the rejections, non!mc reader is thankful that rafayel was asked to be an illustrator in her new project because it makes it easier for her to bother him to own up to his responsibilities.

yn lets out an exhausted sigh as she looks at herself in the mirror. this costume was ridiculous, she thinks, as she analyzes the decor of the dress— the director said it would be a close-to-accurate replica of lemurian bridal attires. her top, a delicate yet structured piece, bared her midriff, emphasizing her poise, while bands of gilded accents traced the contours of her shoulders and arms. a flowing sash, transparent like morning mist, hung from her waist, its shimmering fabric embellished with ornate patterns that mirrored ancient symbols of wisdom.

fuck, they were right. it was close to accurate. so much so that non!mc reader starts to pity herself, thinking that the only moment she would have gotten to dress up like a true lemurian bride would be in a show, a fictional, unrealistic series that depicts the story of her beloved and the other woman he had chosen and would choose in every other life.

she steps out of the dressing room, the staffs getting the scene ready as the director yelled out orders. rafayel was with his bodyguard in a corner, discussing with the other illustrators what to do or add into the scene to make it more vibrant.

"it's a wedding scene, it's supposed to be colorful." he rolls his eyes, his bodyguard chuckling in amusement at his sulking. non!mc reader wonders how the producers even got the rafayel to agree to being part of the project. initially, she would've thought that rafayel thinks they would sully the lemurian culture and tale itself and yet, here he was, ever so passionate in the intricate coloring of the set.

"honestly, these people look like they're trying to disrespect the lemurian legacy—" rafayel stops speaking as he turns around, only to be met with non!mc reader in that traditional wedding gown. she looked certainly beautiful in it, he could not deny that. in fact, it looked rather fitting on her, as if she was meant to wear it.

she was currently distracted, practicing her lines with her partner in the show so rafayel's gaze goes unnoticed.

non!mc reader who has to poorly go through a physical and actual demonstration of how the end of lemuria was met because of this stupid show that somehow, got every detail accurately correct.

the way her limbs trembled at the set, the lines, and the impending remembrance of what was to happen after the ceremonial scene in the story. her terror was so obvious that her stutter and shaking figure immediately warned the director and everyone else that something was wrong.

the recreating of the scene in a different perspective terrified her so much, the trauma of reliving that kind of pain and watching it replaying in her mind. the fear was strong enough to trigger another vision, clearer than ever.

"excuse me. i'll be back." she manages to speak, immediately running back to her dressing room to handle the pain all by herself.

non!mc reader who has never told rafayel about the visions. the only person who knew about them were talia and herself. so one could only imagine the feeling brewing in rafayel's guts when rushes to open the door of her dressing room, only to see the actual pain his yn has to go through. all alone. all by herself.

it only then hits him. this must be why she had been so insistent on taking his heart back. this must be why she had left. why she had been so distant— why she acted the way she did.

she was angry at him. albeit, she was literally hurting because of the actions, the bond, the devotion he had sacrificed and given away.

his beloved yn was suffering because of him.

in every universe, he would give his heart to his love, causing him the loss of his kingdom and his entire being. in every universe, non!mc reader has to endure the physical manifestation of the regressing feeling of neglect and abandonment from the one true person that holds her protection in his hands.

in every universe, they were always bound to be met with dead ends.

[he115er]

Bite me

Woke up thinking about biting vamp enha. You haven't been able to feed on humans every since you turned so they volunteer as your personal blood banks. (Small italizied text are flashbacks/memories) not proofread but feel free to notify me of mistakes

Wc- 1.1k

MDNI, biting, blood, vampire enha, vampire reader, drinking blood, insinuation of throwing up, comfort, hurt?, pain a lot of it, mentions of starvation, fem bodied reader, she/her pronouns used, maybe this will be w whole series?, might've missed something lmk

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You're sitting on the couch feeling that familiar hunger you've been ignoring for weeks since you turned. A pillow clutched to your stomach as you scroll through your phone a hum of a headache creeps up on you, the dull thud of pain in your brain almost unbearable. Ignoring these symptoms isn't easy but you're willing to fight through them if it means not drinking blood. Not ever again will a drop of blood touch your lips.

You've tried it before, the first week you turned you looked through their fridge and grabbed one of their many blood bags. In your state you didn't even think to question how they got so many. But once the bag was in your hands the beautiful crimson liquid that would be your salvation. You almost salivated at the idea of its taste. Without a second thought to sunk your teeth into the bag. You're instantly hit with a horrible taste. The liquid filters through your mouth as you try to tough it out, maybe it's just the initial flavor, maybe it'll get better. But as you try to swallow, you can't, your body won't let you. You try your best to keep the liquid in your mouth and get to the sink but it spills past your lips before you know it.

You hunch over letting it spill out your mouth as well as letting your saliva trickle out. Maybe it was just this specific blood type. Maybe another would taste better, you flip the bad and look at the type. You scramble to open the fridge and find another type. You bite into each bag hoping to taste something different, but it's no use. There's a puddle of blood around you and a pathetic attempt to clean it up. You're clothes thoroughly soaked and stained with your attempts. The kitchen bathed in red as you sit on the floor sobbing.

Your eyes well up with tears at the memory, the awful taste still in your mouth as you reminisce on the memory. You head to the kitchen trying to look for something to wash the awful taste from your mouth. Despite it happening weeks ago the taste still lingers on your tongue, a bitter almost sour taste like it was rotten. You remember those bags being fresh not even a week old. But still they tasted awful to you.

You cringe as you opened the fridge and saw the depleating supply, at least they were satiated. You on the other hand couldn't share those feelings. You grabbed the case of strawberries as your eyes lingered on the bags. You wanted so badly to get rid of this indescribable hunger you felt. Food couldn't satiate it, and neither could any liquid, it had to be blood. And to your dismay the one thing you couldn't stomach. "Why are you staring so hard just take it" a voice cuts through your inner fight as you hurriedly turn around and find Heeseung standing behind you.

You sigh a breath of relief as you close the fridge with your hip and walk over to the sink "don't need it" you quickly answer as you open the container to wash the fruit, the sweet flavor will hopefully help with that bad taste. He follows your movements seeing how tense your body seems to be, it's like you're unaware of how much your body betrays you. Maybe you felt embarrassed to eat after they found your poor attempt at cleaning up. Maybe in your euphoric phase you didn't realize how messy you were with your clean up.

You almost stumble reaching the island in the middle of the kitchen. You lean against it for support as you take a bite of one of the strawberries. It's overwhelming sweetness hitting you instantly. You hum at the taste and look at him offering him one. He shakes his head and he heads over to the fridge himself. He looked in for a bit before grabbing one of the bags. Your breath hitched as his teeth punctured the bag. You quickly look away as he drinks from it like a caprisun. You envied them in that sense. How they weren't repulsed by the blood like you were.

As you finished up your strawberry and reach for another he threw the empty bag in the trash. Before he has time to leave you stop him with a question "how does it taste? " he pauses mid step stunned by your question. 'How does it taste? ' he repeats in his mind. Shouldn't you know? It wasn't that long ago that you made that mess, how would you so easily forget the taste. He turned around to look at you studying your features to see if you're joking. "What do you mean? " he asks walking closer to the island resting his hand on the cold marble. You stutter trying to come up with something to explain yourself, something to not give away what you were truly asking "I-I mean how does it taste to you? I mean some people can try the same foods and have completely different tastes and preferences. How they differently perceive the taste of food is unique to them you know? " you ramble trying to come up with a believable excuse.

Heeseung crosses his arms believing the excuse but not the reason for your original answer. He sighs tilting his head to the side, he'll take your defense for now but he won't forget about your original question. He has a feeling that wasn't what you meant by it but he'll play along, for now.

He takes in a deep breath looking up to the left as he thinks on how to describe the flavor. It's so unique, nothing like anything he's tasted before. "Satisfying? " he starts a little unsure of his response. You tilt you head as well confused " satisfying? " you copy, he nods his head "yeah. It's a hard taste to describe, it's like a feeling a fullness I get. Satisfaction to finally fulfil that hunger, ya know?" You shake your head no but quickly change it to a nod feigning understanding. "Y-yeah" you try to cover it up. Heeseung doesn't miss it though.

He leans on the counter "why? " he asks you hum in question quickly stuffing your mouth with another strawberry. "Why'd you ask? It's not a very common thing people ask or even want to know. Don't you know how good it tastes? " he asks as you stuff another strawberry in your mouth trying to avoid answering. You pick up the container of strawberries closing it as you rush to put it back in the fridge. "Just curious" you curtly reply through a mouth full. "I know it's good, just wanted to know how you'd describe it" you quickly swallow not believing even yourself when you said it was good.

There's a silence between you two as he tries to figure out what's up, you're lying and he knows it. But he can't prove it, not yet. You quickly look at your phone mentioning the time "oh it's so late I should get going" you say quickly putting the device in your pocket as you rush to your room. He sits with his thoughts alone for a few minutes connecting some out of the way dots. 'I'll have to talk to the others first' he thinks not having enough information. Hopefully the others would catch onto what he's throwing.

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Tag list: @sol3chu | lmk if you wanna be added to the tag list

[syoddeye]

the warren, part nine - misunderstanding

price x f!reader | 3k words | series page | ao3 tags: implied/reference suicide attempt, implied/referenced abduction/captivity, gaslighting, stalking, taxidermy mention, pov multiple, italics flashback a/n: you know what you saw. ...right? 🔪

The suit fiddles with the gift, his disgust evident.

Price will be happy, he thinks, cheeks smarting from all his grinning. He's a dog with two tails.

The stranger disappears into the motel, and he puts his nose to the ground. There are only so many places she could be. He twirls the keys, perfectly at ease. Rabbits are on their own during hunts, whereas he's got his fellow dogs. All it takes are a few cheerful inquiries for him to end up at the library.

Brave thing. Smart thing. 

He knew it. Pride warms him as he lopes through the doors, taking in the place. It's grand. Temple to knowledge and all that. He hasn't set foot inside in years. It was one of the first solo errands he ran for Price, way back when–

He staggers, pressing a hand to his temple as pain splits through his skull. It's sudden, the strike of an icepick, and his whole body reacts—muscles seizing, limbs tightening as though he's been thrown into freezing water. But then, just as swiftly, it dissolves, leaving behind a light fog.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Sir. 

The address cleaves through the mist.

Been ages since anyone's called him that. He rubs the ridge of his scar and beams, taking in the peculiar woman and her many bracelets. "No, I dinnae think ye can. Just browsing."

He drops the smile once she totters off, tilting his nose a little to catch the scent of John's doe. Syringa and prickly rose, same as her soap. If he licked her teeth, he knows he'd taste the mild mint from her toothbrush, too. Instead, he pretends to browse, nostrils flaring as he filters out the tang of glue and lignin decay, tracing her steps to a secluded corner.

Through the stacks, he watches her lean over some oversized machine. John's doe is clever. He called it. All those books and writings and not investigating all that terrible racket he made. Clever, clever. 

He tongues his canines in thought. Interrupting would be awkward. She'd ask questions, and he's on strict orders to keep it simple. There's no sense trying to coax her out now. He retreats, content to loiter outside. It's a long walk back.

~~

"Soap?"

He turns, the sound of his name like fingers threading through his hair. He arranges his face into surprise and delight, but his attention shifts, quickly and completely, to her. There's a twitchiness, a strain in the line between her eyebrows.

"Bonnie! Fancy seeing ye here."

"What are you doing here?"

"Could ask ye the same thing. I was just retrieving supplies for Simon. Predicting an uptick in business with the big game season open."

"That makes sense." She smiles tight again, and nods. "Well. I ought to head back–"

"Where's John? He not with ye?"

