#very cathartic though very healing

[littlekinng]

how's that for glorious purpose? - unintentionallyangsty - Loki (TV 2021) [Archive of Our Own]

[bookishfeylin]

Hmm. I didn't want to do this, but after receiving a lot of harassment here and on Ao3 I'm debating abandoning ACOHAS. It is just... not fun to go there and expect negativity all the time about THAT ONE THING so my internet experience would be much better by simply stopping with that one fic BUT it also is the fic of my heart and I have so many arcs I want to complete, so I have really mixed feelings on it :(

[hom3landr]

Little Miss Why So

18+

Homelander X GN!Reader

(While the song title referenced is gendered, the reader in the fic is written as gender neutral)

Very loosely inspired by the song of the same name by The Amazing Devil

“Why won’t you believe I love you if I’m not hurting you?” He says.

Written for Cozy Corner Kinktober 2024 for the prompts Crying, Biting, and possibly Magical Healing Cock?

CW: Dubcon, Toxic Coping Mechanisms, Toxic Relationship Dynamics

When he finds you, you’re sobbing. Fat tears stream down your face and drop onto the pavement below. Your eyes are swollen and sticky with sorrow and the force with which you wail stirs up bile in your gut. Rain drenches you and the cloying stench of rot from the wet trash in the alley mimics the disgust you feel for yourself in that moment.

This isn’t about him but you know he’ll take it that way. He seems to take any emotion that isn’t pure adoration of him as some personal slight, as though he’s not good enough to keep you distracted from your pathetic life and its struggles. He sees it as a competition between your world and his. You see it as your reality. You’d wanted to find a quiet place to lick your wounds alone. That’s why you escaped to this filthy alley in the first place. But he found you anyway, vulnerable and ill-prepared to handle his ego.

He doesn’t say anything. He just stands in the alleyway entrance with his hands on his hips and a cock of his head. His face is blank as he looks you over, his lip curling slightly in distaste. You know you look a mess with your nose leaking snot and your cheeks hot and swollen. You don’t say anything. You don’t have the energy. You just sniffle and wait for the inevitable blast wave.

He stays silent, the only noise is the soft patter of rain and the squelch of his boots on the wet ground as he walks toward you. He crowds you against the brick and grips your hips to spin you to face the wall. You brace yourself with your hands and he pushes in close behind you. The soft bulge of his cup hides his erection but you can tell by the eagerness with which he presses against you that he's hard. You rest your head on the wall and sigh. You don’t have the energy to reciprocate but it doesn’t seem like he expects you too.

“You look so good like this,” He purrs in your ear. It surprises you. You know you look like shit. “So pure and perfect.”

He grinds against your ass and peppers your neck with greedy kisses. His hands quickly fumble with the button of your jeans and he slides the zipper down with a hiss. His hand dives into your underwear, testing your readiness. You aren’t at all really but it doesn’t seem to deter him too much. He strokes you exactly the way he knows that you like and your body responds accordingly. You arch into his touch even though your crying hasn’t ceased. He hushes you softly.

You hear the hiss of his own zipper and he uses his knee to coax your legs further apart as he tugs your jeans down past your ass. You offer no resistance. He spits on his palm for some lubrication and strokes himself before pressing in. He goes slow but it still stings a bit without the usual extended preparation. You hiccup and whimper at the stretch but despite all his flaws, you trust him not to cause you any damage. He’s careful and strangely you find that you don’t mind the pain. It’s cathartic.

“Just let it out. That’s it. You’re doing so good.” He coos in your ear as he bottoms out. You grunt, uncomfortably full but satisfied by the distraction from your own thoughts. He doesn’t move except to resume stroking you, humming in pleasure at the way you clench tightly around him.

“I want you to cry for me until you can’t anymore. Don’t fucking stop.” He growls. You nod weakly as you allow the tears to fall freely without shame. There’s nowhere for you to hide with the way you’re pinned between the wall and his hard cock.

The first thrust hurts. You haven’t fully relaxed around him yet although you’re slick enough to take him by now. He grunts, rubbing you faster while his other hand reaches up to grab your jaw, turning your gaze to meet his. He searches your eyes for something and he seems to find it. The cold appraisal in his expression warms slightly as he leans down to lick the salt from your cheeks.

“Give it to me. Don’t hide it.” He moans against your skin as he begins to increase the speed of his thrusts. Your discomfort is quickly evolving into pleasure now at the intensity of the sensations he’s filling you with. You moan and his grips tightens bruisingly, purple inevitably beginning to bloom under his fingers. You cry out and he throbs inside you.

“This belongs to me.” He growls and his pace is brutal as he uses you.

You’re beginning to understand his fervor now. You begin to understand why he feels so entitled to your pain. How many times have you seen him at his weakest? How many times have you held him while he cried and comforted him as his shoulders shook with sorrow and self-pity? He doesn’t like uneven scales. He’s gloating, gleeful that he’s not the only weak one in the relationship.

It’s fucked up…but that’s him. How can you begrudge him when this is all he’s ever known? After all, it is helping. The overwhelm of sensation is the only thing that could have pulled you out of that headspace. You need this wake-up call as a reboot of your brain. Your mournful cries have evolved into needy moans and your hips press eagerly back into his. A kinder response wouldn’t have reached the root of your hurt. Like lancing a boil, you need him to drain the poison out of you.

He continues to whisper sweet nothings in your ear despite the way he’s fucking you as though he doesn’t give a damn whether you live or die. It’s cold and emotionless, using you as merely a sleeve for his cock. But his breath against your ear is warm and he nuzzles sweetly against your temple. You try to speak but the wind is knocked out of you every time his cock pounds against that soft spot inside you.

“I don’t want to hear anything come out of your mouth unless it’s your pathetic sobbing. That’s what you came all this way for, so fucking do it.” He pants breathlessly against your ear as he nears his release.

You do, although the tears that prick at your eyes are those of pleasure now. You’re loose and quivering around him and every nerve ending tingles with electricity. Your nail tears as you claw at the brick to brace yourself for the edge he’s quickly driving you towards.

You cry out his name and he bites your shoulder harshly, the bloody reprimand staining his teeth.

“What did I just fucking say?” He hisses before lapping hungrily at the wound and groaning darkly at the iron tang that fills his mouth. He can taste the endorphins in it and it drives him crazy.

The sudden sharp pain hurls you into a world ending orgasm and your legs give out. You almost collapse until he presses you bodily against his wall. His pace shifts into a deep filthy grind right into your spasming hole as he holds you up with his body. You wail and clench around him and it doesn’t take much longer at all until he’s spilling into you, his release leaking out of you and dripping down his balls onto the slick pavement below. He moans and whines in your ear, his demeanor shifting from cruel to needy in the span of a heartbeat.

You struggle to catch your breath, agony and delight filling your veins in equal measure. It’s perfect. It’s just what you needed. He’s just what you needed, every cruel beautiful inch of him. You don’t merely endure him. You need the sharp edges of him to keep you grounded. You need that pain.

His arms wrap around you. He peppers your sore shoulder with sweet kisses as a silent apology. You’ll need to bandage it up when you return but you aren’t going to worry about it right now. You’re content in his embrace. The two of you wait there in silence as the silver rain continues to fall all around you, causing the dirty alley to glint prettily in the moonlight. Your chest still aches but you can survive it.

“Let’s get you back home. I’ll run you a bath and have the kitchen bring you up your favorite. How does that sound?” His tone is so kind and warm, a far cry from his earlier demeanor. You still aren’t quite capable of speech but you nod.

“There you are.” He coos, and as he scoops you up into his arms and off into the sky, you slip away into a comfortable doze.

You know it’s not healthy but it’s all you have. It’s all he can give you. If it gets you results then you can learn to be content with that. So you lean into him and let the rain wash away the remnants of what ails you.

[munson-blurbs]

Billy Hargrove is into you, and you assume that you don't deserve better than that narcissistic douchebag. When heartbreak inevitably happens, Eddie Munson is there to pick up the pieces.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI!), oral (f! receiving), protected p in v, Billy is a POS, reader is insecure about her body (no descriptions given, though she mentions not liking her stomach)

**Billy is very manipulative to get reader to sleep with him, though she does consent**

WC: 5.7k

A/N: This is based on two real experiences I had when I was younger. It's incredibly self-indulgent, but has also been wonderful for my healing process. I hope it can help someone else, too. (Also, sorry if it's rambly; it was cathartic but also emotionally difficult to write).

--

As the last swimmer exits through the iron gates, you breathe a sigh of relief at the end of another shift. Lifeguarding at Hawkins Community Pool wasn’t necessarily a difficult job, but it sure was tedious. Your flip-flops thwap against the pavement as you pad into the locker room to get dressed, skin sticky from sunscreen and that infamous mid-July humidity.

“So,” Heather says, twisting her blonde hair into a ponytail as she changes from her swimsuit into shorts and a t-shirt, “you ready to hear that secret?”

You nod enthusiastically. It’s all you’d been thinking about since you’d climbed down the lifeguard tower when her watch duty began, and she’d whispered that she had something to say to you privately. 

Heather’s eyes gleam as she announces, “Billy told me he thinks you’re hot!” She claps her hands together excitedly. “Not that he needed to; anyone can watch him check you out all day long,” she adds with a smirk. 

“Me?” you ask incredulously, unable to muffle your surprise. On instinct, you wrap your arms around your waist protectively. Heather might be comfortable changing in public, but your own body insecurities made it torturous for you to even be naked privately. 

“Yes, you!” your co-worker giggles. “You should talk to him.”

You’re still mulling over the prospect of Billy Hargrove being into you when your ride pulls up to the pool gates. Waving goodbye to Heather, you hop in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van. He picks you up every night you work, and the two of you always split a joint in your backyard before he heads back to the trailer park. It makes your crappy summer job all worth it; God knows the pay isn’t even going to cover your textbooks when you go back to college in August.

“Save any little gremlins today?” he jokes, turning down his music so he can hear your answer.

You shake your head and laugh. “Nah, just yelled, ‘no running!’ about 84 times.” Leaning back in the seat and stretching your legs, you glance over at him. “But Heather told me something interesting.” Eddie cocks his eyebrow, and you take that as a sign to continue. “Apparently, Billy Hargrove thinks I’m hot.” You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. Sure, he’s not exactly your knight in shining armor, but he’s an attractive guy who has a thing for you.

“Oh, ew.” Eddie wrinkles his nose. “Please describe the look on that douche canoe’s face when you turn him down.”

“Who says I’m turning him down?” you quip, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Your best friend sighs. “Well, you should,” he says pointedly, never one to mince words. “Guys like Hargrove only want to get in a girl’s pants and then find a new victim.”

“Why are you being such a bummer?” you snap. Eddie just keeps his eyes on the road, oblivious to your glare. “If Jeff was about to get laid, you’d be throwing him a goddamn parade!”

He chuckles tersely. “That’s because Jeff getting laid would be a fuckin’ miracle.”

You look around, exaggerating your movements for emphasis. “Well, asshole, I don’t exactly see a line of people forming to sleep with me, either.” With that, you pull your knees to your chest and turn your body so that your back is to him.

The car is silent, save for the sounds of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning album crackling through the speakers. After what seems like an eternity, Eddie pulls into your driveway and throws the van in park.

“Did…did you still wanna smoke?” he asks quietly, twiddling with a loose thread on the ripped knee of his jeans.

“Nope.” You jump out of the van, slamming the door shut behind you. “And you don’t have to drive me home tomorrow. I bet Billy will do it.”

You hear him calling your name as you stalk into your house. Honestly, you could really use some weed right now, but you’re too infuriated at him to push it all aside for a quick smoke session.

The next day, you make a point to sit next to Billy when you take your break. He’s smoking a cigarette, occasionally flicking ash into a chipped tray on the table. 

“Can I bum one?” you ask, pointing to the rolled tobacco between his plush lips. 

Billy smirks, reaching for the pack of Marlboros and holding it out to you. “Didn’t peg you for a smoker, sugar.” He passes you his lighter, and you spark up and inhale deeply.

“I usually prefer something greener, but this’ll do.” You take another drag, trying to work up the nerve to say what’s on your mind. As the smoke curls around your mouth, you notice Billy’s eyes trail down the curves of your body, as though he’s trying to drink you in. “Something I can help you with, Hargrove?” you tease, impressed with the way you easily flirt with him. It’s so unlike you, but it feels good.

“Yeah,” he says, chuckling softly. “You can hang with me tonight. Got the place to myself, so, y’know…” He trails off and raises his eyebrows, looking at you expectantly.

Your stomach flip-flops despite yourself. This is what you want, right? No more waiting around for Prince Charming to sweep you off your feet. It’s not going to happen, never going to happen, not when you look the way you do. And if a gorgeous man like Billy Hargrove is actually willing to have sex with you, you’re in no position to turn him down. “O-Okay,” you stammer, hoping he doesn’t sense your nervousness. “I’m working till nine tonight; is that–”

“Perfect,” he interrupts, flashing you a megawatt smile. “I finish at six, but I’ll stick around just for you, pretty thing.”