He reckons that if she had the right ears, they'd flatten to her head. Friendly fella like himself, but she still shrinks to a degree. Polite, even when she's stiff. Knows better than to let her guard down. Like he told them. Smart.

"Uh, no," She shrugs like it's nothing. "I walked here. From Grouse."

He whistles. "No…you didn't!" He already knew that. "Hell of a jaunt, bonnie. Aren't you sore? Tired?"

"A little," She admits, her expression finally softening. "I used to have to walk into town where I lived before, too, but I like walking."

"Clearly," Hopefully, she remains smart. She's not like he was. She knows what's good for her. "C'mon. I'm taking you back."

It doesn't take much to convince her when he harps on the distance, the weather. She follows him into the truck, the volume of the tape deck making her jump when the engine roars to life. He dangles an arm out the window, feeding off the glaring tourists on the street. He takes the longer route out of town to roll past the Patridge, then nearly slams on the brakes.

Ahead of them, it's him. The suit. That handsome bastard, face pointed at his phone. The novelty of their little welcome gift must've already worn off. His fingers drum impatiently on the wheel, and he steals a glance at his passenger. She's watching the stranger, too.

When the man reaches the other side, he looks back, double-takes, and stares. His gaze shifts between them, brows knitting behind his aviators. Beside him, she opens her mouth to speak, so he lays his foot on the gas, stares straight ahead, and peels out of town. 

~~~~

The truck reeks. Cigarette smoke and wet dog clings to the sun-bleached fabric seats, and through the rear window, sharp bursts of acetone and the sour tang of formaldehyde drift in. The seats are pockmarked with cigarette burns and patch jobs. The floor caked in cracked mud, ground-in dirt, and pine needles. A heap of worn cassettes in the center console.

You slowly turn down the volume, shooting him a nervous smile. You're still reeling from what you saw at the library. For all his oddities, Soap feels like a tether—an outsider like you, or at least someone who once stood where you stand now, and far more approachable than Nikolai or Simon. You'll ask John, too, but something about Soap just feels more…open.

"So…Soap. We haven't spoken since the Fourth. How have you been?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Really? I'm fine. Workin' hard, playin' harder." His eyes flick to you, a fleeting look before he shifts focus back to the road. "And you? Heard rumors you might stick around after the season's over. True?"

You wonder how many ears John has whispered his hopes into. "No comment," you say, then quickly add, "How long have you lived here again?"

He shrugs. "Years, I reckon. I'm bad with time."

"John mentioned you worked at the store, too." You watch him closely. "He said your stint was short-lived."

"Aye, I did and it was. Not cut out for workin' with so many people."

You force a soft laugh. "I find that hard to believe. He said you were a bit of a flirt, though, that Simon swept you off your feet. True?"

Soap's smile falters, and he looks out his window. The silence hangs long enough to feel pointed. Then he glances back, sidelong, expression almost stern. "You a reporter now, bonnie? Askin' a lot of questions."

You're dancing around it, the photo, the snag you feel yourself unraveling around, and although you're trying to keep things light, it's obvious Soap's caught on. "I just want to get to know you better. I spend all my time with John, which is fine, but you're his friend, right? And if there's a chance I'll stick around through the winter, I ought to get to know everyone better."

He raises a brow. "Even Simon?"

Right. They're a package deal. "Even Simon."

"Then it's only fair that I get to ask questions too, right?"

"Oh, um, yeah. Of course."

"Then what's eating you? You looked ill when I caught you outside the library. Like you'd seen a ghost."

Your mouth opens, the words pushing to the front and failing to organize themselves. A small stampede. "Actually, I wanted to ask you about something. It's going to sound insane." You hesitate, but he doesn't interrupt, so you open the gates. "I was curious. About local history, the mines and stuff. My hus—I used to be familiar with the business. So, I was looking through old newspapers at the library, just to see what I could find, and there was this photo, from decades ago, of a group of miners who survived a huge fire. One of them looked exactly like Alex. I think it was Alex."

"Alex." Soap repeats. "Ye dinnae say?"

"Yes. Do you know him? Works at The Echo? I'm positive it was him."

"I know him." He grins, bemused. "I think you're seeing things. Not close with the man, but he's not that old." He chuckles softly. "Could be his grandad or something."

You try to laugh along, but it catches. "I…I know what I saw, Soap. It wasn't a lookalike. It was him —exactly him. I know that sounds crazy. That would make him, like eighty? Ninety?"

Soap checks the rearview, then guides the truck to the shoulder. He faces you, his broad frame pressing against the worn seat. "Aye, maybe," he speaks slower than before. Careful. "But ye ken, sometimes our minds play tricks. Price...He might've mentioned you've been sleeping poorly."

You blink, thrown. Sure, small towns gossip. Let every clucking hen share theories about your circumstances—but John? You had no idea he even knew about your worsening sleep. You hadn't told him about the nightmares, or woke him.

Soap continues. "Bad dreams, tossing and turning…early mornings. When did ye wake up today, bonnie? When did ye hit the road?"

You begin to answer, then stop. It's as if now that he's pointed that out, exhaustion creeps in, and alongside it, doubt. Could it really be a coincidence? Your tired brain misfiring?

"I'm not tired." You say more to yourself than to him, blinking. "I know what I saw."

There's a flash of pity. "Alright, bonnie. If you say so." He pulls the truck back onto the road. "But I think John's working you too hard."

He doesn't believe you. Disappointing, but not surprising. What you're implying is absurd. So you bite your tongue and feign agreement. "Maybe you're right."

The conversation peters off, leaving the sound of the tires on the road. You'll have to ask John now, otherwise, Soap will beat you to it.

You stare at the passing trees, and it feels as if your mind is slipping, one treacherous inch at a time. You want to believe it's the creep of exhaustion, the stress of being on the run, because for all your comforts, that is what you are doing here. Yet, even as the excuses form, they dissolve, because you know what you saw.

The photograph is not something you can forget. You think of the man in Ponderosa, behind the counter at the diner, smiling ear to ear, asking about the cats at the cabin. And then the exact same man, covered in dust and dirt, happy to be alive. It doesn't make sense, and the pit forming in your stomach deepens.

Soap's words circle back. I think you're seeing things. You're sleeping poorly. It's true, isn't it? You haven't slept well for weeks. Months, really, not since you left your husband. Not since you started driving north, stopping in towns where no one knew your name. Sleeping as little as possible, waking up before dawn, like you're always outrunning something. The way the woods press in at night, the noises, the dark—a perfect storm for the kind of thoughts that keep you awake. The scratching. The eyes. It's easier to believe you're imagining it all.

Your thoughts split in two. You know what you saw. Except, maybe you don't.

That's what scares you. If you believe it, you know how it will sound. How it will look.

You glance at Soap out of the corner of your eye. One hand on the wheel, cradling and rubbing his head with the other. Now, he probably thinks you're just a jittery, paranoid woman who's been through too much. Maybe you are. If you're wrong about this and really are losing your grip, what else have you been wrong about?

"Soap," your voice cracks slightly. "What if…" You trail off, not even sure how to finish the question. What if you're not crazy? What if you are? The doubt is a splinter, buried deep and bound to fester. You already know that no matter how much you try to convince yourself it's nothing, you can't.

"Nevermind."

~~~~

Her head must be spinning. He knows what that's like.

She doesn't get out of the car right away when they stop. Her smile's bent in a brittle shape, and she places a tentative hand on his arm.

"Thanks for listening to my ramblings. You're a good friend."

Oh, how he wants to correct her.

There was once a man with his face, his body, a name—but that isn't him. Not anymore. John and Simon saved him from that, or they tried to. Fixed him when he didn't deserve fixing. He'd been so selfish.

Some days, he tastes the metal on the back of his tongue. Hears the gunshot, sees the flash. His favorite memories are those months spent in the mounting room, stretched out, recovering on the cot. All the fussing, the tenderness Simon showed him, even though it came from a place he hasn't been able to reach since. No. The weeks that followed, when he could move, fastened to the hutch, reminded of his place again. He wished those memories had vanished instead. His head's a minefield. Gaps, holes. Pits, great and small, with nonexistent or false bottoms

But he has a modicum of sense left, so he swallows the lump in his throat. "Like ye said. I'm your friend."

He returns her wave when she pauses at the shop door.

Am I?

~~

He rides the accelerator all the way home.

"Simon! Simon!"

Slaughter and the Dogs drowns him out, but he barrels through the workshop anyway, feet pounding the floor. The door to the mounting room is ajar, so he jams his hand inside to turn the volume down, stepping in just as Simon looks up. In the lowlight and shadows, Simon's shoulders look like a snow-capped ridge, scars tracing the curve of his muscles like weathered timberlines. The air holds a scent of sweat and hide paste. An acquired taste. Intoxicating. Normally, he'd grovel, fall to his knees to nose between the thighs wedged under the steel table, but there's no room for hesitation. No time to indulge the usual knots twisting in his chest.

"I dinnae ken how, but I think she's onto Alex. She saw some picture at the library. I–I think I talked her down, but..."

The news hangs, then Simon exhales sharply, the paper mask fluttering over his mouth and nose. He stands, abandoning his work with the bolting buck's pinnae, its slate eyes wide, frozen mid-flight, and peels off his stained leather apron.

"You tell Price?"

His tongue fattens with every step his man takes. Has to force it out. "No. I only just delivered her to him, I didn't have a chance–"

"Mm," Simon grunts disapprovingly, reaching past him for the towel on the hook. He wipes his brow, pausing to press it to his mask and inhale. "Thought you liked her."

"I-I do! She's nice to me."

Simon snorts and tugs his hair with his free hand. "Well, you've shortened her lifespan. If she asks 'im, which she will, no tellin' 'ow 'e'll react. Remember the last girl?"

His head throbs. The scent of blood on gravel, salt and metal, reaching forward in time. He gawks, horrified.

The hand pulling his hair flattens, cups his skull. Strokes. "She'll be alright," Simon mutters. Soothing, but not quite. "Price thinks she's the one. It'll take more than a few questions to make 'im do somethin' stupid."

He wants to believe him, always, but the last girl—well, Price thought she was the one, too. 

And they all paid for that mistake.

~~~~

The stranger arrived after a long, unsuccessful week away. Just at the right time. A balm for John's bruised pride.

He loathes the days he leaves his range. He hates the cities to the south and the backwater latrines up north. He loathes that his needs require travel and discretion these days, for him to prowl territory where no one knows him and his authority's nonexistent. He relies on the weight of his influence, his power. The decades of blood, of dirty and thankless work, of blessings and curses, of folklore and superstition. The rabble who grew up at their parent's and grandparent's feet listening to stories about the men eaten and spat back out by the mountain.

He likes the wary. The watchful.

More than that, he likes the overlooked and the desperate. People starved for attention in any form. People with nowhere else to go. Both groups careless with where they go looking for belonging.

Most times that place is the dingiest bar in a shithole town. A truck stop. The edge of the highway.

Sometimes that place is his general store. 

John weeds out the characters that don't fit the bill. No families. No groups. He's tried couples, when one or the other's to his liking, but their residencies stir up too many questions. Individuals? Now, much better. Individuals like the man in his shop. Scuffed, secondhand gear and a ratty pack. An overgrown haircut and beard. Wild, sleep-worn eyes heavy with bags. He's seen dogs with mange look better than the specimen stalking his shelves. 

"This it?" He stares at the man's selection: a single beer, a pack of pencils, and a cheap razor.

"Aye. That's it."

The brogue, thick and unmistakable, wraps around the words and John decides then and there. He holds the man's eyes, a shock of blue, more striking than his own. "You're a long way from home."

"Could say the same to ye," The man laughs, fishing out a wad of crumpled bills and some coin. The billfold looks as worn as his clothes, edges fraying, stuffed with two other currencies.

"Looks like you've been around," John sorts the coin by feel. "What brings you here?" He leans on that word, here. It's a habit now, sizing people up. Most tourists are easy to place—locals from a few towns or the next state over. But every so often, someone like this turns up, someone from further afield. It's usually a sign. Fish nibbling at bait on one of the hooks he's cast.

"Just going where my thumb takes me. I'm spending the next three, four months in America. Left tracks all over already, but someone told me the camping's good up this way. Figure I'll make my way to Seattle, then through to the Yukon." 

"Somebody waiting for you up there?"

The stranger's smile is wide and reckless. Toothy, sharp. "Nah, that's the beauty of it. Free as a bird. No strings, nowhere."

John returns the smile, feeling that rotten thing in his chest stir, stretching awake, licking its chops. It's always hungry, always ready for a reason. The man's candor is laughable, he's tying the snare around his own neck. John looks him over again, considering. It's probably a bit of both, he decides. Starved for attention and just dumb enough to show it. Typical rabbit.

However, there's the matter of the shit he's stolen.

John chuckles along with the stranger, but his hand moves without hesitation, wrapping around the sagging strap of the backpack and giving it a tug. He stares down his nose. The man's smile vanishes, fast as a light switching off.

"Son, I'm gonna need you to empty your bag."

Outside, as if on cue, Simon rolls into the lot, and John watches the man's posture stiffen at the sight of the hulking mass climbing off the dirt bike. 

"You don't want him to empty it." John warns.

It's almost dizzying how quickly he complies, dumping the contents onto the counter: mostly food, a folding knife, and a bar of soap. The door chimes behind him, and John picks up the soap, turning it over in his hand, his eyebrows raised in silent accusation.

"Am I interruptin'?"

Simon stands in the doorway, helmet under one arm, already fixed on the man. His chest rises and falls like bellows, his gnarled lip curling in that way John knows too well. Interest. Blood in the water.

The stranger isn't small, not by any measure. Solid, broad through the shoulders and arms, though he's hunching slightly, an instinct to look bigger. A meal trying to pass for something harder to swallow, and isn't that the way with those lower on the food chain?

But he's not stupid. He sees the man for what he is now that his right hand's here. He's just Simon's type. All he needs is a shave.

"Not at all. I'm clearing up a misunderstandin' with…"

The man clears his throat, eyes still locked on Simon. His voice steady, but barely. "John. John MacTavish."

Simon's chuffs. John cracks the bar of soap.

Another decision made, then.

~~~~

Kyle can spot trouble a mile away. He sees the ills of the world and the way violence threads through things and stitches them together. Why people do what they do, the multitude of factors and reasons—it's all straightforward in his head. In the real world, though, nothing is. Cases don't wrap up neatly, they unravel. Leads dry up. Witnesses clam up. Evidence falls short or gets thrown out, and he has to move on, whether he likes it or not.

He tells himself it’s necessary. That the world is too full of rot to fixate on just one festering wound. But moving on isn’t the same as letting go. The frustration lingers, curdling into something acidic. The urge to kick in doors, to rescue people from the hell they've been left in, to deal with the ones responsible the way no courtroom ever will—it burns beneath his skin. A live wire fraying, sparking, and ready to snap.

But there are rules. Policies. A whole bloody process he's meant to respect and follow. So when he spots some wild-eyed man ferrying around a woman who looks like the unnamed witness he's searching for, he memorizes the plates, sends them in, and waits.

His stomach rumbles. His choices are slim on that front, too.

~~

In the corner of the café, Kyle scrolls through the scanned posters on his phone. Missing persons, runaways, and other BOLOs from the local precincts. Shepherd had theatrically dropped the files on his desk, handing over Graves's case like it was a poisoned chalice.

Shepherd warned him nothing was digitized, leaving him to do it all. The batch of missing persons spanning decades hadn't been touched in years, he added, like it was some kind of badge of honor for the region. Called the area a breeding ground for bad shit, nearly spitting the words out. A place no one actually wanted anything solved, not in what he described as an inland Bermuda Triangle carved into the panhandle.

The old man expounded about the violent, standoffish types who called Grouse Bay, Ponderosa, and the surrounding area home. The kind of people who'd rather shoot you than admit what they ate for breakfast. Then, with a final slap of the files, Shepherd wished him luck—luck with the missing, the answers he'd likely never find, and the colleague who'd managed to disappear right along with them.

It's clear to him that he's not actually expected to solve a thing. He's supposed to find whatever mess Graves had gotten into, yank him out, and clean him up.

To do that, he had to find him, and that smarmy bastard seems intent on staying lost.

[doumadono]

Hi baby!! Mwaaah! I have an emergency request if it’s okay? Can you have either Bakugou or Touya (maybe him as just Touya or maybe Dabi? You can decide) where the reader is having such bad flashbacks of their abusive relationship before them that they can’t get out of bed and every little thing set them off in a way they starts to get worse with them flashbacks?

Touya & Bakugo with gn!Reader who deals with flashbacks of past relationship

A/N: I hope you'll enjoy these two short stories 💋

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST - PART 2

Touya

Touya sat by the edge of the bed, his pale fingers tracing absentminded patterns on the sheets. His partner, Y/N, lay beside him, their body curled into a tight ball under the covers.

It had been a rough night. The nightmares that haunted them were growing worse, and Touya could do little more than hold them as they trembled and cried in their sleep. 

Now, as they lay still, Touya watched over them with a heavy heart. ”Y/N," he murmured softly, brushing a strand of hair away from their face. "It's morning. You should try to get up."

Their eyes fluttered open, but the vacant, haunted look in them made it clear they were still trapped in the grip of their past. 

Touya’s heart clenched at the sight. He had seen that look before – in his own reflection, back when his life was consumed by pure pain and hatred.

"I can't," they whispered, their voice barely audible. "Every time I close my eyes, I see him. I feel his hands on me... I can't escape it. I can’t believe I spent so much time in such an abusive relationship… I should have tried to escape but I felt weak."

Touya’s jaw tightened. He understood the feeling all too well, the relentless grip of trauma that refused to let go. Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to their forehead. "You're not there anymore, Y/N. You're here, with me. And I won’t let anyone hurt you again."

They shook their head, tears welling up in their eyes. "It's not that simple. Everything reminds me of him. The sound of the door, the creak of the floorboards... even the way the light filters in reminds me of being trapped in his flat."

Touya’s eyes darkened with anger – not at them, but at the monster who had done this to them. "We’ll make new memories to replace the old ones. If you still feel trapped, maybe you should consider moving to another town, to leave the past behind?”

They looked up at him, hope flickering briefly in their eyes before being extinguished by fear. "What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m broken forever? And I distinctly remember you saying that “the past never dies”, Touya.”

Touya's breath caught at the mention of his own words, thrown back at him like a painful echo. He closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself against the rush of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. When he opened them again, his gaze was steady, intense. "I did say that," he admitted, his voice a low, steady rumble. "The past never dies. It’s a part of us, a shadow that follows wherever we go. But that doesn’t mean it defines us." He leaned closer, his forehead pressing gently against theirs. "I know you feel broken. Hell, I’ve felt that way for years. But look at me, Y/N. I'm still here. Still fighting. Because even though the past never dies, it doesn’t mean it wins. We get to decide who we become, every single day."

His fingers traced gentle patterns on their arm, a calming, grounding touch. "I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. It’s not. There will be days when it feels like the shadows are winning. But you’re not alone in this. We’ll face those shadows together." He paused, searching their eyes for any sign of understanding. "You’ve already survived so much, babe. You’re stronger than you think. And if the past tries to drag you down, I’ll be here to pull you back up. Every single fucking time."

Touya cupped their face in his hands, his touch gentle despite the callouses. "You’re not broken, Y/N. You’re healing. And healing takes time. Allow yourself to heal.”

They stayed like that for a while, the silence between them filled with unspoken words of comfort and solidarity. Slowly, they began to uncurl, their breathing evening out as they leaned into Touya’s embrace. "Okay," they whispered finally. "I trust you. Thank you for being here for me, Touya.”

Touya smiled, a rare, genuine smile that was reserved only for them. "Always."

Bakugou

Katsuki Bakugou was not a man known for his patience. His explosive temper and brash demeanor were infamous, but when it came to Y/N, he was willing to wait. Wait for them to feel safe, to heal, to trust. 

Today, however, his patience was being tested to its limits.

He stood at the door of their bedroom, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Y/N lay in bed, their body trembling under the blankets. It had been a bad night, and the morning wasn't proving to be any better.

"Y/N," Bakugou called softly, trying to keep his voice gentle despite his frustration. "You need to get up. You haven't eaten anything for nearly two days."

They didn't respond, their eyes fixed on a spot on the wall as if it held the answers to their torment. 

Bakugou took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Losing his temper wouldn't help them at all.

He walked over to the bed, sitting down beside them. "Hey," he said more softly, reaching out to touch their shoulder. "Talk to me."

They flinched at his touch, a reaction that sent a pang of hurt through Bakugou’s chest. He pulled his hand back, clenching it into a fist to keep from lashing out. Not at them, of course, never at them – but at the memory of the person who had hurt them.

"It’s him," they whispered, their voice shaking, "I can’t get him out of my head. Every sound, every shadow… it’s like he’s still here, watching me."

Bakugou’s eyes flashed with anger, his mind filling with violent thoughts about the man who had done this to the person he loved the most. But he knew that wouldn’t help right now. What they needed was reassurance, not rage.

"He’s not here," Bakugou said firmly. "He’ll never hurt you again. I swear on my life, Y/N. You’re safe with me."

They turned their head to look at him, tears streaming down their face. "But I don’t feel safe! Can’t you understand that?! Everything reminds me of him. The way the door creaks, the shadows on the wall... I can’t escape it! I know I’m no longer in his hands, but goddammit, I feel like he still owns a part of my soul!”

Bakugou’s heart ached at their words. He wished he could take away their pain, fight off their demons like he did with villains. But this was a battle that couldn’t be won with fists and explosions. He took a deep breath. "Then we’ll change it," he said finally, determination in his voice. "We’ll get rid of the shadows, do whatever it takes to make you feel safe. We’ll make this place your little haven, does it sound okay?”

They looked at him with a mixture of hope and doubt. "What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m always scared?"

Bakugou leaned in, pressing his forehead against theirs while rubbing their shoulders. "Then I’ll be here, every step of the way. I won’t let you face this alone. We’ll fight it together.”

They took a shaky breath, their body slowly relaxing against his. "Okay," they whispered. "Together."

Bakugou nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Together."

[cheriecoke]

RYLIE OMG you’re nanamis classmate and you guys are just like friends or whatever and then he leaves right??? but you stay because jujutsu is all you have. but you guys stay “friends” but hardly ever see each other. then he becomes a sorcerer again yippee!! and you guys are seeing each other a lot more.

he has feelings for you but things you have a thing for gojo so he doesn’t go for it. tension ensues.

anyways!!! i hope your thursday was great rylie!! xxxx

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ AND I AM DONE, DEAR — nanami kento

contents. angst (we’re going back to my roots!), maybe unrequited love, fem!reader, 800ish words

notes. this is so painful bc he wouldn't go for it either :( and then satoru pursues you because you've gotten close over the past couple of years, and kento's been gone </3 there are years worth of memories and jokes between the two of you, and kento spent those years miserable & alone. sometimes, he wonders what would've happened if he'd just had the strength to remain a sorcerer, instead of running from everything he hated

"kento," you snap him out of his stream of endless memories, the ones that always seem to gnaw at him when he was around you.

he glances up, and a culmination of flashbacks spin before his eyes.

he sees you at fourteen, a first year student who was still so scared of her technique.

he sees you at sixteen, smiling from ear to ear at another one of gojo and geto's ridiculous antics.

he sees you at seventeen, sobbing over the corpse that had once belonged to the kindest student in your year.

he sees you at eighteen, your empty, hollow expression when he told you he was leaving, and he wasn't coming back.