Pretty. He called you pretty, and he wants you. Wants you enough to hang out at work for an extra three hours just to be with you.

The rest of your shift drags by; all you can think about is Billy. The way he feels, the way he tastes, what he looks like underneath those swim trunks.

The only problem is that he’ll also want to see you naked. The thought sours your mood. You try not to catch glimpses of yourself in the bathroom mirror after you get out of the shower, and now you’re about to let him see you, completely vulnerable.

Stop being such a baby, you scold yourself. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Billy’s waiting outside the locker room once your shift ends. He takes your hand in his larger, stronger one, and leads you to his car.

“Seems kinda silly, getting changed out of that cute little swimsuit,” he whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine, “when you’re gonna get undressed again so soon.” He leans you up against the passenger door, pinning your hips back and kissing you hungrily. One hand roams under your t-shirt to the swell of your breasts, breaking away when he feels the fabric of your bra. “You tryin’ to hide these from me, sugar?” He starts to reach for the clasp, but you stand up a bit straighter.

“Did you wanna, like, grab something to eat?” you ask shyly. “We can stop by Benny’s on the way to yours if…if you like burgers?” You cringe as the words leave your lips. Could you sound any more pathetic?

Billy just chuckles patronizingly. “That sounds like a date, and, uh, I don’t do dates.” He leans in, taking your earlobe between his teeth. “But I do other stuff real well.”

Something isn’t right. This isn’t what you want, but you should want it, and so you push down the apprehension and try to focus on the man in front of you. “That’s fine,” you murmur, even though it isn’t. People have casual sex all the time. It doesn’t mean he’s any less attracted to you. Like he said, he’s not the dating type, so why cause problems where none exist?

“I don’t know if I can wait until we get to mine,” he growls, and you can practically taste the spearmint gum that he was chewing earlier. “Might just have to do you in the backseat, hm?”

You nod as he opens the door for you, pretending for a millisecond to be a gentleman. He clambors in behind you and slams it shut, pulling you onto his lap so you’re straddling his waist. You can feel his erection pressed against your clothed sex, and you allow yourself to smile. You did this to him. You got him hard. Not Chrissy Cunningham, or Heather, or Bo Derek. You.

He starts to take off your shirt, but you push his hands away. “Something wrong?” he asks, giving an exasperated sigh. Did you already fuck this up?

“N-No, it’s just…” you avert your gaze, too embarrassed to make eye contact. “Could I keep my shirt on? I don’t really like my body, and I’d just feel better if I didn’t, um, take it off.” Heat blazes behind your cheeks, and you will yourself not to cry.

��For fuck’s sake,” Billy grumbles under his breath, flexing his biceps as he stretches. He lets his hands fall to your ass with a soft smack. “You got me all worked up, and now you’re not even gonna let me see your tits?”

You duck your head in shame. “I’m kinda insecure about the way I look,” you admit, hoping it will soften his heart. Though kinda is an understatement. 

He rolls his eyes, running his tongue over his teeth impatiently. “Y’know,” he finally says, squeezing the plush of your ass, “you might feel better about yourself if you got naked for me.” 

You inhale sharply; that’s not at all what you expected him to say. Maybe something reassuring; something about how much he liked the way you look. Instead, he’s clearly irritated with your hesitation. 

“M-Maybe.” It’s worth a shot, and you slowly peel off your top and unhook your bra, letting it fall to the floor of the car. You watch anxiously as his eyes flit across your bare chest, waiting for his reaction. An indication that he just has to have you and only you.

Instead, he clicks his tongue and simply says, “not bad.” He fumbles with your shorts button before unfastening his own. He strokes his cock lazily, staring at you. “Touch yourself, sugar. Get yourself ready f’me.”

There’s something screaming at you that this isn’t right; he should at least attempt to get you off instead of asking you to do the work for him. But you do as you’re told, not wanting to humiliate yourself further. 

You shimmy out of your shorts, pushing your panties aside and rubbing slow, timid circles around your clit. You’ve done this plenty of times to know what feels good, yet you can’t seem to get it right when it counts. Billy doesn’t notice—or care—that the moans floating past your lips are fake, and he lines himself up with your entrance. 

“Condom?” you remind him, and he rolls his eyes again.

“Doesn’t feel as good,” he grumbles, but he reaches into his wallet and pulls out the square piece of foil and tears it open, sliding the rubber over his thick cock. He pushes into you, not bothering to take his time as he ruts up. “Move your hips for me,” he tells you. “Bounce up and down; damn, do I gotta walk you through everything?”

Tears prickle at your eyes, and you manage to blink them away before he can see. Maybe this’ll get easier with time, you think. Maybe I’m just too nervous. You will yourself to relax, holding onto his broad shoulders as you lean down to kiss him.

“Feels good, yeah?” Billy grunts, and you nod as you zone out. You throw out a few more half-hearted whines as his hips stutter against your pelvis and he spills into the condom. “Fuck, there ya go, take it,” he croons, sweat trickling down his forehead. As soon as he rides out his orgasm, he’s hoisting you off of him so he can clean himself up. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure.” You try to sound enthusiastic. “Could you, um, drive me home?”

“Whatever,” he shrugs, but waits for you to put your clothes back on and climb into the passenger seat.

He wants to do this again tomorrow, meaning he wasn’t completely repulsed by your body. So everything should be good, right?

The next week and a half is filled with lust-fueled backseat romps, usually ending with Billy coming and you…well, returning home to use your trusty vibrator. You’re starting to feel a bit more comfortable, but not in your own skin. It’s more that there’s a certain power behind Billy choosing you when he could be with literally anyone else. You hold your head a little higher, walk a little taller. Even your parents notice on your weekend trip to visit your grandparents in Indianapolis, though you didn’t clue them in on the source of your newfound confidence.

When you get back to the pool that Monday, you’re about to whisper in Billy’s ear to ask if he has a second to “check out a situation in the locker room” with you. What you find stops you dead in your tracks.

His arm is wrapped around Heather. They’re laughing together and she presses her lips to his cheek; he tilts her chin so he can kiss her passionately. It’s more tender, more loving than the way he kisses you.

The ground starts to spin, and you grab onto a plastic chair to steady yourself. As soon as Heather walks away, you march over to Billy.

“What the fuck?” you hiss, trying to keep your volume down. You wince as your voice cracks, giving away the sadness tucked inside your frustration. “Are you with Heather now? Like, with her?”

“Uh, guess so,” Billy replies snidely, twirling a toothpick between his teeth.

You bite your lower lip, willing yourself not to cry. “I thought you said you weren’t the dating type?”

He shrugs. “Just kinda happened,” he says nonchalantly, as if he didn’t just destroy your world. “You were away, she asked me to go to Scoops and grab some ice cream; one thing led to another, and…” he trails off. “Not like you and I were exclusive or some shit.”

“Because you didn’t wanna be!”

“And why do you think that is, huh?” Billy shoots back. “Why do you think I’d rather be with Heather than with you?” He scoffs, leaning back in his chair slightly. “You’re so goddamn uptight, y’know? Always worrying about the way you look, about people seeing us in the car. Heather just…goes with the flow. I can’t deal with someone so high-maintenance. Actually, most guys can’t.” With that, he storms out of the break room, leaving you trembling.

A wave of nausea washes over you as you slump down in a seat. All you wanted was to be wanted, and you blew it. Billy’s right; your insecurities keep you unloveable.

You try to take deep breaths, letting the tears slip down your cheeks. Your shift doesn’t start for another ten minutes, so you pray that you’re able to collect yourself before you’re due to start your watch. You’re sobbing too hard to notice the two boys peering into the lounge, watching you with growing concern before dashing to the nearest payphone. 

You slide on your sunglasses to hide your red, puffy eyes. The last thing you need is people asking you what’s wrong. Just as you’re about to walk over to the lifeguard stand–to switch with Billy, of all people–you feel a tap on your shoulder.

Eddie.

“Um, hey,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his head nervously. “Will and Dustin called; said they saw Hargrove yelling at you, and you crying. Told me to ‘get my scrawny ass here, stat.’” He gives a terse chuckle. “Exact quote, by the way.”

You want to wrap your arms around him and never let go, but you remember what he said to you. Worse, that he was right. “‘M fine,” you lie, and Eddie sees right through it.

He gingerly takes off your sunglasses, heart breaking as he gets a glimpse of your tearful expression. “C’mere,” he says, pulling you in for a tight hug and pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. It’s so tender, sweet, and selfless. It’s Eddie.

“Go tell your boss that you’re not feeling well, yeah?” he says finally, still not letting you go. “We can go grab something to eat, and you can tell me everything.”

“‘M not hungry,” you shake your head, “and I just wanna go home.” Your voice is whiny, but you’re too sad to care.

“Okay, well, you’re still leaving,” Eddie insists, and you don’t have the energy to argue. “The sheep,” he gestures to where Dustin and Will are standing, and they wave as though they’ve been caught, “will tell your boss that you’re sick. Lady problems or whatever.” You feel his fingers intertwine with yours as he leads you to his van. “And you can tell me as much as you want, ‘kay?”

You nod wordlessly as Eddie gives the younger kids a thumbs-up. He normally chooses the music, whether he’s the driver or the passenger, but this time, he tilts his chin towards the radio and says, “all yours.”

You turn the dial until you hear a Fleetwood Mac song, expecting Eddie to crack a joke or complain about your selection, but he just taps the steering wheel to the beat. When he drives to a gas station to fill up his tank, you don’t think anything of it until he comes back out with a bag full of Haagen-Daaz.

“Got all your favorite flavors,” he announces, plopping back into the driver’s seat. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but you will be at some point. So…sustenance.”

A smile tugs at your lips, and you manage a small “thanks,” as he drives you back to your place. When he pulls into the driveway, he waits awkwardly for you to say anything else.

Finally, he breaks the silence by handing you the bag from the Shell station. “Don’t want this to melt,” he offers lamely, frowning when you burst into a fresh round of tears. You hear him mutter, “that’s it,” and he kills the engine, jumping out of the van to run to your side. “Up and at ‘em.” He pulls you out of your seat, scooping you up and flinging you over his shoulder with ease. He kicks the van door closed, walking to your front door before setting you down. 

“That’s my favorite method of transportation,” you giggle softly, and he breathes a sigh of relief as your humor peeks through. 

“Save a horse, ride a Munson, right?” he jokes back, blushing when he realizes the double entendre he just made. “Uh, anyway, I can leave if you want…” He stuffs his hands into his back pockets nervously. 

“You can come in,” you say, unlocking the door. He follows you, heading straight for the kitchen and grabbing two spoons from the drawer. 

“Figured we could start with cookie dough,” he says, holding out the pint. “Ladies first.”

The two of you sit on the couch in comfortable silence as you dig into dessert. Halfway through, you look up at him through misty eyes. “I’m waiting for the ‘I told you so,’” you say softly. 

“Huh?”

You tell Eddie everything: Billy’s claim that he wanted something casual, his reaction to you asking to keep your shirt on, the venom he spewed earlier today. “I never should’ve trusted him.”

But Eddie’s seeing red, fists clenched and jaw squared in pure rage. “The fuck did he say?” He stands up so quickly that he nearly knocks over the pint of ice cream. 

“Where are you going?”

“To kick his sorry ass!” Eddie exclaims, grabbing his keys from the table where he tossed them. 

“He’s not worth it,” you tell him. “Just…can you stay here and eat ice cream with me? Please?”

“Fine,” Eddie grumbles, plopping back down next to you. “But I still wanna punch him in the face.”

“You and me both,” you agree, taking another spoonful before posing the question you’ve been too afraid to ask. “Do you think I’m a slut?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his bite of cookie dough. “A slut? Because you slept with some douchebag?”

“No,” you say quietly, “for having sex with someone because I wanted to feel beautiful.”

His whole body deflates. “That’s why you…why wouldn’t you think you’re beautiful?”

You bark out a tense laugh. “Where to start? Um, my face, my hair, my body…oh, and apparently, now I’m too insecure and uptight to love, so…”

Eddie cradles your face between his strong, calloused hands. “Listen to me,” he says. “You are the most goddamn beautiful person on this Earth. Your eyes…I could stare into them all day. You have the cutest nose I’ve ever seen. Your smile makes me smile. And your hair…no matter how you wear it, you always look good. Sometimes you say things like, ‘ugh, my hair’s a mess today,’ and I’m just flabbergasted.”

“Flabbergasted?” you interject, amused by his word choice.

“Flabbergasted,” Eddie affirms. “And your body is…I’m gonna sound like such a creep here, so forgive me, but your body is so fucking hot. Like the night we had that argument, you said something about no one else wanting to sleep with you. But I know for a fact that that’s not true.”

“It’s not? Who wants to sleep with me?”

Eddie laughs nervously as he slowly raises his hand. “Um, me? But not, like, in a smash-and-dash way. Like in a take you on dates, hold your hand, be your boyfriend kinda way? Oh my God, just tell me to shut up. Please.”

“You’re just saying that to cheer me up,” you mutter.

“Nope. It’s the truth. Cross my heart.” He makes the slashes across his chest with his fingers. “Wait…the thought of us together cheers you up?”