"yes?" kento asks, forcing the memories away, because you're there in front of him, more beautiful than he remembers... and though you aren't a stranger in his life anymore, his mind still doesn't do justice to the depth of your angelic features.

"is everything okay?" you ask, blinking up at him with concern. your voice turns into something gentle when you're around him, almost like he's something fragile. the kindness in your heart is endless, extending, even, to the man that once broke it.

kento clears his throat, wondering how much emotion he'd let filter onto his expression. he'd gotten worse at hiding it ever since you'd stumbled back into his life, the woman he hadn't realized he'd loved until it was too late.

"yes," he repeats, flat, calm. though he can't muster a smile, he raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "why do you ask?"

for a moment, you chew your lip, thoughtful. kento wants to kiss you. he wonders what you'd say if you knew.

"you've just been..." you shake your head, rubbing your arm awkwardly. "ever since..." the sentences are broken, uncomfortable, and though you'd once been best friends, there is a sense of professionalism between you now. a wall that he doesn't think he can break down anymore.

kento parts his lips, considers interrupting, but someone beats him to it. gojo satoru, the constant pain in kento's ass, saunters into the room with a sparkly white grin, gleefulness bounding off of him in a way that's obnoxious.

"there you are! megumi told me i might find you here," satoru says, and he's to you in just three long strides, attaching to you like a magnet. "ready, baby?"

gojo kisses the top of your head, throws an arm over your shoulder and smiles at kento, like he knows what's running through his mind.

you're still studying kento, and he pretends not to notice you scrutinizing him, the way your lips are flushed from chewing on them. "yeah," you say to satoru, squeezing his hand, the sparkly bracelet with gojo's initials dangling from two charms shimmering.

a subtle reminder that kento may have loved you longer, but you'll never really be his.

you start to walk out the door, and kento watches with what he hopes appears as impassivity, his lips drawn into a thin line. though, just as satoru is beginning to pull you across the threshold, you meet kento's dark brown eyes, the ones that turn so tender the moment they land on you.

"kento?" you ask once more

his name sounds so sweet on your lips, but he wishes he didn't want to know what it sounded like on the edge of a moan.

"ijichi is waiting." kento doesn't let you ask whatever you were thinking of asking, because being pinned by your beautiful, caring eyes is almost too much for him to bear.

you blink, surprised by his harshness as you curl into satoru, almost imperceptibly. "right. have a good evening, then. see you tomorrow."

kento nods, pushing his glasses back onto his face. his heart cracks a bit at the emotion tinged in your words, and though his severity has never hurt you before, he's beginning to wonder if it's hurting you now.

"bye, nanamin!" satoru waves cheerfully, and the two of you are gone, leaving nanami in the room alone, the silence almost deafeaning.

he's used to it by now: the solitude of his life. he's used to being strong when he's needed, and even when he's not. everyone sees him that way: the man who's steadfast, unwavering, a little too serious for his own good.

if only they knew he was a weak man when it came to you.

[harleehazbinfics]

Home is where my Heart is.

Chapter 3: The First Time Table of Contents | Profile

Word Count: 1100+ Warning: implied rape and abuse A/N: idk i feel weird that he's kinda ooc; tbf he is very different here in this ff BUT LISTEN crazy meets sweet, ITS KINDA CUTE also also, imma take a break and continue my devout!reader ff, you can check it out here. thanky!

mmmmm i changed so much dialogue i wonder how this'll go. (edited as of Feb 20)

It had been quite a few months after Alastor and I have started going out. Nothing drastically different happened when we were still friends then transitioning to lovers.

Both of us would mind our own business, however, that didn’t really mean that we weren’t thinking about each other. If Alastor went on radio, I would listen to him while doing mundane chores, listening to his voice through the vintage filter of the stereo, I'd even retort to his witty commentary as if he was in the room with me. While, I would be out doing shows across the city, ranging from clubs and cafes to the early television programs.

Today was one of those days, where I would be waiting for Alastor to pick me up after performing a show, as he promised to bring me out to drink for our date. I stood at a lamp post waiting for him, looking down at my shadow.

“Well, look who it is. Lil’ Mel out in town?” a raspy voice said to me, “Must be nice to finally get out of that orphanage, huh? How’ve you been liking it so far? Missed me?”

Hearing this familiar insistent voice sent shivers down my spine, having flashbacks of my days in the orphanage. I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Go away, Aidan. I don’t want to talk to you,” I announced, fear creeping up on me.

“Oh, don’t be like that, babe!” he said putting his hand on my shoulder, “Don’t you remember all our fun times?”

I wriggled out of his grasp and angrily answered, “Fun? Hah, you’re insane. And never call me babe! Goodbye.”

I tightened my grasp on my sling bag and briskly walked away, looking for a more crowded area. But I never got too far when he suddenly had my arm in a tight grip making me squeal in pain. He covered my mouth with his other hand hushing me, and placing his knee between my legs. This scenario was all too familiar that tears welled up in my eyes automatically, but I gathered all my courage tensing my body and biting his hand, frustration clear on my face.

Meanwhile, Alastor was already a few buildings close to your arranged meeting place when he stopped when he heard a familiar voice.

“I told you to let go of me!”

This shout reaches his ears following a thud, fearing the worst he then bolts toward Miledy’s direction.

“Miledy!” he yells however freezes when he sees a man looming over her with a metal pipe in his hands.

“AL!” she screamed scared out of her wits.

Without a second thought, he lunges at the man throwing the both of them to the side leaving me on the floor. I looked at Alastor in fear for him when I saw him struggling to wrestle the larger man off of him.

“STOP! GET OFF HIM!”

Aidan seemed to falter when he heard me, creating an opening for Alastor and managing to stab him through his chest. Aidan gathered the last of his strength to wrap his hand around Alastor’s neck. I panicked and grabbed the forgotten pipe and bashed him over the head, making him go limp on top of Al.

Alastor moved the body to the side and with a relieved look on his face, he moves forwards and pulls me in a tight hug.

“I was so scared. Did you get hurt?” he frets over me.

“You’re not scared of me? I just killed a-a person, Al,” I asked afraid of his reaction.

“Heavens no! I’m more relieved you’re not hurt,” he replied letting go of the hug and placing his hand to the side of my face.

Relieved that Alastor didn’t leave her despite her sins, she finally broke down as she recounted the traumatic events that had happened, including the times where she comforted herself to sleep crying after Aidan was done playing with her, causing all these bottled up grievances to burst out. While Alastor did his best to comfort her in an embrace.

“We should probably leave now. It won’t take long before someone calls the police,” he explained holding on to her shoulder. I only nodded my head shakily still rattled and followed his lead.

He covered the body and lifted it over his shoulder keeping it steady while his free grabbed my hand and ran far far away. We eventually ended in a forest where we buried the body. I wiped the sweat off my brow breathing deeply from all the extraneous activities. After that was all done, Alastor led me to a cabin outside the hunting grounds.

“Where are we?” I asked while looking at the old furniture and the floorboards that creaked.

“My house,” he stated simply offering me a glass of water. I took and drank all of it without a second thought making Alastor tug a very subtle smile on his lips at how she completely trusted him.

“Al, we just killed a man and buried him. What if they figure out that we did it? What will happen to us?” I ramble, face going pale from different scenarios going through my mind.

He kneels in front of me a frown adorning his face when he saw how distraught I was and replied, “I’ll never let them hurt you. I promise, they will never know.”

“What about you, Al! What if they take you away from me. I don’t want to be separated from you!” I yelled hoping he’d care about his own well-being.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said reading through me and holding my face in his hands, “I’ll never ever leave you, not if I can’t help it.”

My eyebrows furrowed still unconvinced, “How can you be so sure?”

His eyebrows drooped and a wry smile takes place while putting his hands on my knees obediently, “I’ve been hiding from them for years now. They haven’t had any idea that it was me. Knowing a lot of people surely has its perks.” I looked at him confused. “The first person killed was when I was 16, on the day that my mother died, and I’ve been running ever since.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you. But I never wanted you to be involved in this dirty past of mine,” he apologizes. “But I swear on my life that I never had any bad intention towards you. All I want is for you to be safe and free from worry.”

It took a very long time before one of us did or said anything. I took his hand, stood up and walked him towards the balcony that we walked past getting here. And just watched as the sun slowly rose hand in hand.

“I guess this is how we live for the rest of our lives now,” I uttered just above a whisper to the wind.

“I’ll protect you. No matter what.”

“Me too. You can depend on me… I love you, Al.”

“Thank you, Miledy.”

[hadeslegacyhephgirl]

fire fire just hold on

The infirmary is on fire, and Nico is burning.  

He vaguely remembers something about Jason being injured, Leo yelling at something… and then the flames began.  

He has to move, he knows, because the medics will aim for the immobile patients first, and he is by no way immobile, so he's expected to make his own way out.  

But he makes two steps and falls to his knees, and he knows hes not going to make it.  

The smoke is clingy, clogging his throat and lungs as he chokes and crawls another step, knees and hands and sides screaming to stop, lay down, just let the flames take him.   

"WILL!" 

He's desperate, the flames roaring around him, licking at anything they can reach, hungry.  

"WILL!"  

He doesn't even know if the words are reaching the air, his throat is hoarse and every breath, every yell hurts, scorches as his body desperately tries to expel the poison from the air, cotton spinning itself into his lungs.  

One more. One more and he can curl up and die to the flames, the smoke.

He vaguely wonders whether he'd achieve Elysium 

He gasps in a smoky, painful breath and expels everything, breath, energy and soul into one last desperate yell

"WILL!" 

The response is immediate  

"NICO! NICO HOLD ON I'M COMING!"  

And those words, that beautiful voice, gives him new energy to crawl a little further before collapsing, give him headspace to curl into a ball, cover his mouth with his shirt, fabric giving a thin filter for the air around him.  

"NICO!"  

And suddenly Will is there, burnt and scarred but there and suddenly everything's okay, suddenly it's all gonna work out.  

He vaguely registers a second person before he's being hoisted, Will holding his upper body and the other person- Nico thinks it might be Austin, carrying his legs.  

Will is talking to him, words spilling out like a fountain but Nico doesn't register much of it, too distracted at the coolness of Wills skin against his, the proximity of Wills body against his, the way Will is carrying him gently, oh so gently so as not to injure him.  

He almost wishes they could stay here forever, Will holding Nico, but there's others in the fire and Nico can survive a while without Will. 

 He watches, laying on his side where they've left him, as Will runs toward the burning infirmary. Watches… and realises something. 

Will hesitates, then clenches his fists before running in, eyes squeezed shut.  

The fire… it must be giving him flashbacks 

Nico struggles up, ignoring the pain and protests of Kayla, who's assigned to supervising the patients, and heads toward the door. He stands to the side as another pair, Austin and Bianca rush out, hands empty. 

"Where's Will?"  

They exchange glances, before Austin shrugs

"Hes not out here yet? He wasn't yelling like everyone else"  

"Shit" 

Because if Nico knows Will well enough (dam right he does) then Will would be collapsed on the floor, having pushed himself into the fire, resulting in flashbacks and a panic attack 

He hopes he's wrong  

"Austin, swap with Kayla. Send her over"  

Austin exchanges another glance with Bianca, but does as he says, Bianca following.  

It's agonizing waiting the ten seconds for Kayla, but he does it, waits until she turns up before plunging into the heat, Kayla hot on his heels, both calling desperately for Will.  