You nod shyly. “Just never thought you’d be into me like that.”

“Well, I am. I so fuckin’ am, holy shit.” Eddie looks like he wants to kiss you, but he’s holding back. “Can I take you on a date? Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’d love a date with you, Eddie Munson.” You watch as a grin spreads across his face, and you rest your head on his shoulder. He lays his arm along the back of the couch, not quite sure whether to put it around you. That’s how the two of you fall asleep as the remaining ice cream melts in its container.

Seeing Billy at work the next day still stings a bit, but it’s easier than it was. You know he’s an idiot, a player, a manipulative piece of shit. And you have a date with Eddie, who is the kindest, gentlest soul you’ve ever met. And you deserve that kindness.

Eddie picks you up from work as usual, but instead of his typical ripped jeans and a concert tee, he’s wearing…well, un-ripped jeans and a concert tee. But he smells like a new cologne as he kisses your cheek, blushing as he pulls away.

“You look absolutely incredible,” he muses, reaching over to hold your hand. “Seriously, I’m so lucky you agreed to go out with me, shit.” He smiles at you, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Nothin’, I just…” He can’t seem to shed his dopey, lovesick grin. “Told myself I wasn’t gonna kiss you; like, kiss you kiss you, until the end of the date. But you just look so goddamn gorgeous.”

“Shut up,” you duck your head, trying to hide from him. “I’m the lucky one. My date is hot and has a kickass personality to match.”

“Guess we both got lucky tonight.” Eddie bites his lower lip when he realizes what he’s just implied. “I mean–”

You squeeze his hand, effectively silencing his racing thoughts. “Where are you taking me?” you ask, trying to change the subject. It’s not that you were embarrassed by his Freudian slip, but after what happened with Billy, you weren’t looking to rush into sex.

“You’ll see,” Eddie says, excitement building in his voice. A few moments later, you’re walking into the Coffee and Contemplation Café, with Eddie holding the door open for you. Your sundress swishes along your thighs as you take a seat across from Eddie. He immediately takes your hands in his, caressing them with his thumbs.

“Eds?”

“Mm?”

“I need to look at the menu.”

“Oh.” He lets go of your hands, looking a bit sad as he does. “Sorry, baby. Shit–can I call you that?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I really like that, actually.” Baby. You’re Eddie’s “Baby.”

When the waitress comes around, you order a vanilla latte, and Eddie orders coffee with cream and two sugars. “That’s what Wayne always orders when we go to the diner,” he explains. The two of you decide to split a piece of crumb cake–one slice, two forks.

“This is a really nice date, Eds.” You wrinkle your nose. “Hmm. I need a cute nickname for you now, huh?”

Eddie taps his chin as though he’s deep in thought. “How about…stud muffin?” He feigns offense when you giggle. “What? Am I not studly?”

“Oh, the studliest,” you reassure him, still laughing. “I like ‘babe,’ though. Because you are a babe.”

“I dunno…kinda like stud muffin better,” Eddie teases, taking a sip of his coffee. “Now, tell me all about your day.”

And so you fill him in on every detail, from the kid who peed in the pool to the mother who berated the lifeguards for “allowing” it to happen. “Like we can control their bladders or something,” you add with an eye roll, and Eddie cackles. A strand of hair falls in his face, and you tuck it behind his ear.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs, peering at you from under impossibly long lashes. That’s when you lean in and kiss him, soft and slow and sweet. He’s not expecting it; probably thinking he was going to initiate when he dropped you back off at home. His lips remain frozen for a second until his brain registers what’s happening. Then he’s kissing you back, palm on your cheek.

“Was that okay?” you ask finally. Eddie’s response is to slam a $10 bill on the table and grab your hand, leading you back to his van. He kisses you again against the side door; it reminds you of how Billy kissed you that night that you…

Eddie notices that you’ve stopped kissing him back, and he pulls away. “Baby? You good?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stammer. He’s not Billy. Not even close. Not even a little bit. You take a deep breath. “Just nervous, c-cause the last time I did this, it, uh, didn’t end well for me.”

Eddie wraps his arms around your waist, gently pulling you towards him. “Hey, hey,” he coos. “There’s no rush, yeah? And I’d never–never make you do anything you’re not ready for.”

“I know.” And you do. So for now, you just rest your head against his chest, listening to the beautiful sound of his heartbeat.

The next month before you leave for school is filled with dates, each better than the last. Eddie takes you to the carnival, the drive-in movie theater, picnics at Lover’s Lake…anywhere he can. The kissing gets more fun; you’re able to focus on Eddie–your Eddie–and not on your past experiences.

The night before you’re set to go back to college, you’re ready to take that next step with him. The two of you are sitting on his bed and listening to music; your plans for an outdoor music festival having been squandered by the pouring rain. You move closer to him, straddling his waist as you press your lips to his neck.

“‘M gonna miss you s’much,” you pout, moving your mouth to his. “Want you, babe. All of you.”

Eddie gives a terse chuckle. “I want you too; so fuckin’ bad. But we don’t have to do this just because you’re leaving. I’m not gonna break up with you. In fact, I…” he swallows thickly before continuing, “I think I love you, baby. Shit, no; I know I love you.”

“I know I love you, too,” you smile, kissing him again. “And I want to have sex with you because I love you, and I want to show you.” You dig your fingers into Eddie’s hair, nuzzling your noses together. “Is that okay?”

“More than okay,” he breathes, hands settling on your hips. “You’ll let me know if you wanna stop, right? Just tell me, and we can go back to cuddling. Promise me.”

“I promise,” you say, and it’s the truth.

Eddie nods. “Okay. On your back, baby. Let me take care of you.” 

You do as he asks, and you feel his lips trail down your torso, stopping just before he reaches the throbbing ache between your legs. “Yes?” he looks up at you patiently.

“Yes.” With that, he unbuttons your shorts and tugs them down your legs, running his middle finger along your lace panties. He shivers as he feels how wet you are, all for him, and he nearly tears the underwear in half trying to yank it off of you.

“Wanna taste you,” Eddie mutters.

“Y-You can taste me.” You whimper, and Eddie wastes no time licking a soft stripe along your folds, easily finding your clit. “Right there.” His lips wrap around your sensitive bud, flicking his tongue over it. “Holy shit, yes, right fucking there.”

Eddie detaches from your sex for a second, chin already shiny with your slick. “Keep makin’ those pretty noises f’me, please.” He sounds just as desperate as you do as he plunges back between your legs, this time slipping a finger inside you as he licks. You’re moaning, and there’s no faking it this time. Eddie’s touch has you floating, You can vaguely sense him rutting up against the mattress, so turned on just by eating you out. He’s holding onto your hips, eyes never leaving your body.

“Gonna come, feels s’good,” you whine, never wanting this feeling to end. You grind up into his face as you ride out your orgasm, gripping the sheets and screaming his name. “Eddie, Eddie, I’m coming, holy fuck!” After he brings you back down from the high, you push yourself up onto your knees.

“Where ya goin’?” he asks. “Was that too much?”

“Just wanna return the favor.” You lean over to rub him through his tented jeans, but he shakes his head.

“Not tonight,” he mutters, “I’m too pent up. I’ll never last in that perfect little mouth of yours.” He kisses you deeply, and you can taste yourself on his lips. “Can I be inside you?”

“Yes, babe. Please.” You look down, realizing that your shirt is still on. You want to show him all of you, let him touch every last inch of your body, but you hesitate to take it off.

Eddie must be able to read your mind, because he tilts your chin in his direction. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wanna see you naked,” he admits, “but only if you’re ready. You can keep it on if you’re more comfortable.”

You inhale in for three and exhale for three before you respond. “I’m ready. I’m comfortable.” You lift the shirt above your head, revealing your bare breasts. The incredulous stare on your boyfriend’s face is almost comical. “Are you okay?” you giggle.

“No, I think I died and went to Heaven,” he says, letting his thumbs graze over your hardened nipples. He undresses himself in record time, revealing his long, thick cock. Pre-cum drips from the tip. “Baby, I wanna spend all night touching you, but I’m gonna bust if–”

“It’s okay,” you interrupt, looping your arms around his neck and kissing him. 

He reaches into his dresser drawer, pulling out a condom and removing it from its wrapper. “Can you put it on me?” he whispers, and you oblige, rolling it down his length. He hisses at your touch, too sensitive to ask you to linger there. He sets you back on the pillows, slowly pushing into you a little at a time until he’s fully inside. “Good, baby?”

“Mhm,” you mewl. “S’good. You can–you can go faster, whenever you want.”

Eddie threads his fingers with yours, putting your hands up next to your head as he rocks into you. “God, you’re so beautiful,” he groans. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you.” He punctuates each I love you with a kiss to your lips.

“I love you, Eddie. ‘M all yours.”

“All mine,” he echoes, “my baby’s all mine. And I’m hers. Her pussy belongs to me and–shit–my cock belongs to her.” He squeezes your hand, not possessively, but as a reminder that it’s him. It’s him, it’s you, it’s the two of you together. His eyes never leave yours, and he suddenly smiles. “You make me so damn happy.”

“This has been the best summer of my life,” you agree, “and it’s all because I have you, babe.” 

His chest rubs against yours ever-so-slightly, and the sensation of your breasts has him weak. “I’m gonna come.” His expression is apologetic. “Shit, I didn’t wanna–”

“Let go for me,” you assure him, feeling yourself come undone as you speak. “We c-can come together.” Your second orgasm of the evening happens on his cock as he spills into the condom with a wanton moan. He’s still for a minute, catching his breath before removing himself from your warmth.

“I love you,” he says as he kisses you, sliding off the barrier and tying it. “Let me toss this, and then can we cuddle? I kinda just wanna hold you.”

“I’m down to cuddle before round two,” you say, laughing at his dumbfounded expression. “Don’t worry; I’ll give you a few minutes to reload.”

“I’m not worried about that,” he says, climbing back into bed and sighing happily as you snuggle into his chest. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

--

[suspiciouscharacter1895]

Good Omens Fic List

At this point, I have produced 11 19 Good Omens fics. If that's the sort of thing you enjoy, peruse my catalog! All these are Crowley/Aziraphale, and most feature angst, cathartic love confessions, and smut (though not all). Have a suggestion? Love one of them? Let a girl know. I love doing this, and I love connecting with people who care about this universe as much as I do. I truly hope you enjoy!

See AO3 for full tags.

No Nightingales (T, 14.7k) Post S2 - It's been a year since Aziraphale left Crowley on Earth and neither of them are faring very well. A moment of crisis brings them together again, and this time it's up to Aziraphale to save Crowley. Plot heavy, mature themes but no sexual content.

Whatever You Want (E, 3.5k) Smutty little sequel to No Nightingales but can absolutely be read as a standalone. Aziraphale works through some guilt and Crowley works through some wish fulfillment. Gentle and loving first time.

Something I Can Do For You (E, 3.2) Post-bullet catch (1941), Aziraphale grapples with the implications of realizing he is in love with his best friend. Lighthearted, loving, slightly desperate first time.

Quite Sure (E, 2.7k) Can be imagined as a sequel to Something I Can Do for You, but doesn't rely on it in any way. Established relationship set 10 years after the bullet catch. Considers when Crowley fell for Aziraphale, featuring meditations on the whole thing with Job and sweet lovemaking, with Aziraphale taking care of Crowley.

Worship in the Bedroom (E, 3.6k) Post-S2 - Aziraphale is back from Heaven and he and Crowley are hiding from Heaven and Hell. No plot really, but lots of worshipful, healing, sensual sex, with Crowley working through some angst and being cared for as he deserves.

The Whole Darn World Seemed Upside Down (E, 5.2k) Post-S1 - Crowley has unresolved feelings he needs to work through. If only he were good at the whole vulnerability thing. Angst and mild conflict, followed by love confessions and...well you know.

Tempt Me (E, 6k) Set in an unspecified future when they figure it all out and are happy together. A fun little romp with Aziraphale being very into Crowley tempting him. Like VERY into it. Light dom/sub elements.

If You Like (E, 4.4k) Set the night of the failed S1 Armageddon. Aziraphale goes back to Crowley’s flat and both of the boys are forced to deal with some long-repressed feelings. If only they were better at talking. Angst-heavy, especially for Crowley.

Worth Knowing (E, 3.6k) Sequel to If You Like set after the Ritz. Aziraphale thought everything would change after they slept together, but everything seems to have gone back to normal. If Crowley isn't going to do anything about that, Aziraphale will. Happy ending! Loving, soft, sweet, love confessions.

Flashes of Love (G, 3.2k) NO SEX TOTALLY WHOLESOME. Set a few weeks after the averted Second Coming (which all worked out fine) in a world where they are happy and together. Aziraphale has an inkling that Crowley may be able to sense and share angelic love in a way most demons can’t. Crowley agrees to give it a shot.

Forgive Me (E, 1.6k) LOTS OF SEX NOT AT ALL WHOLESOME. Post S2 - Aziraphale muses on what he should want from Crowley, and what he actually wants. Both rough and gentle sex follows, entirely imagined by Aziraphale. Heavy angst, please check tags.

My Angel (E, 2k) Companion to Forgive Me, from Crowley's perspective. Pieces can be read in either order or independently. What he should want his first time with Aziraphale to be, and what he actually wants. Both rough and gentle sex follows, entirely imagined by Crowley. Heavy angst.

Might As Well Do It Properly (E, 5.7k) What if Shax and the demon horde didn't show up at Aziraphale's Regency ball? Maybe Aziraphale would use some leftover magic in the air to do something he's been meaning to do for a long time. Gentle, loving first time (with dancing!).

I Need You (E, 3.8k) What if Crowley and Aziraphale were together before the events of S2? What if Aziraphale left anyway? What if he came back, just for one night? Angsty, sexy.

You Were Right (T, 6.2k) The origin of the apology dance in 1650. Crowley does something that could get them both in a lot of trouble. Aziraphale jumps to some conclusions, and has to try to make up for it. Plotty, pining, sweet. T for some mature themes.

Wherever You Are, I’ll Come to You (G, 5.7k) Just after The Fall, Crawly has no memory of who he is or where he comes from. But he has the funniest idea that he needs to find someone. Descriptions of The Fall, an appearance of Lucifer, and some descriptions of C&A’s relationship as angels.

A Favour (G, 3.1k) Two weeks after their memorable evening in 1941, Aziraphale can't get Crowley out of his mind. Then the demon shows up on his doorstep asking for a favor. Mutual pining abounds. My contribution to the GOMM minisode minibang, written based on the delightful art of elliart7.

Something Dangerous (G, 3.7k) Aziraphale draws Crowley sometimes. Always from memory, and he always destroyed the drawings when they're finished. He can never get his eyes just right though. One day in 1963, he tries again. Just gallons of pining.

The Wrong Thing (E, 8.8k) C&A are hunkered down in the bookshop during London's second COVID lockdown. Aziraphale suggests a little truth or dare to liven up an afternoon. Both truths and dares ensue. Bit of fun, bit of emotion, slightly more than a bit of porn.

[batsycline69]

Chapter Four: Darker Than Death

Summary: Jason chases the past and sets fire to the future

Pairing: Jason Todd x GN!Reader

Words: 6,274

Content/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, Jason's self-destructive tendencies

SERIES MASTERPOST | PREV

Four months pass like lightning streaking the sky. Suddenly, you’re a staple in Jason’s life.

Soft kisses on biceps in the middle of the night. Mornings spent eating breakfast over your small kitchen table. Lunches in his station at the shop. The scowl on your face when Jason pulls out a dictionary to prove the word he played in Scrabble is real.

He didn’t think he could be happy again. After everything—the things he’d seen; the things he’d felt—it didn’t seem possible.

You gave him back something he thought he’d lost forever. You’re hope and future. Something to fuck up. Something to lose.

Jason knows what he looks like to the people on the street. It’s hard not to when he’s jarred by himself in the mirror sometimes. A big, brooding mass of man when once he was just a boy. He didn’t get a say in his dip in the Lazarus Pit, but the skin is still his own, adorned with in he chose and scars that he earned.

But no amount of ink nor callous nor scowling can actually protect him from the wounds that still have never healed. His never ending anger got the better of him today. A close call with Batman and Nightwing left him feeling bolder than ever. He went to visit the Joker.

Beating the Joker bloody with a crowbar didn’t have the cathartic impact he’d been hoping it would. The sight just made his stomach churn. He buried the flurry inside of him as he tied the Joker up, leaving him to sit in a closet for a few days. Until it’s time to bring him into play.

The rising sickness, cold and burning all at once, doesn’t go away. Distance doesn’t help. He still feels trapped there even when he’d been the one in control.

He doesn’t remember going to his apartment and changing. When he comes back to himself at your doorstep, he isn’t Red Hood. Just a boy in a soaked t-shirt shivering in the rain.

The door to your apartment building is inches away from his face. His hand is on the doorknob. It’s locked; he realizes now that’s what pulled him out of his head.

Rain falls down around him. It lands heavily on the shoulders of his jacket. The sound hammers on rooftops, onto the rusted cars parked out in front of your building. It splashes on the already soaked sidewalk, rushing into the sewers Jason knew so well. It’s always fucking raining. He would hate this city if he didn’t love it so much. If this city wasn’t in his blood just as much as Sheila’s.

Tears slick his face. That feeling in his stomach is still there, and he feels like he’s buried beneath earth all over again. The world is pressing down against him. He can hardly breathe.

His feet carry him to the back door of the building. The memory of picking the lock open is shoved into a corner at the very back of his mind. Safe memories fail to see the light of day now, yet he seeks safety just by being here. He needs you, though he hasn’t yet fully put it together yet.

Jason fiddles with the lock with less grace than usual. His hands tremble as he works, but even filled with tears, he’s focused. Maybe a little more so than necessary. He’s overly aware of the weight of his gun. Just as aware as he is he shouldn’t have brought it here. His mind is such a mess. What if he hurt you?

Part of him itches to turn back. The laughter echoing in his ears pushes him forward.

The wood floors creak beneath his feet as he moves through the otherwise silent halls. He pauses in front of your door. His nails bite into the palm of his fisted hands, trying to find the bravery to knock.

Bravery.

Once upon a time ago, he ran across the rooftops of this city fighting goons twice his size, reassured by his mentor, a less than perfect man who demanded perfection. He thought his bravery made him untouchable.

So much for that.

He knocks. You don’t answer.

It’s 3 AM; of course you’re going to be asleep.

He should have never come here. He hasn’t even thought about what he would say when you ask why he’s such a wreck. Just like anything real in his life, it’s not like he can tell you the truth. You wouldn’t know what to do with the truth; he kidnapped the guy who killed him back when he was just a little robin. His mind feels too syrupy to come up with a good lie.

He realizes with sudden clarity he never should have gotten this close to you. Sure, he’s been planning his takeover of Gotham’s underground for years, but plans go sideways. What if the Joker gets out and finds out a connection between Red Hood and you? He can’t even stomach the thought of you with a single scratch on you, let alone in the sort of condition Joker would leave you in.

The lock clicks on your door.

Undoubtedly, you’d spotted him through your peephole standing there. When the door opens, your tired eyes are swimming with concern.

“Jason? Is everything okay?” Your voice is thick with sleep as you blink him into focus.

He feels terrible. He wants to say he’s drunk. Tell you he wasn’t thinking. Free you of his bullshit. Instead, he sniffles pathetically.

The door creaks softly as you hold it open more. You’re a lifeline for him now, the one thing that’s keeping him from sinking back into that bottomless grave, and he pulls you against him. His grip is tighter than it probably should be, but if you have a problem with it, you don’t say.

You hold him like something precious.

He hates himself.

“Come on. Come inside.” Your voice is soft as you gently usher him in. “You’re soaked.”

Streetlight from outside diffuses through the raindrops on your window. It’s the only light offered in your darkened apartment.

He stands in the doorway of your bedroom, watching you rummage around the clothes piled on top of the old floral wingback chair in the corner. You pull out one of Jason’s t-shirts, the material washed and worn until the fabric was soft.

Cotton clings to his skin as he peels his shirt off.

He hears a soft gasp as his vision is obscured.

“What happened to you?” you ask, horror cutting through your exhaustion like a knife.

Bruises—fresh ones—scatter across his skin. He hasn’t seen them yet, but he feels them there. Normally, he’s pretty good. Keeping his clothes on when he knows there’s damning evidence. The less he has to explain, the fewer lies he has to keep track of. Tonight isn’t a normal night. His head is barely on straight.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. He tugs the shirt down, obscuring whatever injuries you see.

“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? Did someone hurt you?”

God, you’re so sweet. You care about him, and you really shouldn’t. Right now, there’s a fire in your voice; you’d go up to bat for him against anyone. All the more reason to keep you out of the line of fire.

“It’s nothing,” he snaps.

“The hell it is. Jason, what is going on?” Your voice is demanding as you take another step closer. Your reach out to touch him, but you stop as if you would hurt him. You are afraid to hurt him.

He huffs and goes out to your living room, his large frame hunching in on itself as he falls into your couch. His head hangs for a minute before he looks around. He’s always found your apartment peaceful. Blankets tossed over the arm of your threadbare secondhand couch. Bookshelves stuffed with crumbling paperbacks. Feels more like a home than his place ever has, but it’s still no home of his.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you,” he sniffles.

You follow him out, pausing a few feet away from him. “We don’t have to cover everything tonight.”

The certainty in your voice is too brilliant, too forgiving; some things feel like they can never be spoken about. Should never be allowed to see the light of day.

“I dug up a lot of past today.”

He hopes you never understand him because that means you understand how it feels to die. What it means to come back from that. And what worse fate could he curse someone to? He never wants that cold to find you in the middle of the night and shock you awake just to confirm your heart is still beating.

“What do you need?”

The couch dips as you sit beside him. His arm winds over your shoulders, pulling you to his chest so he can feel the rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. “Just this,” he says.

So you stay that way. He cries, and he thinks about how he shouldn’t be doing this to you. He feels better because you’re here. No matter how hard he tries not to, he can’t stop thinking about how fucked up it is that he gets to feel better while making everything worse for you. He’s going to ruin your life, and he hasn’t even given you the opportunity to know that.

A few more minutes pass. Your apartment is silent apart from his sniffles, but those, too, die down eventually. Just the rain remains, pattering against the glass.

“Shouldn’t have woken you up,” he says when he’s finally composed himself. There’s a resolution in his voice that had been lacking before. He hopes you don’t ask how he managed to make it to your door.

You shake of your head pull away from him to look into his eyes. “Don’t say that. You didn’t want to be alone. That’s a good enough reason to wake me up.” Your voice is just as firm.

Doubt crosses Jason’s face. You wouldn’t be saying any of this if he wasn’t selfishly withholding the truth from you. You’d already met Red Hood, and you didn’t want him inside of your apartment. He shouldn’t be here, and he knows it. He has no right to wake you up when you’re safe and asleep in your bed. He doesn’t deserve to seek your comfort just because he can’t face his ghosts.

Your palms are warm as you gently hold his face. The pad of your thumb wipes off his tears. “I care about you,” you say. “You aren’t burdening me by letting me help you.”

For one single second, it crosses his mind to open up. You’d think he would have totally lost it, but he could open up. At this point, it almost feels as if it doesn’t matter; he’s decided this won’t be able to last.

Even now, you know very little about him. Neither of you have put a label on what you have, but there’s a bind between of you. You’ve become a feature in his life, as often as he can allow such a thing. He’s gotten comfortable with your presence, and comfort can always be taken away from him. There’s benefit in staying unattached.

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t wanting you biting off more than you can chew, sweetheart,” he says. His thick fingers wrap around your wrist, keeping your hand against his cheek.

Your lips quirk up into a weak smile, but your visible concern doesn’t wane. “I’m pretty tough,” you reply.

Jason turns his head and presses his lips into the palm of your hand. “I know you are.”

But tough isn’t always enough against the people who come after him. Not even when you sign up for it. And you sure as shit didn’t sign up for this.

Most days, you make him feel like he’s soaring. When he takes you out on the bike—Gotham blurring around both of you as your chest presses into his back—he sometimes feels like he’s too giddy to drive.

That feeling, he thinks it’s love, but he can’t accept that. He’s been telling himself he doesn’t need love. He doesn’t need family. But he can’t convince himself he doesn’t need you right now.

One day, Batman is going to catch up to Red Hood. Jason is planning on as much. But if that plan somehow backfires, he could lead Batman right to you. He can’t curse you to a fate where your path intersects with Bruce Wayne. Jason doesn’t want your life any more tainted than he’s already made it.

He can handle losing you if he’s the one that calls it quits. He can handle losing you if you hate him over whatever lies he has to tell to make you slam the door in his face. But he can’t handle losing you over the truth, especially if it’s Bruce’s version of the truth. The very idea of you siding with Bruce in all of this makes his skin crawl.

“I care about you, too, you know,” he finally says. He looks at you in your pajamas, the softness of sleep still etched onto your features. His voice feels to gruff to be speaking to you. He takes your hand between both of his, lowering it down into his lap. He doesn’t want you to hear the finality in his voice.

You smile, though your face is sad. “I know.”

“Why’re you so nice to me?” he asks. You were supposed to just be some client. He was supposed to tattoo a dead bird onto your arm and say goodbye. He did everything right; he was a detached asshole. And yet, something about you broke him open, like playing the right notes on the piano to get into the Batcave.

Like a soft breeze, your laugh brushes across his lips. You’re close to him now.

“Didn’t we just establish that?” you ask, looking up at him with an even softer expression than before.

“I’m serious,” Jason says. “Why did you even bother giving me a chance?”

What makes me worth saving?

There’s a beat of silence. Your eyes study his. He doesn’t doubt you can see the tears still lingering, threatening to spill at the first kind thing you have to say to him.

“I mean, you were a dick for a little bit, but I could tell you felt bad about it.” You look him over carefully, your lips still tugged into that meager smile. “I don’t think you’re as bad as you think you are.”