Second after agonizing second later, Nico nearly trips over Will, lying on the floor, hands clenched, eyes wide, and Nico gasps in relief and drops to his knees, grabbing Wills hands and prying them apart, words spilling from his lips.  

It's an age before Will whimpers, lets the tears fall and Nico knows the worst is over, that the freezing panic Will feels is gone, left with empty sadness. 

He doesn’t try to comfort him, just holds Will's wrists and says 'I know, I know' until the tears slow and they're left, just them.

 He vaguely realises that the fire has slowed, Percy having finally arrived to quell the flames at last.  

And still Nico sits there, holding Wills hands in his own, quiet at last, watching Wills eyes flutter shut, the exhaustion and panic leaving an empty tiredness.

He stands up to allow Kayla to carry Will to the Hades cabin. And sits on the edge of the bed, reading, as Will fades further into the arms of sleep. 

[elizabeth-holland24]

The Beast Within - Chapter 5

Days in the sun when my life has barely begun. Not until my whole life is done will I ever leave you. Will I tremble again, to my dear one's gorgeous refrain. Will you now forever remain. Out of reach of my arms. Oh, those days in the sun. What I’d give to just relive one. Undo what's done. And bring back the light. Oh, I could sing, of the pain these dark days bring. The spell we are under. Still is the wonder of us I sing of tonight. How, in the midst of all this sorrow, can so much hope and love, endure. I was innocent and certain, now I'm wise but unsure. Days in the past, I can't go back into my childhood. Oh, those precious days couldn't last. One that my father made secure. I can feel a change in me. Oh, hold me closer. I'm stronger now, but still not free. Days in the sun, will return. We must believe as others do. That days in the sun. Will come shinning through.

Flashback

The woods always felt alive, even in their stillness. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves, casting golden patterns on the forest floor. A young Mausi skipped over roots and around trees, her worn shoes crunching against the earthy path. This was her sanctuary, a place where rules didn’t matter, where she could dream endlessly and imagine a world beyond her small village.

As she wandered deeper, a muffled sound stopped her in her tracks. A soft, hiccupping sniffle.

Curiosity, tinged with concern, bubbled inside her. Who could be crying here, in her woods? The sound pulled her forward, her little feet quiet now, as if afraid to disturb the sadness lingering in the air.

And there he was—a boy, crouched by the base of an ancient oak tree, his head buried in his knees, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. His clothes, though finer than hers, were dirtied from the forest floor. He looked about her age, maybe a little older, but it was hard to tell. His form was curled in on itself, as if he wanted to disappear, to fold himself into the shadows of the woods and never come out.

Mausi’s heart clenched. She didn’t know why, but seeing him like that hurt her in a way she couldn’t name. She wasn’t the kind of girl to ignore someone in pain—especially not when that someone seemed so lost.

She took a cautious step forward, her small voice breaking the silence. “Why are you crying?”

The boy stiffened but didn’t look up. “Go away,” he muttered, his voice raw and shaky.

Mausi frowned but didn’t leave. Instead, she plopped herself down beside him, tucking her knees under her chin. She wasn’t the type to be scared off easily, not by a little grumpiness.

“I’m Mausi,” she said cheerfully, though her voice was softer than usual, as if she knew not to push too hard.

Silence.

“My dad calls me that. It means ‘little mouse.’” She paused, glancing at him. “What’s your name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grumbled.

“Well, I’ll just call you ‘grumpy boy’ then,” Mausi said, crossing her arms with mock indignation.

At that, he finally looked up, his tear-streaked face partially hidden by unruly blonde hair. His green eyes, red-rimmed from crying, locked onto hers. For a fleeting moment, something unspoken passed between them—a connection neither could fully understand.

“I don’t need friends,” he said, his tone defensive but weak.

“That’s fine. I don’t need another friend either,” Mausi replied, shrugging. “But I’m not going anywhere. You look like you need someone.”

The boy stared at her, as if trying to decide whether she was a nuisance or a lifeline. Eventually, his shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and he let out a sigh.

They sat there in silence, two small figures against the vastness of the woods. The weight in the air began to lift, little by little, as the boy’s sniffles faded into the rustling of leaves.

From that day on, the two became an unlikely pair, their connection forged in the quiet corners of the forest where the rest of the world couldn’t reach them. The boy never told Mausi his name, and though curiosity burned within her, she never pushed him to share it. Somehow, she understood that names held power, and his reluctance was less about hiding and more about protecting something fragile within himself.

Instead, they created a world of their own, one where names didn’t matter, and labels were irrelevant. They met in the same secluded spot beneath the ancient oak tree, the one whose roots snaked into the earth like veins carrying the lifeblood of the forest. It was their sanctuary—a place where laughter, exploration, and quiet companionship thrived, untainted by the weight of expectations.

The boy was guarded, his words often clipped and his demeanour prickly. He had a way of snapping when he felt too exposed, a defence mechanism Mausi came to recognize as fear rather than anger. But she had a gift for disarming him. Her chatter filled the silences he carried like armour, and though he’d roll his eyes or let out exaggerated sighs, Mausi noticed the corners of his mouth twitching upward when he thought she wasn’t looking.

She talked about anything and everything:how her father was always building something; how she didn't have a mother, how she loves adventures and reading, hoping one day she'll get an adventure of her own, how in her village they made fun of her for being different. Her words painted vibrant pictures, filling their little world with light and warmth.

At first, the boy didn’t respond much beyond a grunt or a sarcastic comment, but slowly, the cracks in his shield began to show. In stolen moments of vulnerability, he shared pieces of himself—little glimpses into the life he kept hidden.

As the weeks turned into months, the boy’s edges softened further. He taught Mausi how to skip stones across the surface of the creek, laughing when her first attempts sent the rocks plunging straight to the bottom. In return, she showed him how to whistle using a blade of grass, their giggles echoing through the forest as they competed to see who could make the loudest sound.

Yet, no matter how much they shared, there was always a heaviness in the boy’s eyes, a weight Mausi couldn’t quite name. 

One day, as they sat side by side on the bank of the creek, Mausi noticed a scar running along the inside of his wrist. It was faint, almost hidden by the dirt smudging his skin, but unmistakable. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing against it before she realized what she was doing.

The boy jerked his arm away, his expression darkening. “Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice colder than she’d ever heard it.

“I’m sorry,” Mausi stammered, pulling her hand back. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s nothing,” he interrupted, his tone firm. But the way he turned away from her, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched into fists, told a different story.

Mausi didn’t say anything else, afraid that if she pushed too hard, he might disappear again. But the scar stayed with her, a silent reminder that the boy she called her friend carried more pain than she could see.

Even in their happiest moments, the shadow lingered. It was in the way he sometimes stared off into the distance, his brow furrowed, as if he were reliving something he couldn’t escape. It was in the way he flinched at sudden noises, his head snapping around as though expecting danger.

Mausi wished she could take that shadow from him, to make him laugh so hard it disappeared forever. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t that simple. Some hurts ran too deep to be erased by kind words or shared laughter.

Still, she stayed. Because even if she couldn’t heal him, she could be there—to listen, to laugh, to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

And in return, the boy gave her something she didn’t even know she needed. For all his guardedness and sharp edges, he made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had. When he looked at her, it was as though she mattered—not as the village’s ‘little mouse’ but as Mausi, a girl who could climb trees and weave daisy chains and bring light into the darkest corners of the forest.

Together, they carved out a space where the weight of the world didn’t exist. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t without its complications, but it was theirs. And for a while, that was enough.

The rain came suddenly, drenching the forest in a matter of moments. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the sky hung low and gray, casting the woods in a shadowy gloom.

Mausi clutched a bundle of wildflowers in her hands as she raced toward their spot, her heart pounding with a strange urgency she couldn’t explain. The rain soaked through her clothes, chilling her to the bone, but she didn’t care. Something felt wrong—terribly wrong.

When she reached the clearing, she saw him.

He was curled up at the base of their tree, just as he’d been the first day they met. But this time, his sobs were not muffled. They tore through the air, raw and gut-wrenching, the kind of sound that made the world feel heavier.

Mausi dropped the flowers and ran to him, falling to her knees beside him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Are you hurt?”

He didn’t answer. He just shook his head, his hands clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt as if trying to hold himself together.

Mausi hesitated, unsure of what to do. Finally, she did the only thing that felt right—she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, even though she didn’t know if it was. “You’re not alone.”

For a moment, he stiffened in her embrace, as though the kindness was too much to bear. But then he broke, his sobs growing louder as he buried his face in her shoulder.

“I can’t—” he choked out between gasps. “It’s gone. They’re gone. Everything’s gone.”

Mausi didn’t understand what he meant, but she didn’t need to. She just held him tighter, her own tears mixing with the rain as she tried to absorb some of his pain.

For weeks, he didn’t come back.

Mausi visited their spot every day, her heart sinking a little more each time she found it empty. She left little gifts for him—wildflowers, pebbles, even a tiny carved mouse she’d made from a piece of wood. But they remained untouched.

She began to wonder if he was ever coming back.

When he finally did, he wasn’t alone.

Mausi’s face lit up when she saw him, but the joy was short-lived. The boy she knew was gone, replaced by someone colder, harder. He stood with a group of older boys, their laughter sharp and cruel.

“You’re here!” she said, her voice filled with relief. “I was so worried. Are you okay?”

He smirked, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “What, are you some kind of puppy?” he sneered. “I don’t need you following me around.”

The words stung, but Mausi refused to let him see. “That’s all you have to say?” she asked, her voice trembling. “After disappearing for so long?”

“I don’t owe you anything,” he snapped. “I’m not your friend. We’re not even on the same level.”

The boys around him laughed, their jeers echoing in the clearing.

Mausi blinked back tears, her heartbreaking in a way she didn’t think was possible. “Fine,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry I cared.”

She turned and walked away, leaving the flowers she’d brought for him lying on the ground.

The boy watched her go, his fists clenched at his sides. Every instinct screamed at him to call her back, to apologize, to tell her the truth. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“She’s better off without me,” he told himself. “Everything I care about gets taken away. It’s better this way.”

But as her figure disappeared into the shadows of the woods, he felt the weight of his words crushing him. For the first time in his young life, he wondered if pushing someone away hurt more than losing them.

A/N: Hey guys, sorry it took me so long to publish this chapter. Thank you so much for the love and support this story has gained. We got a flashback, wonder who that boy is. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chapter, thank you so much for the love and support on this story again. Don't forget to comment, like and reblog, so I know if you are enjoying it. I think that's all. Thanks for reading <3

[infiniteeight8]

Tony finding out about the timeloops with Dormammu because Stephen's filter is compromised by injuries/drugs/exhaustion/etc.

Warning for brief description of nasty injuries in the first paragraph.

-

Stephen Strange has the highest pain tolerance of anyone Tony has ever met, including himself and everyone he’s ever met that has super-healing. The man can—and has–calmly talked a teammate through removing multiple barbed spines skewering his own limbs. So when Tony lands next to him, post-battle, and finds him muttering, “It’s go away, just wait a moment, it’ll be gone any moment now,” it’s seriously alarming.

“Strange!” Tony says sharply, dropping to his knees and retracting the helmet. “Tell me what’s wrong so I can help.” He runs a quick scan, but the only thing the suit picks up is a very bloody but not life threatening gash in his leg. For Strange to be this out of it, there must be something a lot worse going on.

Strange looks up at him and blinks, frowning. “Tony?” 

They’re not usually on a first name basis, but that’s been due to Strange’s reserve more than Tony’s. “Yeah, Stephen, I’m here.” He retracts a gauntlet and carefully takes the man’s hand. It’s shaking hard, much worse than normal. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” Strange grips his hand tightly, enough that it has to hurt. “I don’t know if the time loop will include you, you have to go before Dormammu returns.”