He sighs and hangs his head. His grip on your hands loosens, like he’s offering you freedom. “You’re giving me too much credit,” he says. His voice rumbles up from his chest. He has to speak quietly or else he’d be yelling. All he can imagine is the Joker getting his hands on you. The thought alone makes him feel so sick he can’t stand to look at you.

As hard as he tries to stay with the kindness in your eyes, his mind starts to wander.

The floor had been so cold; he remembers it now. He acts like he’s not afraid of dying—maybe he isn’t—but he remembers how it feels to die. He remembers how dark it is. How bitter. Laughter rings in his ears. Blood in his mouth, bile stinging at his throat. There was nothing peaceful about it. Nothing peaceful about choking on his own blood. There was no ‘slipping off’; there was only a flash, the rush of heat, a deafening blast, and the screams of the mother who had sold him out.

“Why would I stick around this long if you weren’t worth it?” you ask.

“It doesn’t count when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” He breathes a bitter laugh like it doesn’t feel like acid. Like it’s effortless to put you down. If you believe it is, maybe you’ll ask him to leave.

He’s good at this, sabotaging relationships. Even though he thinks the world of you, he can summon up the words to make you question everything about the last four months. Doesn’t matter if Jason admires how much cruelty you’ve faced. Doesn’t matter if he finds wonder by the fact you still somehow stayed kind after that. He knows just what to say to plant a seed of doubt that will only continue to fester from here.

There’s a long silence. You’re not looking at him anymore. He wants to take it back, but he knows he can’t. That’s why he said it.

“Why are you trying to push me away right now?” Your voice is soft. He can barely hear it over the rain beating on the pane of glass behind you.

“I’m not pushing you away. That’s just the truth.”

“That’s bullshit,” you say. Your voice is low, but volume does nothing to lessen the severity of the chill. He’s used to your warmth. “You’re not that much of an asshole.”

The deeper he sinks into this character, the more he wants to to run out of the room. He’s ruining the one good thing he’s had since he came back to Gotham. He’s throwing away his one actual shot at happiness.

When he looks at you, he’s looking at a future he’ll never know. Baking cookies just because you mentioned in passing you wanted some. Slipping apology notes underneath your door when he pisses you off so much you won’t respond to his texts. Telling you he loves you; whispering it in your ear when he holds you on bad days. Telling the truth because he could finally fully surrender himself to you.

The truth, Jason likes to imagine, feels like the gentle release everyone likes to describe death as. Peace. A boy blown up isn’t at peace; he’s a poltergeist. But a man who can surrender and accept the death of a life he’d taken up, like a crab molting its shell to find something more comfortable, can rest. If he was brave enough, he could adapt again. Maybe make a life that offered a truce between him and this world.

“Ever consider maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do?” he asks. He buries the thoughts of your warm embrace. So many graves in his mind, all smelling of petrichor and freshly turned earth.

It rained the night he clawed up to the surface of Gotham. He doesn’t remember much about that night—doesn’t remember much before Talia got to him—but he remembers the smell. Dirt was everywhere, until suddenly, he smelled the rain. Drops fell into his parched mouth as he gasped for air.

His eyes squeeze shut, overly aware of the sheets hitting your window. Your silence doesn’t help.

“Please,” you scoff. “Do you think I just conveniently haven’t noticed you dodging topics the past four months? Just because I’m the only one who’s been open about my fucked up past doesn’t mean I’m the only one with it.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you’ve got more going on then you’re telling me. The fact that you have secrets isn’t a secret to me. You can have things you don’t want to talk about, but don’t show up at my doorstep looking for help and snap at me when I give it to you.”

Jason doesn’t want it to end. He wishes he was just a little bit more selfish so he could will himself to hold onto you. He wishes his path wasn’t paved with blood so he could guarantee your safety.

But he can hold onto you for one more night.

He lays his head down in his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says. It’s not a lie, but tomorrow he’ll tell you it was. His fingers tangle in his hair, and he finally looks up at you. You don’t look happy, that’s for sure, but you don’t hate him.

Tomorrow, he’s going to have to do this for real. Tonight, he just wants you.

Your eyes are fixed on him for a while before you respond. “Thank you for the apology,” you say. “You’re right. You can be a dick sometimes. But I think that shows you how intentionally I choose to be around you,” you say.

If you knew the truth, he imagines you poking fun at him for saying you were the one with fucked up relationships. You’d call him a hypocrite if he ever gave you the chance to.

“Let’s go to bed.” The words are clipped. You don’t look at him. “You’ve had a long day.”

“You’re gonna let me stay?” There’s hope in his voice when there shouldn’t be. You should turn him out, send him back into the rain; he deserves it more than the comfort of your bed.

You give him a look. “People usually say the worst stuff when they need someone the most,” you say. “Something you learn when you’re used to fucked up relationships.” You stand up and offer out your hand for him.

He follows as you lead him into your darkened bedroom. Sheets are rustled and tossed back. His stomach twists at the display of your rush to his aid. There’s so much more out in the world for you, even if he wants to sink into you until there’s no more him left.

Before you, he’d grown comfortable in harshness. The darkness didn’t feel unique because it was everything he had for years. And then there was you.

He’s going to know what life without you is like. But not getting to see you sat at your kitchen table, grinning at him sleepily over a cup of coffee in the morning is better than never seeing you again because someone got their filthy hands on you.

You guide him towards your bed. One last night to lie next to you and share your body heat.

Jason shrugs off his leather jacket. He misses the soft rustling of it hitting the floor; his eyes are fixed to the sight of your skin as you get into bed. The yellowish glow of city light slips in through a crack in your curtains.

The sheets rustle as you climb in. Jason still stands at the bedside for a minute more. You won’t look at him, and he’s glad. Goodbyes he’s not yet ready to say are written all over his face.

After a beat, your eyes do seek him out in the darkness. The sheets are pulled up to your chin, and Jason is trying to remember it all, even if he can tell you’re still upset.

The bed shifts with his weight as he lays down beside you. You face him. He doesn’t look away. He shifts a little closer, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulls you to his chest. If he were a better man, he would apologize right now. A real one. But if he means it too much, you’ll never believe him in the morning. He can’t afford to not be convincing.

Jason holds you. He presses his lips to the crown of your head and shuts his eyes. More than anything, he wishes he could enjoy this moment.

In another life, he wonders if maybe this is how things are all the time with you. He can hold you without worrying about what dangers he’s putting you in. Guilt might not gnaw at him. Jason curses him even if he doesn’t even exist because who else can he blame? Fuck that guy. Fuck his happiness.

You fall asleep in his arms. He feels like he’s taking advantage of your trust by even holding you right now, but he can’t will himself to let you go. He has hours left of this, and he can’t imagine wasting those moments by sleeping on the far side of the bed.

You have a strange dream, the kind that fades from memory the more you try to chase them.

In the shadows of what you remember, you see a red helmet, one like your dangerous friend wears. You found it laying on the ground in an alley. You searched out in the darkness for a face—his face—only to realize you were all alone, standing in a green mist.

Weeks had passed since your masked friend picked the lock to your apartment so you could get inside. Weeks since he’d sat on your fire escape only to never be seen again, but for some reason, he’s visited you in your dreams.

Your dream dissolves, but fresh worry blooms in your chest as you look at the empty spot on the other side of the bed where Jason had been only hours earlier. His words come back to you.

He was grieving something last night. Thinking of the loss in his voice leaves a chalky, bitter taste in your mouth. Instinctively, your hand smooths over the rumpled sheets where he’d been when you fell asleep. They’re cold.

Sunlight spills through the crack in your curtains. A rarity for Gotham. Last night’s downpour has been reduced to puddles in the dips of the sidewalk. You naively choose to believe that maybe this brand new morning has changed things. The finality in the air last night has been swept away like a shadow by the brightness of the day.

Even if it ends up hurting your feelings, you hold onto this hope like a wilting flower. It gets you out of bed.

The smell of something sweet fills the air as you poke your head out of your bedroom. Jason stands at your stove. His broad shoulders curl over a skillet, spatula in hand. Dark curls stick up in every direction. His t-shirt from last night is rumpled with fitful sleep. He looks up from the pan, his eyes straying on you as you approach.

“Smells good,” you say, stepping out.

“I made coffee,” he says, nudging his chin to the percolator on your counter top.

He carries his sleep deprivation well; you’ve heard about the sleepless nights he spent in Europe while he was traveling. You know some nights he stays up late with his friends you’ve never met. They’re a bad influence, he told you once. You asked him if he thought he was a good influence.

You kiss his shoulder as you walk by, your hand ghosting over his tattooed bicep. “Thank you, honey,” you say, still trying to get a handle on the situation. Still clinging to hope that this is a new day.

Except you see Jason tense out of the corner of your eye.

Instantaneously, your mouth goes dry. Today might be a new day, but nothing has changed. There’s still tension in the air. Jason’s mind is elsewhere, and wherever that is, you don’t seem entirely welcome.

Your body feels rigid as you try to pour your coffee, playing pretend like nothing’s wrong.

You like Jason; woozy, youthful joy swells in your chest when he holds you. He keeps you warm from all manner of coldness Gotham offers. Being around him is secure, safe in a way that goes just beyond the fact no one even gives you a second look when you’re next to him.

It feels like the day you met, but far worse. Because being pushed away some tattoo artist is one thing, but that’s not Jason anymore. He’s not just some guy who gave you a tattoo. You’ve spent more nights with him the past month than without him. He came to you sobbing last night because he needed someone, and you answered the call. So what changed?

Cup of coffee in hand, you sit at the small kitchen table pushed up against your wall. You watch him as he cooks; his mossy eyes are always decidedly fixed down.

Your finger traces along the deep divot in the table. Sunlight spills across the scarred wood; you can’t help but feel like you’re being mocked. Miraculous sunlight in Gotham at the moment where the light feels like it’s being sucked out of the room.

A few minutes later, Jason brings a plate of pancakes, a bowl of diced strawberries, and syrup to the table, setting them down in front of you. You’ve always believed Jason makes food in place of the things he’s never told you. You wonder what unspoken words your breakfast is supposed to represent.

“Looks great,” you say. Your forced cheerfulness sounds like exactly that, but Jason doesn’t make any indication that he noticed. He acknowledges you as he takes the seat on the opposite side of your table.

You stare at the plate in front of you, forcing yourself to eat even though your appetite has dissipated. It gives you something to do. Without a task, you’d just sit there, trying to figure out what went wrong.

There’s silence. Sunshine doesn’t fill the void the way Gotham’s rain does. The tension makes the pancakes less sweet. Or at least you imagine it would, but you haven’t actually tasted a single bite.

More than anything, you want to ask about last night.

Jason’s bloodshot eyes, the desperation with which he held you, is stuck to you in a way you don’t know you can brush away. Jason, who keeps himself so well guarded behind the walls he built up, was exposed last night. You saw something in him, something you’d never seen before, and wanted so badly to understand it.

You want to say something, but you don’t know how without maybe making things worse. Don’t want to dig up skeletons any more than he’s admitted he already has.

The truth is you do know so little about Jason’s past. Any number of things could have sent him to your door last night. You’d been so exhausted, you hadn’t even thought to question how he’d gotten inside. You content yourself to thinking he’d followed in after someone.

“I think we should call it,” Jason says. He doesn’t even look up from his untouched food.

You look up from your pancakes, red strawberry juice smeared all along your plate. “Call what?” you ask. You know exactly what he’s saying, but you’re hoping your willful ignorance will maybe somehow change his mind.

“This.”

This. The undefined thing going on between the two of you for the past four months. The thing that has made home feel like home again. Someone who gave a little more sense to the Gotham you’d once known so well that had been destroyed, uprooted, just when your life was.

You feel your jaw muscles tense, your teeth clenching together to try to lessen the emotional blow. It doesn’t work—you knew it wouldn’t—but you figured you would try. “Is this about last night?” you ask.

“No.” His response is quick. If your head wasn’t reeling, you would maybe pick up on how rushed it really was, but you don’t.

You’re silent, waiting for an explanation you know isn’t coming. So you do what you know to do; you grasp at straws, hoping maybe you can fix this. Hoping maybe there’s a problem you can solved that will keep Jason here.

“Okay, then what’s it about?” you ask.

The kitchen chair creaks as Jason leans back. His skin is golden with the light crossing over your table. You see the rosemary and lilies on his arm and think of his work permanently etched into your body.

You will carry a piece of him with you forever, no matter where either of you goes.

“It’s not about anything. This wasn’t supposed to be serious.”

“I deserve more than that.” The words are clipped and harsh. More than you really mean them to be, but you’re still trying to make sense of all of this.

Things had been good. Really good. You laughed with him and relished every time you heard his clandestine laughter in return. He comes over when you’ve had a rough day and are fed up from work. You’ve cried in front of him, and while you’re sure saying he was happy to do it is a stretch, he did it without complaint. There may not have been a label on what you have together, but Jason is right; you don’t feel casual.

You love him.

The realization crawls up your throat like bile, like you might say the words at the absolute wrong time and make everything worse.

“Fine.” He looks up at you, his face hardened in a way you don’t recognize. His eyes are hardened. Not guarded like when he wouldn’t talk to you during your first appointment; they’re cold. He’s never looked at you like that before. “I’m sick of this shit. The monotony. You don’t want to live the same goddamn day over and over again.”

You stiffen. Somewhere a few blocks away, a siren wails. His gaze doesn’t waver. You’ve never wished for him to look away so badly. Under his gaze, you feel trapped. Uneasiness creeps up your spine.

For some reason, your first date comes to mind. You think of Jason at the arcade machine, the way he’d held the plastic gun so steadily.

“So why’d you come here last night then?” You struggle to keep your voice steady, but now feels like the wrong time to show any weakness.

Once, you thought Jason looked at you like a prey animal. In the tattoo shop, when he first came out thirty-five minutes late,he stared you down like he was trying to making sure you weren’t going to run in the direction. But even then, he was studying you more than anything, a habit of his you’d grown to recognize.

This is something else entirely.

“Because I’m a lonely, fucked up guy. Is that what you want to here? The warmth of your bed was better than none at all.”

Anger and agony stir in your chest. Muscles taught, jaw hardened. You can’t even stand to look at him for a minute. “So, what? We’re just done? We’re broken up?”

“We’re not broken up because we were never together,” Jason snaps.

Another silence settles between the two of you, this one charged.

“I guess that makes things more simple,” you reply, your voice low. You feel your face burning. What had you been thinking? You knew from the start he was bad news. You’d known it, and you ignored every sign anyway.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Jason doesn’t look up at you, but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

God, you should have seen this coming, and yet it still doesn’t make sense. Things were good. Things were working. Until they weren’t. Until you ended up here. Now you’re at a total loss for words.

“Alright,” you say when he doesn’t speak. “Well, thanks for breakfast.” There’s no point in hiding the bitterness in your voice. What do you have to lose, right? He wants nothing to do with you, and you’ve just wasted months of your life stupidly, childishly believing that this was something that could actually work.

Jason doesn’t move right away. His dark brows are knitted close, but it doesn’t quite look like anger. The scar running through the brow makes him look more severe. You can’t imagine what kind of harsh truths he’s withholding. But you can’t look away. You think about running your fingers through his hair. You think about tracing the ink on his skin. You think about how empty your lunchtime will feel now because you’re not going to be swinging by the shop, a bag of takeout in hand.

This whole time, you’d just been a phase to him. Just another passing name he would forget in a month when he meets someone new. Someone better. Someone less acquainted with fucked up relationships, maybe. The point being, they aren’t going to be you.

And why should it matter so much? What’s four months? You barely know each other, right? Besides all of the times he listened to you spill your guts and probably kept waiting anxiously for you to shut up. All the while, you had managed to convince yourself this was actually going to be anything. You were mortified.

“I think your jacket is still in the bedroom,” you add pointedly as he keeps staring at you. Hopefully he’ll get the hint because you don’t think you have it in you to actually tell him to leave.

He stands, the chair sliding against the wooden floors of your apartment. Silently, he walks to the other room. It takes a few minutes for him to come back out. You’re so busy trying to make sense of all of this, you don’t notice.

When he reemerges, jacket in hand, Jason lingers by the front door. His eyes are fixed to the floor before he finally looks up at you.

“Bye,” he says.

Not see you later because he won’t. He doesn’t plan to. He’s done with you.

His eyes linger on you. He looks sad; you’ve gone and made him feel guilty because you thought you had more of a place in your life than you really did.

“Bye,” you say back, your voice rough.

Not it’s been nice knowing you because you can’t bring yourself to say the words. Not I think meeting you changed my life because you don’t have the right to that claim.

Jason doesn’t look back as he closes the door behind him.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider giving this a reblog 💛

[mouseonamoose]

I absolutely loved Demonology. It was an extremely generous gift to the fandom and to the GO mythology as a whole. I loved how you fleshed out Aubrey as a real character and the story being told through her perspective was so effective and clever. I was amazed at how true to the character of Crowley you were so that you were able to write him so authentically into new scenarios. Each chapter was such a surprising and original adventure but with a beloved friend. I loved the humor and pain in this story and so glad it wasn't any shorter than it was. Also, I was reading it at the Denver airport when Crowley made that quip about Aubrey's smell so I felt very connected to the story at that time, very funny private moment. I think this was the most enjoyable story I have ever read and also, got me to see why I personally related so strongly to Crowley. I have found validation as well as escapism from the perennial grief I feel at this time of year. So thank you thank you thank you.

I also read the Aziraphale story, which I felt had some very funny, LOL moments and was heartbreaking. I do wish that you had felt the freedom to write a healing journey before you saw season 2 and the stuckness that Aziraphale was still in. I think it can be really cathartic and beautiful to imagine what it would take for them to become healed. That was the magic of the Crowley story because you actually delivered the answers you promised which is so rare in any book. You showed us the magic that it took with trust and time and expression for Crowley to restore his heart.

I'm going to go back and read the story all over again.

The imagery that stuck with me the most was Crowley wedged up in the corner of the ceiling, and also the most glorious chapter where he shared his poetry with Aziraphale. Also I am a plant lover so all that stuff with the tree and Bud was just phenomenal.

You are an extremely gifted writer and I hope you continue to write and publish and I really, really hope you write some more stories from this universe. If there are any others please please let me know!

Oh, thank you. I'm blushing! I am so grateful that you found both valuable, and shared this with me.

I think, having done both Demonology and Angel-Centered now, I have come to this conclusion: anything but a satisfying resolution for Crowley would have been a disservice to his character; anything but unsatisfying heartbreak for Aziraphale would have been a disservice to his character. I don't mean this at all in a harsh way, regarding Aziraphale, and I have no doubts that he and Crowley both will have a well-deserved Happily Ever After. But, in therapy? And especially within the confines of the sort of fanfic I was writing (e.g., as much as possible, avoid adding to canon; as much as possible, only extrapolate and comment upon canon)? What other sort of option could there be, for Aziraphale?

I don't know.

Or maybe I'm just experiencing the same bittersweet frustration about Good Omens, right now, as everyone else, and that's clouding my thoughts.

You sent a follow-up message, clarifying you'd appreciate recommendations for other Good Omens fic. I am terrible at providing recommendations, unfortunately, but I hope others will be happy to offer some. There is one I can think of, though! Factory Settings is superb. I'm blown away by the clear confidence in the plotting and characterizing. I wouldn't mind it being our S3.

[blenselche]

@polyshipweek dancing prompt drabble/pic combo. Sort of toys w/ the idea that Yue can channel herself through others. I feel like she'd only be able to do it on a super blue moon (to keep it special) but that's just me.

(another @imactuallyacartooncharacter suggestion, I think my randomizer wheel has a crush on you lol)

Sokka notices that the moonbeams playing at the edges of their shadows seem to intensify and merge into an attentive, cosmic spotlight. Suki sighs into a soft, far-away smile, eyes sliding shut. He's worried he may step on her foot if she isn't paying strict attention to his gawky, still-too-long legs, and as he makes a subtle move to nudge her back to attention her lashes part over glaciers, hue three shades lighter than they should be. "I'm happy for you," his new bride whispers, though he only barely recognizes the voice that leaves her lips and the glass ball of anxiety in his gut cracks. Sokka's breath hitches when realization settles over his shoulders, shoulders beneath hands that begin healing aches that have lived in his body for so long that he cannot remember what it's like to not hurt every morning. She titters before whispering "you're good for each other." The single syllable is hard to form, it's been so long since that name has left him. "Yue." "I wanted to offer my congratulations," Yue ekes softly through a tiny, private grin, and Sokka simpers. "You-" he sniffs his feelings back up before he makes a mess of himself. "Sure have a startling way of saying so." "I can't very well speak for myself, Sokka," she chides him playfully, and the chuckle that escapes him feels almost cathartic. "We don't have long." "Sure we do." His palm lowers to her hip, clutching her closer. "You're around all the time, every night if it's not cloudy!" he chuffs wetly. "You're just— usually a little quieter about it." Sokka flashes her a wide, brave smile, reassuring and too big for his face but just as much 'him' as she remembers, and Yue laughs freely, head thrown back and singing to the stars with a beautiful noise he hasn't heard in oh so many years.

(The costumes are based off of tidbits the crew has stated about atla's culture influences. I thought it'd be cute if they wore each other's traditional attire)

[twig-tea]

TsukuTabe S2 Is Perfection

I’ve been waffling about what to write about Tsukuritai Onna to Tabetai Onna s2, which completed last week (and which we have access to at all thanks to the hard work of @furritsubs). I have had to just give up on getting across how much this show means to me; there's no way I'll be able to communicate these feelings with words. Season 1 was excellent but Season 2 was everything I wanted and more that I didn't know I needed. This is going to be more disjointed than usual because I don't know how to be coherent about this show (and because tumblr ate my first two attempts).

At its core, Tsukuritai Onna to Tabtetai Onna asks what if we were all just a little bit more conscientious and kind to one another? What if women were given space to be themselves and to make the choices that were best for them? This is the world of TsukuTabe, and I'm so grateful to have had the chance to inhabit it over these last four weeks. 

I have so much love for the way Nomoto and Kasuga develop their relationship in conjunction with their relationships with the other women in their lives. Nagumo, Sayama, and Yako are integral to the success of Nomoto and Kasuga’s relationship, and they're also important relationships for the happiness of Nomoto and Kasuga in their own right. The found family vibes are immaculate. 

The conflict between Kasuga and Nomoto this season was so perfectly them; the way they struggled with the transition from friends to lovers and being two people who are kind and giving in a relationship together and how that requires honesty and trust were both familiar conflicts that hit me hard in the feels. 

Kasuga's conflict with her family also hit me really hard. I once did the wrong thing and showed up to support my family in caring for someone who abused me, and it was a horrible experience that was ruinous to my mental health and took years to get over (and in the end they had to find a different solution anyway, which they could have done in the first place). Watching Kasuga refuse to make a similar decision, standing strong in the face of the social pressures of her parents and her aunt was so healing for me. And then to have her decision affirmed by someone of her parent's age? I sobbed in those scenes. 

I also loved the way this season handled Nagumo’s anxiety issues and how she was given space to decide to get professional help on her own time and terms. The way her parents tried to help was also very familiar to me and realistic, and it was just a little heartbreaking how they tried and didn't understand how their attempts at helping added pressure in a way that wasn't helpful. 

The way this show covers this important beats in a person's life through these small, everyday moments, and in such a gentle way, is what I love so much about it. The show itself makes a safe space so that these subjects can come up and not feel overwhelming. 

And it's also really important to me that all of the characters get to have these moments. Sakae not only reflects on her insensitivity and the unfairness of Japan not having marriage equality, but she also reflects on the pressures on her to marry and whether she actually wants that for herself. Fujita not only helps Kasuga gain proxy acceptance for her choices but gets the same back for herself around her decision to divorce. All of these women live in ways that invoke social stigma, and the way this show gives explicit permission to these women to live their best lives is both cathartic and critical.

I can't end this disjointed ramble without talking about the character I most identified with this season, Yako. Yako is an older, self-actualized asexual lesbian who makes friends with Nomoto on the Internet, recommends lesbian films to her, and mostly listens and affirms as Nomoto goes through her own process of discovering herself. I ran a GSA and have been on the Internet a long time, I've been in Yako’s position a lot (though I can only aspire to be as kind and wise). She is so patient and so genuinely happy for Nomoto when she and Kasuga get together, and she seems so quietly thrilled to have more wonderful people in her life willing to indulge her random party ideas. Her sharing a connection to a LGBTQ+-friendly real estate agency while being angry on their behalf that she even has to was perfection. 

It's so important that these characters say the things they say aloud. I want to inscribe every sentence of this show into everyone's brains. This show is perfect, and lovely, and a warm bath, and a hug, and a cup of your favourite warm beverage perfectly fixed to your liking all in one. If you haven't done yourself the favour of watching yet, I highly recommend that you do so immediately. 

[not an ID: Real footage of the entire audience's satisfaction and catharsis after watching TsukuTabe S2. Actual ID in alt text].

[i-heart-hxh]

Reason for Hope: A Gon and Killua Meta

I’m surprised by how frequently I see people saying that they think Gon and Killua’s story arcs are over for good; that we likely won’t see them again in the series, or if we do it’ll only be brief and they won’t reunite.

After spending years obsessively analyzing Hunter x Hunter, I disagree with this viewpoint, and I wanted to lay out some reasons as to why I anticipate an eventual reunion and reconciliation between Gon and Killua. This will be long, but bear with me!

The Separation

So, after thousands of pages of development between Gon and Killua, many things unfinished and unresolved between the two, at a point where the audience is expecting a big, maybe tearful reconciliation between Gon and Killua, instead we get…a mere 5 pages devoted to their separation. Many of the words on these five pages aren’t even dialogue between them, but rather setting details about the World Tree.

What we get is complicated; they seem on good terms, but it’s also somewhat fraught–they must have had a conversation before this, when they initially reunited, but Togashi opts to skip that entirely and only show us the aftermath, what’s happening right as they’re about to go their separate ways. 