The pieces all slot together. Strange is having some sort of flashback. “You’re in New York,” Tony says, as steadily as he can. “You’re in New York with me, with Tony Stark, and we just finished herding about a thousand flying demons back to their own dimension. Dormammu isn’t here, Stephen.”

But Strange just laughs, a tired, broken thing. “He’s not here now,” Strange says. “But he will be. He always comes back, and he always kills me again. He has to—I made the loop that way.” Stephen raises his other hand to clasp Tony’s between his. “But you don’t have to be here,” he says fiercely. “You don’t have to suffer.”

Tony’s heart breaks. “Stephen, it’s over,” he says quietly. “You won.”

Stephen laughs. “I can’t win. But I can lose. Over and over, forever.”

Tony doesn’t know what he can say to that, so he just pulls Stephen into his arms and holds onto him and waits for him to realize where and when he is. It takes longer than he expects, maybe fifteen minutes, before Strange finally murmurs, “Tony. You can let go now.”

Tony eases back so that he can look at Stephen, but doesn’t let go completely. “What happened?” he asked, because he’s never seen Strange lose it like that. 

Stephen huffs a wry laugh. “Magical exhaustion,” he says. “I really should have called for another mystic to help with those demons. Using up my reserves like that compromises mental control. It’s dangerous, for a sorcerer.”

And embarrassing, Tony expects, but if Stephen wants to sidestep that, Tony isn’t going to fight him on it. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Believe it or not, that hug helped a lot,” Stephen says. “Physical contact is good for restoring magical energy.”

That’s not the only thing it’s good for, but Tony doesn’t say anything, just keeps a hand under Stephen’s elbow as he helps him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get that gash looked at.”

Stephen nods. 

He doesn’t pull away from Tony’s grip.

[lady-of-tearshed]

Paper airplanes

Finnick Odair x Reader

(Fluff/slight angst)

Based on some lyrics from "Out Of The Woods" by Taylor Swift

Summary: As you and Finnick relationship grows stronger every day, you can't help but remind yourself how it all started and how beautiful life had become through everything.

Word count: 3.3k

“Okay, give me a fucking second, I’m nervous.” @dumplingsjinson https://dumplingsjinson.tumblr.com/post/744023757216169984/list-of-awkward-confessions-prompts

You sigh as you put the last cardboard box in your now-shared bedroom with Finnick. You smile softly, looking around the peaceful bedroom covered in a soft orange light as the sunset rays filtered through the laced curtains. You take out the Polaroid picture the two of you had taken back when you were still innocent children picking up seashells and making up imaginary quests about fairies and dragons in your treehouse. The picture was in black and white, and so was the cruel world before the revolution, but your friendship back then was tinted in screaming colors. 

You snap out of your thoughts when you hear rustling sounds from where your boyfriend is downstairs. You put the picture down carefully onto the bed and head downstairs to look at what all that clatter was about. You spot the now empty living room floor, the boxes that were previously piled here and there moved to the side, creating an empty space in the center of the living room. You spot Finninck crouched down behind the couch and you chuckle. “What are you doing?” 

His head pops up from behind the couch and he lifts the radio to show it to you, then places it back down onto the floor. He puts the favorite CD of both of you inside of the radio and presses play. He stands up from his crouched position and offers you his hand gracefully, making an exaggerated bow that makes you laugh. “Why, dancing with my wonderful angel, of course.” 

The two of you spend all evening swaying and twirling in the living room, almost falling over the boxes piled on the side when you let the music take over the two of you. When you’re both panting and sweating, heads dizzied from all those spins, and stomach pleasantly painful from all the laughing from your clumsy dance moves, Finnick pauses and looks into your eyes. The music is still softly humming in the background. He pushes a strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead, and tucks it behind your ear. “You truly are an angel… my angel. I love you.” He whispers, softness and love radiating from his voice.

“I love you too, Finn.” You say with tears in your eyes. You were always the sensitive one, and you weren’t ashamed of it anymore, because you knew that Finnick loved all and every part of your soul, mind, and body.

You can’t help but feel amazed by the fact that all it took for this relationship to happen was two paper airplanes flying.

*Flashback, you and Finnick were fourteen back then.*

He didn’t come. He forgot, probably too busy with those much cooler other friends of his. The thing is, Finnick is your only friend, and you don't really have anyone else in your life than him. You were raised in an orphanage by nuns, still are, actually, and will be until your eighteenth birthday. Unless you get reaped into the Hunger Games… Finnick, on the other hand, even though he was pretty much raised just like you, had managed to make tons of friends with his bubbly personality, his natural charm, and his perfect body. 

You lift the piano seat, your eyes scanning the crowd, when you spot Finnick rushing inside the room, but it is too late. He had missed everything, everything you had been giving your blood, sweat, and tears for months now. Everyone cheers and you bow, fighting the tears that were starting to rise into your eyes. You walk behind the curtains, quickly grab your bag, and walk out of the theater. 

You hear hurried footsteps coming your way, but you don’t stop, even when a voice speaks up. “Y/N! Y/N… Wait up, please! I can explain-” “Explain what, Finnick?! That you forgot? That this wasn’t important enough for you to dare show up on time?!” You snap at him, spinning around in one quick movement, making him slightly stumble forward at your sudden halt.

“It’s not like that…” He starts off. “It’s just… Dylan needed help with this homework and-"

"Oh yeah. Dylan.” You roll your eyes at him. “That new oh-so-cool friend of yours. Well, you know what, I was your friend too, Finnick. I have no one else. And you knew, you knew how hard I worked on this piece and how excited I was to present it tonight. I wanted you to be proud of me, Finnick. But I’m done, I’m done waiting and hoping that you’ll care.”

His eyes soften, and he tries to put a gentle hand on your shoulder, but you brush it off harshly. “Y/N… I do care…” You shake your head and back off to put some distance between the two of you “Well I don’t need you to anymore. I’m done. This…” You gesture between the two of you “This is over. Goodbye.” You walk off into the night and head back to your room, trying to ignore the sound of Finnick’s room shutting a few hours later. You wondered where he went after your fight that night. If he went to his friends to vent and laugh about your perfectly reasonable reaction.

—

The next morning, you woke up early, determined to ignore Finnick from now on. You head to your secret treehouse, the one you and Finnick built when you were younger. You spent all morning reading your book, the one Finnick gave you for your birthday actually. It felt as if life was trying to play with your nerves. Your peaceful reading session is suddenly put on pause when a paper airplane slides under the mossy wooden door. You roll your eyes, knowing only you and Finnick knew about this place.

You sigh loudly, making sure he would hear the sound of your annoyance through the door. You angrily slam down your book on the pillow next to you and stand up to pick up the paper airplane. You open it and try to decipher whatever Finnick’s bad handwriting had written down on the paper. 

 ‘I don’t feel like fighting anymore. I can’t spend another minute without you Y/N. You’re right, I was stupid. Boys are stupid, more than often, sadly. Guess that means I need you to slap reality back into my face from time to time. I’m sorry, truly. I’ll make sure to let you know through acts how much you mean to me.

P.S. : Open the door, angel'

You open the door and stare at a nervous Finnick fidgeting with the basket he was holding.

“What’s this?” You ask, your tone still cold as you were still a bit mad, even though the letter made your heart warm up a little. 

“Banana muffins… I made them. I know that they’re your favorites…” You can’t help but crack a smile, letting him inside the tree house. Life was too short and uncertain to stay mad at each other. And life made sure to remind you that a few weeks later, on reaping day.

–

Everything happened quickly, too quickly. Your ears were ringing. Everything was spinning around you since Finnick’s name had been picked out of the glass jar. Peacekeepers brought him into the building, and you knew you only had a few minutes left to talk to him, to tell him all of the things that were yet unsaid. 

You rush inside and jump into his arms once the peacekeeper lets you in. “Finnick, there’s something I need to tell you. I lo-” He puts his hand over your mouth, and you frown at him. You brush his hands off and start again “Please, listen to me, we don’t have much time. I-” “We’ll have the rest of our lives when I get back, save it for this moment, please angel…” He tries to smile through his fear.

He quickly glances at the doors, then back at you when he hears footsteps coming. He takes off his necklace and wraps it around your neck “Keep it safe for me until I come back to you.” He kisses your cheek, and you nod.

*Back to now*

The peacekeepers open the door and take him away from you. “Until next time Finn, please be safe!” You manage to say before the heavy door closes behind him. Your body crumbles down to the floor, your hand tightly wrapped around the trident pendant as your whole life seemed to have shattered the moment they took him away.

Looking at it now, it all seemed so simple. There was now way more important matters to worry about than some stupid children quarrel. You were frantically looking under every furniture in your home, your now swollen stomach limiting your movements. You have been carrying the fruit of your and Finnick’s love for five months now. A girl, the both of you had found out yesterday at your ultrasound. That was when you had last worn Finnick’s necklace, actually.

You had called the hospital, asking if they had found anything you might’ve forgotten there, but nothing. So you had concluded that maybe it might’ve slipped off from your neck at home, which is how you had gotten yourself bent down to look under the couch. Tears were rolling down your cheeks when you realized it wasn’t there either. 

You and Finnick were slightly struggling financially recently, which he was trying his damndest to hide from you to not put stress on your body for the baby. He had been working more, since you had drastically slacked your work hours at the local library, your nausea and fatigue making it hard to do anything, really. So losing the necklace Finnick had lovingly secured around your neck ten years ago, on the most scary day of your life, was a huge deal to you right now. It was worth way more than its weight in gold, even more so emotionally.  

You froze when the front door slammed shut when Finnick came back from work. “Angel, I’m home! Oh, how I missed my girls-” Finnick’s body tensed and his facial features folded in dread. “Y/N what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is the baby okay?” He strokes your cheek, searching your eyes frantically for answers as his other hand protectively lays on the side of your womb.

Through sobs, you manage to tell him that this morning you couldn’t find the necklace he gave you, and that you looked all over the house in vain. Finnick, to your surprise, throws his head back and sighs in relief. He kisses your lips gently and smiles. “Oh, my sweet, sweet angel…” He chuckles slightly and shakes his head, your eyes widen as he reaches for his pocket and extracts the cause of all your worries. He carefully places the necklace back to where he belongs, around the neck of the mother of his child, and speaks up “I wanted to surprise you for our fifth couple anniversary today. I know we said we wouldn’t buy each other presents but I still wanted to give you a little surprise. I brought it to the jeweler to have it polished and cleaned up… I didn’t think you would have noticed, nor that it would have worried you so much. I’m so sorry, darling.” 

You shake your head and chuckle, your hand tightly wrapped around the little trident pendant. “Thank you, my love.” You kiss his lips softly. “I have a surprise for you too, by the way.”

He raises a brow and grins mischievously. “Mh, really? I’m all ears.”

“I made banana muffins, with a peanut butter sauce in the center.” 

A roar of laughter reverberates from his throat “The ones you were craving last night?”

“Yeah. How did you know?” You tease him and walk over the kitchen to stuff one into your mouth.

“I paid attention...” He chuckles and joins you in the degustation of your surprisingly delicious concoction.

*Flash back five years after Finnick’s Hunger Games* 

It had been five now since Finnick had been reaped and won the 65th Hunger Games. You were still wearing his necklace, hoping the capitol sweetheart would be given back his freedom someday. You watched every interview of Finnick, watching him smile and laugh through it all, but you knew deep down all of this was a show, an act he had to perform under the pressure of President Snow. 