Killua teases Gon about that painful line where Gon told Killua it wasn’t his business, and Gon quickly apologizes, but this is a very light conversation where Killua is clearly prodding Gon to make him feel bad. In the original Japanese version, Killua then says that Gon “already (もう/mou)” apologized, which implies they did talk enough for Gon to apologize in another conversation, but clearly this prior conversation also wasn’t in-depth enough for Killua to explain how Gon was healed and by whom. I also assume in this conversation that they discussed parting ways, as their parting doesn’t seem to be a shock or surprise to either of them.

Togashi is known for his anti-climaxes to arcs–often he’ll build an audience expectation up, only for things to go a completely different way than what it initially seemed he was building towards. It’s one of the things that makes his writing brilliant. It applies to this scene, in a way, in that he doesn’t give us the big, cathartic, emotional conversation we’re expecting at this point, and much is left unsaid between the two boys. However, I don’t think Togashi’s tendency for anti-climax means that this is it, the end, all we get is this parting with ambiguity and Gon and Killua’s arcs are over. There are a bunch of questions left unanswered here, even though they’re not stated outright. The central one is: Why, exactly, are they parting ways?

There are a bunch of reasons one can come up with, both emotional and practical: Killua may need a break from Gon after all of that (because he feels unwanted/rejected by Gon or he just needs to heal, or he may feel it’s unfair to Alluka/Nanika to split attention); he may feel he can’t be with Gon and also fully focus on protecting Alluka/Nanika; he may be concerned about Illumi pursuing them and the danger this may pose to Gon; he may simply feel he has no excuse to be with Gon any more now that Gon is about to fulfill his mission and Killua found something he wants and needs to do (going back to the promise they made under the stars previously); he may feel he’s already failed at protecting Gon (particularly after what Bisky said in Chimera Ant Arc) and what right does he still have to be with him? It’s possible Gon has reasons for them to part too–we’re not given reasons so we have no choice but to infer. It likely could be a combination of these reasons, too.

It’s hard to feel closure with a parting that we don’t even entirely know the reason for, and I do think eventually Togashi intends to give us more answers. He even indirectly makes us a promise, through Alluka.

I come back to this line over and over again, and I truly think this is Togashi reassuring the audience that this isn’t forever. I think that’s 100% what this line is here for.

There’s a lot of ambiguity in these few pages, between Killua teasing Gon in a way that feels pointed at times (the instance I discussed above, as well as the scene after Alluka says she’ll let Killua go, where Killua tells Gon he’s second place to Alluka), to the specific word (仲間/nakama, essentially teammate or comrade) Gon quoted from Kite being tied to Killua’s “friend vs teammate” concerns, and where we leave off is with a lot of tension and uncertainty even if overall they leave off on good terms.

It is made clear several times that neither of them fully want this parting to happen: Gon’s “I’d better go… Any longer and I’ll…” (Not be able to let you go, it implies.) Gon looks crushed. Killua agrees, also with a sad/resigned expression. Gon also says, “Wish you could go [meet Ging].” Both of their expressions change to sadness as soon as they turn away from each other. Neither wants to show the other how much this hurts. We get the sense that there’s a lot more they want and need to say to each other, things they’re saving for another time, once they’ve had some time apart to heal and grow on their own.

These are two of Togashi’s main characters, and the two he has spent the most time developing and portraying throughout the story. This parting is confusing, bittersweet, ambiguous, and unresolved. It’s dense and thought-provoking even in its brevity. It also doesn’t feel like a permanent endpoint.

Apologies

Ging tells Gon, “There are rules when you apologize to friends. You promise what you’ll do next time. And then you keep that promise!!”

Gon is talking about Kite when Ging says this, but even within the same conversation, Ging tries to tell Gon that what happened to Kite is not his fault. When Gon apologizes to Kite, Kite also asks “Apologize for what?” 

I don’t think most of the audience blames Gon for what happened to Kite. The narrative makes it clear that Gon, Killua, and Kite were all simply outclassed by Pitou’s strength, they had been ambushed suddenly, and Gon and Killua fleeing was the only way they could survive. Gon didn’t even flee willingly, Killua made that decision for him.

So, why include this whole lesson on how to apologize to a friend, when neither the audience, nor Ging, nor Kite think Gon needs to apologize to Kite?

Isn’t there someone else Gon needs to apologize to–someone Gon did in fact hurt deeply with his actions?

As stated above, Gon likely did apologize to Killua, especially because he already brought up that he needed to in the conversation he had with Leorio in the car. Chances are, he did that as soon as they were reunited. But…also as stated above, there’s likely a deeper apology that Gon needs to give Killua; one where he fully understands what happened, and one where he can promise not to hurt Killua like that again.

I believe Togashi included this whole dialogue and conversation with Gon apologizing to Killua in mind, not Kite. We never saw this apology, and I believe it’s something that will happen when they see each other again.

Unfinished Plot Threads

While Gon and Killua’s original goals have been achieved, there are still a number of plot threads dangling for both characters. If the parting between them was supposed to be the end of the road for these characters, why bother building up so much unfinished business for both of them? Here are just some of the things in the story related to Gon and Killua that have not yet been addressed:

Gon meeting Gyro, which Togashi explicitly says is supposed to happen.

Gon fighting Hisoka again (assuming Hisoka survives the Black Whale).

What will happen with Gon’s nen? Will he remain nen-less forever or be able to restore it?

What will Gon do with his life now that he’s no longer hunting Ging? Hopefully not do homework on Whale Island forever!

Don Freecss and how he may or may not relate to Gon’s story.

Nanika came from the Dark Continent, something only brought up after Gon and Killua part. This gives Killua a direct link to the Dark Continent arc. How did Alluka come to be possessed by Nanika, an Ai creature from the Dark Continent? Will Alluka have this incredible power via Nanika forever (I suspect not)?

Illumi vowing to hunt Alluka/Nanika down, and also generally will Killua manage to cut ties with his family altogether, to have the kind of future he wants?

Kalluto, now with Illumi and the Phantom Troupe on the Black Whale, has mentioned wanting to bring his brother home, presumably/most likely Killua.

Gon’s mother or origin remains a mystery. While Gon himself didn’t want to know, that doesn’t mean the audience is satisfied by the non-answer.

While none of these guarantee a reunion between Gon and Killua, they certainly signal that Togashi is not done with these characters.

Killua’s Birthday

When Togashi gives his characters birthdays, he does it thoughtfully–imbuing them with both numerical and other symbolic meanings. Killua’s birthday is Tanabata, a Japanese holiday wherein two separated lovers are reunited every year. There’s an excellent piece of meta here that explores a lot of the parallels between Tanabata and Killua’s story and character trajectory, as there’s more to this than I can easily explore in this meta. Note how many similarities exist between the legend of Tanabata and Gon and Killua, particularly in the Zoldyck Family arc.

Gon and Killua have been separated once and brought back together again. With the legend of Tanabata, there are many meetings between the separated lovers, so the motif tends to lean towards them separating and then reuniting again, as they already did once in the Zoldyck Family arc. This leads me to believe that their parting is not forever.

Togashi Exhibition Promotion Video

As a lead-up to the Togashi Exhibition, a video showcasing Gon and Killua was released with newly recorded lines by their voice actresses from the 2011 anime, Megumi Han and Mariya Ise. The vast majority of the lines in this video are actually re-recorded major lines from the series summarizing the relationship between the two. But there are a few brand new lines. One of these is, essentially, “We’re so far away from each other right now, but I believe we’ll meet again someday!”

This video is a promotion for an exhibition devoted to his works, so Togashi himself must have approved this video. Why would this be one of the only brand new lines in the whole video if he has no intentions of reuniting them within the series? It would have been a simple matter not to mention any sort of reunion between them, but the fact that it was one of only a handful of truly new lines feels important and noteworthy.

Off-Screen

Just a small point, but one worth considering. At the end of the Yorknew City arc, Leorio and Kurapika go their separate ways as they fade out of the focus of the story for a while, only to be put in the same stage together once it’s their turn to be a point of focus again. (Never mind that they haven’t gotten much time together in this arc yet, but I’m sure they’re in the same place for a reason.)

One of the reasons Togashi may have chosen to separate Gon and Killua at the end of the Election Arc is that they, too, are out of focus for a while. This makes sense if you think about it–Togashi spends all this time developing the relationships between these two pairs of characters, having them remain together while the focus is not on them means the audience would miss out on developments and interactions between them. It’s easier to separate them and then reunite them again when it’s time for them to have the spotlight again.

The Little Detours

This is more abstract than the other points, but I think it’s just as important.

One of the most prominent themes of Hunter x Hunter is summed up in Ging’s words, “You should enjoy the little detours to the fullest. Because that's where you'll find the things more important than what you want.” This is what Gon learns when reaching his goal–that the most important things in life are not the achievements you make nor the way your journey ends, but the people you meet along the way, the enjoyment of the journey itself, all the places it takes you, continuing to seek more throughout life.

Gon meets Ging at the end of the Election Arc, his original goal, but is this truly the heart of Gon’s story? Killua finds something to do, as he told Gon he wanted to do, but is this truly the heart of Killua’s story? The heart of their stories is finding each other, the ways they changed and helped each other, the joy and solace and pain they found in each other. That’s ultimately what their stories are about–not simply achieving their goals. To say that their goals are achieved and their story is done now misses what Togashi is trying to say.

Hunter x Hunter is filled with characters whose life trajectories were changed by an encounter with one important person. Many of these characters also had their life trajectories changed by losing those people. Togashi can be a harsh storyteller at times, but I don’t believe he’s crafting a story in which his two main characters find each other and change each other so deeply, tragic circumstances and painful misunderstandings happen between them, much remains unsaid, and then they simply part, never be seen again in the story.

In my viewpoint, the only major obstacle standing in the way of an eventual reunion between Gon and Killua is Togashi’s health and how that affects his ability to tell what he has planned of the series. He has stated a commitment to finishing the series to the best of his ability, so it’s just a matter of what his body’s limitations will allow him to do.

At the very least, for all of the above reasons and more, I do think Togashi fully intends to give us a reunion between Gon and Killua in the future. I hope that in time, we will get to see him share the rest of what he has planned for these two characters.

[brandwhorestarscream]

I think the con command would be at a high end brothel. Like they’re the ones you have to book 6 months advance because they’re so in demand

Ooooh you're so big brain

Each of them are massively popular due to their very specific and highly coveted skills. Since this is a high end brothel with high class courtesans, their work isn't specifically sex, but entertainment

Megatron's heavily pursued for his flowery poetry, bleeding spark, and soft, gentle voice. Mecha spend small fortunes just to spend an hour with him, being tenderly held while he recites the most beautiful pieces penned just for them. He's very popular with civilian frames that want to be held and to be able to feel safe and cared for, as well as with warframes that are drawn to his striking balance of rugged beauty and carefully cultured artistry.

Starscream's greatest draw is his unrivaled processor and sharp tongue. He's famously unbeatable at strategy games, frighteningly smart with a poisonous glossa, just as soon to purr at you and melts your struts as he is to screech and crow in mocking victory when he defeats you in a game of chess. Despite or perhaps because of how profitable he is, he's managed to keep his seals. All he asks before someone take him to bed is to defeat him in a game of wit, but sadly, no one has delivered yet. Starscream is terribly bored at the House; though he loves the endless attention, he wishes someone more stimulating would come to see him.

And Soundwave's greatest draw is his telepathy--though a carefully kept secret, it makes him hyper empathetic and always acutely aware of exactly what his customers need. He always knows exactly what they want to do, want to see, what to hear. He's extremely popular for his ability to play music and to sing: a single session with Soundwave is said to be more cathartic, comforting, and healing than 4 months of therapy

[iamgodsoopsie]

Astarion Headcanons (that you probably won't like) Pt. 1:

Part 2 link

BG3 does an excellent job at depicting SA trauma and the beginning of the healing process/journey. Many of the headcanons I've seen floating around (intentionally or unintentionally) gloss over the uglier side of healing from (prolonged) trauma. I'm not judging anyone for magically healing him, he's fictional after all, but I'd like to make some more ...realistic... headcanons.

Disclaimer: Everyone's healing process looks different, but they tend share commonalities. These headcanons are based on my own experiences. Not everyone who is healing from their trauma will experience what I have or have experienced it like I have.

[Please don't message me with explicit details about your trauma. I am at the point in my healing journey where I can share my experiences, and commiserate with other's similar experiences, but I am unable to support others in a more personal manner at this time. I wish you the best of luck in your healing process/ journey.]

Spoiler warning

Mental illness, SA, & DV Trigger Warnings

These headcanons are based on an Astarion who is still a spawn and romantically involved with a Tav who honestly loves him and isn't abusive or manipulative. Also Cazador is dead and Astarion got to stab him. They also assume that he himself does not turn into Cazador 2.0 or Wish.com Cazador.

He needs a LOT of love and patience. Which, frankly, many people don't have.

He's messy af. If "Damn bitch, you live like this?" was a person it'd be him. C-PTSD is a hell of a drug. I think he wants to be more organized and clean than he is, it's just going to be a looong process for his inside appearance to match his outside appearance. (His appearance may stay mostly the same or drastically change).