You are currently washing the dishes, his necklace hanging from your neck as you bend over the sink, your thoughts wandering to him, and the things you never got to tell each other the last time you saw him. You spin around at the sound of mail being dropped through the mail slot. You dry your hands on the towel and throw it lazily onto the table as you pick up the mail. Bills, bills, newspapers, more bills-

Your eyes narrow when the mail slot wiggles again. You put the mail down on the countertop and reach for what just dropped from it. A paper airplane… Your heart races. There could only be one person who would send a nineteen-year-old woman a paper airplane. You quickly unfold it, and your eyes race over the words.

‘Hi angel, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? We have a lot to catch up on, especially since our last conversation. You didn’t think I would forget now, did you? I figured I needed to fix that. I love you, Y/N. I really do. I hope you will forgive me for leaving you in the dark for far too long. It wasn’t to my liking, it was a torture, truly. The thought of your face, your voice, your wholeness was what kept me from breaking. My angel… I promise to explain everything if you’ll let me.

Once again, I love you. Truly.

Yours, if you want me, Finnick

P.S. : Open the door, angel’

The paper airplane falls from your hands as you yank the door open. Finnick is standing there, all grown up, a bouquet of lilies, your favorites. You freeze in place, flabbergasted from the sight of him.

“Hi.” He finally speaks up, smirking nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “You… you kept the necklace…” He whispers, staring down at the pendant lying perfectly on your chest, just above… he tries to compose himself, trying to keep his eyes in the right places. 

When he looks up at you he barely has the time to think before you throw your arms around his neck and crash your lips onto his. The kiss is hungry, desperate, and messy. You back him off inside the house, his lips not leaving yours once. He places the bouquet down onto the kitchen table, and wastes no time to lift you up into his arms.

Not many words were exchanged that night, only passion, love, and yearning. Nor did you spend much time anywhere but in your bed, the new couple didn’t leave it until past noon the next morning. 

*Back to now*

Paper airplane letters have become a method of communication between the two of you since the day Finnick became yours. It helped Finnick a lot to open up about the dark thoughts that clung to him since the games, his 65th, his 75th, and the revolution against President Snow. On some nights, he still woke up from his nightmares clinging onto the sheets as if it was a matter of life or death, his breathing raspy as if someone had cut off the oxygen feeding his lungs, and sweat dripping down his skin. You always stayed by his side, and helped him troughthrough everything, just like he would and did for you when needed. Everyone might think that Finnick was good at expressing himself, being the biggest flirt there was on Panem, but you knew your boyfriend better than that. You knew that more than often words never seemed to come together when he tried to open up his heart, as if they were somehow stuck in his throat instead of flowing out through his lips. 

You knew better than anyone when something was wrong with Finnick, just like right now. He leaned against the doorframe of your shared bedroom as you were laid down in bed, the little girl moving inside your womb had now gotten big as you were getting closer and closer to your due date.  You lift your eyes from the book resting on top of your huge stomach and stare at him, shooting him a questioning look as he stays there instead of joining you in bed like he usually does. He opens his mouth a few times, his fingers twitching at his sides, and moving in and out of his pockets. Not a word seemed to find its way out of his mouth.

“Finn… What’s wrong, love..?” You put your book down on the nightstand but as you start to rise from the bed he motions you to stop. You stay put, still sitting on the edge of the bed, and tilt your head, your eyes glued on him.

“Okay, give me a fucking second, I’m nervous.” His hands were shaking into the pockets of his jean jacket. You both stare at each other in a heavy silence for a moment that feels like an eternity. He clicks his tongue and his shoulders slump, a look of disappointment reading on his face. “Never mind. Can’t do it.”

You knew better than to walk after him for answers, that he would find a way to open up to you about whatever he looked so uneasy to confess when he'd be ready. He closed the door softly behind him, leaving you confused and slightly worried for him. You settle back under the duvet of your bed and try to keep up reading your book where you had left off before this interruption. A few minutes later, you hear a soft swishing sound coming from under the bedroom door. You can’t help but smile slightly. It had been a while since Finnick felt the need to write a paper airplane letter. You were happy to notice that he still used his communication techniques when he felt the need. You slowly unfold the origami, and read the short content of words laid onto the paper.

‘Y/N, love, will you please marry me? 

P.S.: Open the door, angel.’

You yank the door open at the all too familiar confession situation. Finnick is kneeling down on one knee, a mesmerizing grin stamped on his face, tears at the corner of his eyes while yours were heavily pouring down your cheeks. He is holding out to you the most beautiful golden ring you have seen in your life, a white pearl ornating the center of it. His hands are still slightly shaking in anticipation, he opens his mouth to at least try to say something but you save him from the struggle. You kneel in front of him and wrap your arms around his neck tightly, kissing his lips hungrily. “Yes, yes Finnick. I will marry you.” You giggle, all while sniffling not so graciously, and he smiles. He slides the ring onto your finger and kisses it gently. He swiftly lifts you up into his strong arms and captures your lips with his needy ones once more, leading the two of you back inside your shared bedroom. When you woke up next to him the next morning, the sun shining down onto your golden ring and Finnick's graceful sleeping form laid down next to you, his fingers intertwined with yours through his slumber, you knew that whatever would come in your way the both of you would find a way out of the woods.

A/N : I was wondering if I should've made this two parts instead of one... tell me what you think I should do for next time!

[leonawriter]

Aside from Angela, I wonder if any of the other Sephirah even knew that Ayin had offed himself at least once before in his office. Nobody but Angela seems to have brought it up and perhaps they all thought the worst that Ayin did was simply wiped his memories when he couldn't handle it. It would drastically alter how thought about everything if they realized Ayin hated this place as much as they did.

Hmm, no. I don't think they would.

If anything, the closest might well be Netzach, based on his Core Suppression, and the things he says both after and in the Day 47 flashbacks during the Keter questioning.

Netzach, just before the cognition filter turns off:

It’s impossible, even if everyone tries. Well, there is something to get out of all this. It’s to try and live. Even though life is full of pain, if I have to find and hold onto even the tiniest speck of possibility, if that’s what you and the voice wished for… I can’t help but give a shot at living up to your hopes, now can I?

And after that, in the Day 47 flashback:

If you ask me for a reason to keep on living this life full of pain...

I have to say, I don’t have a good answer yet. You woke me up… But I guess it’s my job to take care of whatever comes to me next. I chose to be a bit more fearless. It took me a lot of courage to do so… To continue onward with my life in spite of everything.

Just, live your life for once, man.

Hell, even I made it this far. What makes you think you can’t?

SO. That certainly implies - to me at least - that Ayin was asking Netzach "How do you do it?" and asking advice. For something he, too, had problems with. This is backed up by Netzach's last two lines there - "Just, live your life for once, man." Netzach can tell this is what's up.

As for anyone else... I wouldn't really be able to say for sure. There's never any hard evidence, and to be honest? I wouldn't expect there to be any.

I have two thoughts about this.

One: On Ayin's side, he wouldn't want to express to them all what he himself has been through. Especially not anything like "you don't know how I've suffered." There are multiple times when the Sephirah tell him that they've heard him say "sorry" before, and... what I get is that if he said about how he's suffering, they'd read it as "oh, you want us to feel sorry for you? is that it?" - and that would dissuade Ayin from wanting to share, on top of...

Would you expect a depressed/suicidal man to actually tell people how he was truly feeling, when he's in a high-stress situation day in and day out? I sure wouldn't expect Ayin to be emotionally honest! Nah, he'd be Mr. Not Talk About That.

Two: The Sephirot are caught up in the "moment of their death," which means that they are literally unable to move on from it. The only way they can is by letting all of those emotions out in a Meltdown/Core Suppression, which feeds the Seed of Light. I do not think that during the loops they're ABLE to have that much empathy for others because it's a hard, hard thing to be empathic for someone else when you're in the worst traumatic moments of your life like that.

So, short answer: Probably only Angela and Netzach. Ayin wouldn't talk about it, and no one else would guess.

[mandyspeaks]

How is BPD created from a BPD perspective

In my experience BPD is created through fundamental abandonment trauma, particularly with family. I can give an example to show how this functions.

Let’s imagine Betty lives on a planet far away, where it is customary for family members to always shake hands when they see each other. Betty sees other families doing this all the time. She sees her own family members shaking hands with each other. Yet for some reason, none of the family members will shake Betty’s hand. They simply refuse to and ignore her when she tries. Eventually Betty gives up trying.

When you’re a child, you often don’t have enough context for how healthy families work, to know that there’s anything dysfunctional about yours. In this case, the child is more likely to draw the painful conclusion that they are the problem. It’s not the adults for refusing to shake her hand, she must not be worthy of it. She internalizes this shame as a permanent core sense of self when relating to the world. She enters the world through the filter of “I’m not worthy. There is something inherently wrong with me.”

Later in life Betty falls in love and enters a romantic relationship. She finally has someone who will shake her hand upon greeting like she always wanted. Which possibly contradicts her feeling that she is not worthy.

For this reason her ego will hold on to this romantic partner in a way that idolizes them. They’re not just bringing her love, they’re validating her entire sense of selfhood.

One day her partner is in a bad mood and does not shake her hand upon entering their home. For couples that grew up in healthy homes, this would happen from time to time and be forgivable.

For Betty, she is actually reliving her childhood trauma of being denied a handshake. Her partner is not intending to hurt her, and cannot understand the seemingly disproportionate reaction.

Betty’s body is remembering all of the exact same sensations she went through when her own family would refuse to shake her hand. She is actively experiencing a PTSD flashback. On top of that, the experience is validating her core sense of shame and unworthiness.

Someone she once saw as someone totally different from those who betrayed her, is now acting the same way. To Betty, she feels like she cannot escape this pattern, because deep down, she is not worthy of having her hand shook.

Betty is in so much emotional turmoil during this flashback that she says angry and somewhat hurtful things to her partner. Her thoughts are racing and she feels like a hurt child again. In the moment, she feels that she is doing what she can to reveal this deep seated pain to her partner, which is so painful that it comes out laced with anger and betrayal that is not solely from this moment, but decades deep. She isn’t just speaking to her partner in this moment, she is speaking to her family members who neglected and abandoned her.

Betty tells her partner she doesn’t want to speak to them anymore. Betty does not feel she is worthy of having her needs met, so she has to find another way to get them met. By pushing her partner away, part of her hopes that they will “realize” the truth of her pain and validate it. But her partner doesn’t understand why she is having such a strong reaction.

Eventually the PTSD flashback will fade away and for Betty it will feel like she is coming down off of a bad drug mixed with an angry panic attack. and Betty’s rational mind will start to see the situation as it is. For a BPD person an argument can feel like waking up with a bad hangover and seeing you texted your ex, but worse. It’s waking up to reality and seeing you have said things you know are unreasonable and pushed away the one person who showed you love.

The truth of BPD is that to an outsider, our behavior may seem unreasonable and difficult. But to that person, there are many layers of trauma and context that have led to these specific rejections being profoundly painful, especially when coming from someone you love.

[otomehoneyybearr]

Act 12

Episode 5: The Man Named K

Working w/ Maybelle Lace Note: As you read, you will see that some sentences highlighted in a different color, this is what they indicate.

Pink: Flashback Blue: Characters are acting

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Reni: ...

Reni: (I thought I sensed a gaze on me, but… perhaps it was just my imagination?)

Reni: (No, you can never be too careful. I'll take the long way around just to be sure.)

Syu: You were being watched?

Reni: I can’t be certain, but I felt a strange gaze.

Syu: It’s possible Amadate’s trying to make his presence obvious as a way to intimidate us.

Syu: Well, at least there's no way to eavesdrop here.

Reni: The scheduled time with K was at 10 p.m., right?

Syu: Yeah. I'm already waiting in the meeting room.

Syu: It’s K. He’s here.

K: "Otomiya? It's K."

Syu: You're filtering your audio?

K: "I can’t just reveal my identity, you know."

K: "I’ll get straight to the point. You’re suspecting Amadate, aren’t you?"

Syu: That's right.

K: "As you might’ve guessed, Amadate is involved in shady dealings using underground organizations."

K: "Being at the core of the troupe, I can provide evidence to support that."

Syu: What specifically?

K: "Testimonies of a fake reporter who illegally copied Mankai Company's script, and data of the exchanges taken from Amadate's PC."

Reni: With those, we might be able to show the connection between Amadate’s interference and the underground organizations.

Reni: I would like to disclose the contents of that data at the upcoming board meeting.

K: "I'm also currently being suspected and watched closely by Amadate."

K: "Right now, I’m pretending to be meeting with external contractors, but if I send a large amount of data, I might be exposed."

K: "If it was just suspicion, we could handle it, but having evidence of a leak of confidential information would be bad for us."

Reni: Then what should we do?

K: "I’ll copy it onto a physical disc and hand it to you directly. You alright with that?"

Reni: That’s fine.

Syu: But even now, you're altering your voice. Won't it be a problem if you hand it to us in person?

K: "I'll wear a mask or whatever, so it doesn't matter."

Syu: Then let me ask you something. Why take the risk of doing business with us?

K: "Every deal has conditions, right?"

Syu: ...There it is. Is it money?

K: "I don't want any of that. I just have two conditions."

K: "First, in exchange for providing information, I’d like you to treat this strictly as a personal scandal of Keiju Amadate once you corner him.

K: "In order to ensure the continued existence of the Hyakka Theater Company, you’ll need to handle the information on the premise that the misdeeds of Amadate are unrelated to the Hyakka Troupe."

Reni: I see.

K: "The second condition is... the data must be received by the general director of the new Mankai Company themselves."

Reni: What?

K: "As long as I can give it to the general director, they won't interfere with who she gives the data to afterwards."

Reni: That’s...

Reni: The history between Amadate and Mankai dates back to the company’s first generation. If possible, we as the first generation, would like to sort things out ourselves.

K: "That is just your ego talking."

K: "As you can gather from the first condition, I intend to carry the Hyakka Theater Company on my shoulders after Amadate leaves."

K: "That's why I'm willing to take risks to settle Keiju Amadate’s actions."

K: "It would only make sense for someone who carries the future of Mankai Company to step forward from your side as well."

Reni: ...Give us some time to consider the second condition.

Syu: We can't afford to be leisurely about this. The next board meeting you'll be attending is next week.

Syu: This is a perfect opportunity to expose Amadate in front of the directors, and it’d be a painful waste if the data doesn’t make it in time..

K: "There is also another reason we should hurry."

K: "Amadate will definitely try to sabotage Mankai Company's next performance."

Reni: Well, that possibility is worth considering, but...

K: "Amadate’s always been obsessed with Hakkaku Ikaruga’s scripts."

K: "There was once a time when Hakkaku Ikaruga came to a rehearsal at Hyakka Theater Company. Amadate asked him to write a script that day but got turned down."

K: “He said that a certain theater company had already caught his attention."

K: "His grudge against Mankai Company might stem from reasons around that time."

Syu: If that's the case, the space performance created from Hakkaku's concept would be intolerable for Amadate.

K: "Because interference of the first part failed, he might do whatever it takes in the second part."

Reni: All for Hakkaku... Is that why he used Kusumi?

K: "It seems that for him, the script of Hakkaku Ikaruga was the final piece to completing his plays."

Syu: I can understand being drawn to someone’s work, but to go that far...

K: "Mankai Company was simply in his way. Back then, Yukio Tachibana and the theater company had a lot of momentum."

K: "There was a lot of buzz about them winning the Fleur Award and Yukio, simultaneously, becoming the youngest person to join the board of directors."

Syu: You must’ve been close with Amadate for a long time to know such things.

Syu: Are you– it can't be...

K: "Well then, consider other ways to have it delivered."

Reni: Hold on, the discussion isn’t over—

Reni: He hung up. However, it seems likely that K is someone within the Hyakka Theater Company.

Syu: What are we going to do?

Reni: If we can corner Amadate in the board meeting, the next performance should go off without a hitch.

Reni: However, we'd be putting her in danger instead of protecting her, like we should be doing...

Reni: Moreover, this is a grudge that has dragged on since our time. This is our responsibility.

Syu: You and I were both pretty mean to them, though.

Reni: ...Of course, I don't deny that. That’s why we can’t afford to burden them any further.

Syu: The new members of the troupe are young, but they aren’t weak. They have endured many hardships.

Syu: Yukio's daughter in particular is getting stronger with each one. Trust me and talk to her. The reality is, it's the only way.

Reni: ...You’re right.

Izumi: It's almost opening day...

Izumi: Finally, everything we’ve been preparing for the Fleur Award is finally taking shape...

Izumi: We’re almost there, Dad...

Sakuya: Izumi.

Izumi: ?

Sakuya: There’s something in Saku’s scene that caught my attention and…

Sakuya: Huh? Is that a photo from your recent trip?

Izumi: Yeah. It’s a picture I took with the actors and other staff members.

Izumi: All of the people had quit theater after that performance.

Sakuya: Huh? Really?

Izumi: Yeah, since there wouldn’t be a place to perform anymore.

Izumi: It really is a shame. Everyone worked so hard to make it a wonderful performance.

Izumi: But when I heard from Dad that there are people that cherish the memories of that fleeting moment in theater for a lifetime, I understood.

Izumi: It's amazing how a single moment of theater can become an eternity.

Izumi: For me, it was my dad who inspired me to start theater, so I’m glad I fit to see a stage that can be considered the roots of theater for him.

Izumi: Talking to Dad made me reevaluate my own directing and what theater meant to me.

Izumi: Traveling alone really gives you time to think about various things on the way there and back..

Izumi: It was a good way to look back at my life up until now and make decisions for my future.

Sakuya: That's wonderful.

Sakuya: I was also influenced by Saku and wanted to go on a solo trip, but I couldn't go because I had to take part-time shifts to make up for the time I was taking off during the performance period.

Sakuya: I will definitely go on one when I get the chance!

Izumi: Yeah, I think that'll be good.

Sakuya: In the past, it would have been unthinkable for me to leave the theater company that I had finally found my place in.

Sakuya: But, I started thinking that this is a place that I can always come back to.

Sakuya: I feel like I can naturally leave on my own now.

Izumi: When you do, I'd like you to tell me your stories as a souvenir.

Sakuya: Of course!

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Prev | Next

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[sephirthoughts]

Vincent's New Kid Just Dropped CH. 5

FLASHBACK TIME: Deepground Part I

screenshots borrowed from @siringadev 💜 💙

Nero’s first memories weren’t of Weiss. They were of fear and pain. Being alone in a terrifying white space, full of noise and chaos. A woman weeping, somewhere he couldn’t see. Aching all over his body, sharp pricks in his skin, tubes sticking out of him everywhere, sickening chemical smells. The whirring and clicking and occasional beeping of machines.

They thought he was blind, at first, because he never looked around or focused on anything. It turned out he was nearly blind, but only in bright light. He had perfect dark-vision. This wasn’t a physical defect, they decided, but a successful result of bio-engineering, and congratulated themselves on their ingenuity.

He never cried, as an infant, and as a toddler, he never smiled or laughed. He was marginally responsive, but avoided eye contact, and was entirely nonverbal. They assumed he was mentally deficient, but he wasn’t broken. He just didn’t work the way they expected. 

The silent, crimson-eyed little boy was actually hyperaware, always absorbing and digesting information, sucking it up like a dry sponge. He just didn’t want to communicate with the people who put a muzzle on him, whenever they took him out of his room, poked and prodded him all over his body, like it was their property, stuck needles and probes into him, pumped his veins full of stuff that burned his insides, and fed him pills that made him vomit.

Rather than asking questions of his tormentors, he sent superfine threads of darkness into people’s heads and examined their thoughts directly.

When he wanted to know what was going on outside his cell, darkness vapor seeped from his palms and fingertips, slipped into the shadows, and wandered the vast, underground complex, taking his perception with it. 

Though he’d hardly ever left his own cell, by the time he was six years old, he knew enough about the Deepground complex's layout, that he could’ve drawn a reasonably accurate map from memory.

One day, his darkness tendrils crept under a door, to find a cell like Nero’s own, only it was bigger and had much nicer furniture. There was a boy there. Snow-white hair and silver eyes, a descended angel in a halo of light, blindingly bright to Nero’s darkness-filtered senses. 

He was definitely a child, but he was a lot bigger than Nero, and he looked fierce and strong. Beautiful and dangerous, like a lion in a picture book.

Nero wanted to reach out and touch him so badly it made his chest ache, but the darkness would only hurt the other boy. So he satisfied himself with watching him, from dark corners and beneath furniture. 

Over time, he grew bolder, and when the beautiful boy was asleep, the darkness would silently coalesce, inky purple-black, into the little demon’s spectral form, and he’d sit there for hours at a time; a creature of the abyss, lurking in the shadows, watching his angel sleep, and listening to the music of his soft, regular breathing.

Then, one night, the unthinkable happened. Those silver eyes opened, and looked right into his face. Nero’s spectral projection should have collapsed and scattered, but it could only stand petrified and stare back at the boy, captivated by his gaze, trembling with something that was akin to fear, but not quite the same.  

“Who are you?” the silver boy’s voice asked, drowsy and thick with sleep.

That broke the spell and Nero’s projection instantly dissipated. As his consciousness returned to his body, he thought he heard the other boy calling out to him. Wait! Come back!

For a long while afterward, he didn’t dare enter that room, or even send his tendrils anywhere too close to it. But eventually, his curiosity and an intense, irresistible compulsion to see that boy again won out, and he went venturing cautiously back.

This time, the silver boy had been waiting for him. He looked asleep and his eyes were closed, but the moment Nero’s specter had fully materialized, he heard a soft voice say, “Please, don’t run away. Please.”

He almost did, but something in the boy’s tone stopped him. His spectral form stood perfectly still, wide-eyed and wary, as the boy sat up in his bed. 

“I dreamed about you,” were the next words out of his mouth. “That you were sitting by my bed, watching over me. I mean, I thought I dreamed it. But…you’re real, aren’t you.”

Nero’s specter gave a tiny nod. 

“What are you?”

Nero stared. 

“Can you talk?”

He shook his spectral head slowly. He could talk, but he would have to touch the other boy with his darkness, and he was afraid that he’d hurt him. He’d seen the tentacles drag people into the miasma to be consumed within mere seconds, before. 

Not that he felt bad about it—they were all big people, and he didn’t care one way or another whether they lived or died—but this boy…he felt instinctively that it would be deeply heartbreaking, if he no longer existed.

“It’s ok, I can ask you yes or no questions,” the silver boy said cheerfully. “Are you alive?”

Nod.

“Do you live here, in Deepground?”

Nod.

“I’ve never seen you before,” the silver boy mused. “But I’ve never seen anyone but adults. They must keep you locked up, too. Are you dangerous, like me?”

Stare.

“Well, you must be, if you can sneak around past security and everything. Hey, have you seen any other kids, here?”

Shake.

“They say my brother is here, too, but I’ve never seen him. They say I can’t, because he’s sick. I don’t even know what he looks like. Probably like me. If you see a kid who looks like me, could you tell me? I just want to know if he’s ok.”

Nero recoiled, at the idea that the silver boy had someone he cared about, already, and would have become morose, only at that moment, booted footsteps came plodding down the hall, outside, accompanied by several adult voices.

“Oh, no!” the silver boy whispered. “They must be doing a surprise inspection! Go, go! Before they catch us! Wait—you’ll come and see me again, won’t you?”

Nero hesitated, then nodded, before his specter vaporized, whirling away into the shadows, leaving no trace of his passing.

LINK TO CH. 6