---Don't believe me? Just look at the outside of his tent: it's mostly organized and sophisticated, but the inside is messy and he sleeps on a plank of wood with a threadbare stained blanket.

He'll struggle with control issues rooted in his anxiety until he finds a way to channel that energy in to something productive and/or healthy.

---He'll veer between controlling micromanager (aggressive) and door mat (people pleasing/ passive) until he finds his (assertive) middle ground.

Anger issues ahoy! He went through "200 years of shit. PURE SHIT!" and had to dissociate/repress his feelings to 'survive'.

---Stabbing Cazador was cathartic, but it only released the surface level of his repressed rage.

-----An interesting line from the game that I haven't seen enough people talk about: When you tell Astarion to keep his cool when Cazador is goading him, Cazador scoffs and sarcastically asks Tav if they've witnessed his "fits of rage". (Of course a "fit of rage" to Cazador is probably Astaion having a slight frown when Cazador wants him to smile and be a pretty toy to show off.)

He will try to push you away and 'test' you to see if you stay consistent in respecting him and his boundaries. He needs to make sure you don't turn into a Cazador when you two are in an argument. He needs to be sure that his "No" is respected when in a steamy moment after a dry spell.

---This probably won't be as intense as it otherwise would've been because of what you two went through together, but he'll still do it.

-----He probably doesn't realize what he's doing, and when he does he'll shame spiral.

I hope you are prepared to patiently give lots of reassurance and affirmation about the same things over and over again.

---It'll sometimes seem as though he is seeking permission, but if you ever act as though you are giving him permission instead of affirmation/ reassurance he will become very defensive.

He's indecisive but unwilling to listen to your input.

---He went from 200 years of having no control or ability to make his own decisions to suddenly being free, he's going to feel overwhelmed.

-----He'll eventually realize that you have his best interest at heart and that you are not telling him what to do, you're offering suggestions to help him make an informed decision.

There's so much more but I'm tired. He'll eventually heal and live a happy and healthy life, but it'll be a bumpy road to get there.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Careless Words

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (third person perspective) Warnings: Angst. Toxic/abusive relationship dynamics. Mentions of death. Allusions to smut. Word count: tbc

Summary: She has always given her best to Aemond, but they both know he can't say the same. Based on this request. Author's note: I wanted to explore the darker side of Aemond's personality and how this might manifest itself in a relationship where neither party is particularly healthy in terms of their mindset. This was a cathartic piece for me to write. Lately I've been working through some resurfaced feelings linked to a past relationship that was based entirely around trauma bonding. It may be a triggering read for some, so please approach with caution (and try to remember the story itself is a work of fiction).

Full story coming soon. Snippet below the cut.

She knows she is fighting a losing battle before she even opens her mouth to speak, yet she cannot help herself. She is a moth and Aemond is her flame, ever bright and eternal, the very center around which her entire world revolves. Nothing has ever seemed so final though, what pieces will there be to pick up and place back together once he is someone else’s husband?

Standing before him, she juts out her chin defiantly, willing herself not to cry in spite of the lump in her throat and the insistent stinging around the rims of her eyes. “You’re really going to go through with this?”

He sets his jaw, sighing, a visible dismissal of her feelings that makes her ache and wish she had the courage to simply walk away from him. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

“What will become of me, of us?” She asks, her voice raising an octave, threatening to crack.

“That is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. My brother’s succession takes precedence over everything. Marrying one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters helps strengthen his claim to the throne. Listening to your heedless fretting does not.”

She feels heat rise to her cheeks, swallowing back her anguish, attempting to sound fiercer than she feels. “Perhaps I shall decide to marry too then.”

Aemond’s scoff is so subtle it’s almost imperceptible. “Who would marry you? Your virtue is mine, always has been. You’re fortunate I still desire you.”

His tone of voice is so practical, only the slightest hint of irritation giving it an edge. He may as well be addressing a chambermaid who has not made his bed to his liking. She longs to grab him, shake him, beg him to give her any sort of indication that this is hurting him as much as it’s hurting her, because to think that he’d let her go so easily, after all these years, is more than she can stand.

Instead she says nothing, simply watches as he turns to leave, counting down the moments until he returns to her, his words sweet once more and eager to heal the rift between them, just like he always does. She craves the storm and the calm in equal measure, but they are always on Aemond’s terms, never hers.

[sugarfreeballoon]

Unrequited

-Elrond x fem!reader, Elladan x fem!reader (choose your own adventure type-thing): ANGST and FLUFF (4k+ words, it's long) -About: Your unrequited love for the Lord of Imladris made your heart break to the point you thought you would be better off leaving. But leaving made you miss the place and people you called home...and made someone else miss you. -Warnings: mentions of su*cide and self-harm (brief and not descriptive), brief mention of physical violence (reader recalls being robbed), reader has depression but is working to get better -A/N: I don't own Tolkien's characters. This fic was cathartic to write as someone with depression.

Sinister minds had come up with lesser evils: you were sure of it. As you balanced the bowl of water between the door and the frame, you could hear the footsteps getting closer. Quickly climbing down from the chair, you pushed it back behind his desk and waited nervously for your plan to play out. The famed Lord of Imladris, and secret love of your life, walked right through the door and into your trap, water soaking him before the bowl crashed down and bonked him. Wiping the water from his eyes, he gave you a disappointed look. “So that’s what you’ve been doing with your free time.”

You beamed, thrilled your plan had worked, and clapped at your own success. “It was a good trick, wasn’t it? Elladan pulled it on me when I first came here.”

He failed to share your whole enthusiasm, opting for a slight smirk. “I hope you didn’t walk all the way from your home on the other side of Imladris to prank me.”

You shook your head. “No, it was a last-minute addition. I came here to tell you I’m leaving in two weeks.” There, the words were out there. You’d said them. There was no taking them back. All you had to do now was not cry about it. The abruptness took away your chance to procrastinate telling him.

He looked surprised. “To go where? You haven’t left the valley since you first came to me. Are you in need of a vacation of sorts after being here for so long? Restlessness has been your friend, as of late.”

Toying with a weird statuette on his desk, you sniffled and rubbed your nose. “I’m not really sure where I’m going. I’m heading east, and that’s all I know.”

“Who are you taking with you on this excursion?”

You paused. “No one.”

“No one? You think that’s safe?”

“Well, the thing is…” You trailed off, turning away and looking out the window. It was supposed to be easy to say goodbye, considering he didn’t share your deep affection. An unrequited love should be no issue, as you’d dealt with it once before. And yet, here you were, struggling not to cry.

“What is troubling you that you would ride unaccompanied into danger?” Elrond crossed over to his desk. “Surely you understand the risks. I’d like you to come back to us alive.”

“I’m not coming back,” you said, turning to him and allowing the tears to flow freely. “I’ve made so much progress. There are others who now need your healing hands and words more. You should be tending to them and stop wasting your time—”

“You have never been a waste of my time.” His tone was soft, but stern. Twisted with concern, his expression instilled a moment of hope in your soul. Perhaps he wanted you to stay and would confess his feelings to you. It was a moment you’d daydreamed about for quite some time now. Maybe it would happen in one of the gardens or in this very study. He would come to you and take your hands, saying the words you’d been longing to hear said with sincerity your whole life. The emptiness those three little words usually carried was draining. Your parents had said them your whole life before telling you to leave home because your depression was too much for them. It had destroyed your confidence and love for yourself. You wanted someone to say “I love you” for real. You wanted to be with Elrond. You wanted your dreams to come true.

That was all this was, though: a dream. You pushed the hope away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. All I meant was that I’m feeling much better and more confident. I don’t think about ending my life or hurting myself anymore. The resources this place provides have helped me immensely, and I want other people to be healed in the same way. I’m well, so I no longer need to stay.” You forced a smile. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll be sure to write and tell you how well I’m doing.”

“Y/N, I cannot approve of this.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m just giving you a head’s up. Two weeks to the day. It’s time I started doing things for myself.” You bowed respectfully before heading for the door. “I have to do this by myself,” you whispered under your breath, “for myself.”

**

Two weeks passed a lot faster than you’d thought they would. A few times, you’d nearly taken back your decision to leave because the parting process was so difficult. Elladan and Elrohir came daily to try and talk you out of it, and Elrond insisted you still attend your weekly checkups. But the last time you went to see him, Elrond had seemed calm and accepting of your decision. You took it as a sign that you’d made the right decision. As much as you wanted to hold on and keep trying to get him to love you, you worried he would dismiss it as a mere fantasy or think that you only loved him because he’d helped you through a difficult time. It was more than that, of course, but you didn’t imagine he would believe you. Now, here you were, packing up the last of your things. Sighing, you slung the bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, only to find Elladan in the doorway. He crossed his arms. “Father says I’m to take you to Lothlorien. You’ll be able to start a new life there. He's already spoken to Lady Galadriel about it.”

You raised your eyebrows. “He just decided that for me?”

“I don’t know what you think it’s going to be like out there, but—”

“I’m not under any false assumptions that the journey will be easy or danger-less, but I think I’ll decide my own destination, thank you. Lothlorien’s too close to here.”

It was Elladan’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “What? Too close? First of all, it’s not close at all. The journey will be long and perilous. I don’t know how far you thought you would get—”

“Gondor. I plan to go to Gondor.”

“Gondor?! Do you have any idea—”

“I’ve got a very good idea, thank you. I’ve been planning this trip for half a year.”

“Half a year?!”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say in a raised voice?”

Elladan uncrossed his arms. “Gondor will not be able to provide you with the same stability Lothlorien will. I don’t know why you want to get away from this place, especially when you confessed to me a few days ago that you would miss it, but going to Gondor will be an irreversible course. There will be no one to bring you back when you get homesick.”

“Homesick?!”

“Now who’s repeating who.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going to get homesick. This isn’t my home.”

Elladan laughed coldly. “It’s been your home for five years, Y/N. You’ve thrived ever since you came here. I know why you’re leaving, but if you think putting a maximum amount of distance between yourself and my father will help you get over your feelings, you’re wrong. It will tear you apart.” He sighed. “Just let me take you to Lothlorien. If you get over him, at least you’ll be set up in a place you can continue to heal. If not, you’ll have support. They could have someone bring you back or send for me to come get you.”

You wiped the tears from your eyes. “I…I don’t…if you know, does he?”

“Of course he knows.”

Embarrassment and sadness flared in your face and heart. He wanted you to leave. That was why he was letting you go. You gasped from the sheer force of pain gnawing at your heart. Tears streamed down your cheeks and a couple of sobs shook your body. Elladan helped you take off your bag and sit down. Sobbing into your hands for what seemed like hours, you tried to push all the pain out of your body. All the while, Elladan sat with you, saying nothing, but waiting calmly for you to finish, a hand rubbing your back.

After a while, you stopped crying, wiping your face and blowing your nose. “I’m so sorry about that, Elladan. I’m ready to go to Lothlorien now.”

**

You only wrote two letters to Imladris after arriving in Lothlorien. One you wrote to Elrond, but the other you wrote to Elladan. They said basically the same thing: you were doing well and found the change of scenery to be just what you needed. However, in Elladan’s letter, you also wrote that you were definitely over your one-sided love and to subtly relay that message to his father. It was too embarrassing for you to do yourself. You cried for hours after writing both of those letters, homesick for a place you refused to return to and missing people you loved so much that it hurt. Both of them responded, thankful for your letter and wishing you well, with Elladan restating he was fully prepared to come and get you if need be. For some reason, however, you felt an odd sense of closure getting the letters, as if the whole five years you spent there were a box you’d finally managed to seal shut. It had been the happiest time of your life, but you were strangely at peace with it being over.

Galadriel was kind to you and through her own means lifted your spirits. Your grief was strong within you but able to be contained. After a month, you had stopped sobbing yourself to sleep, and after two, you were able to fool most of the elves around you into thinking you were happy. You knew the Lady had her suspicions, but she couldn’t deny that you forcing your own good attitude wasn’t helping somewhat. In truth, you’d started planning for your departure from Lothlorien only two days after your arrival. You couldn’t stay here. It reminded you of Elrond way too much, and you missed the warmth and cheer his sons had provided, especially Elladan. All three had been essential to your recovery, but there was no turning back now, not without humiliating yourself. Pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps was the only way to make it now. Reliance on anyone else was a mistake. Your misery was overwhelming but known only to you. You came to realize it wasn’t closure you felt; it was doom.

You waited for a festival day to depart. When everyone else was busy, you made your way through the trees to embrace whatever your fate would be. In your mind, you hoped for a glorious entry into Gondor, but knew it was more likely that you’d suffer a gruesome death. However, you’d ceased to care. Briefly, you came across the Marchwarden and his men, and spent nearly an hour convincing them to let you leave. You only received his blessing after lying that you were on your way back to Imladris, and that Elladan was already on his way to meet you. You almost wished it were true for a second, but your destiny/doom overcame you. With a final farewell, you left the forest behind for the world beyond.

**

Four weeks ago, you’d made it to a small village just beyond Rohan’s northernmost border. You knew you couldn’t travel any further without dying of hunger, thirst, and/or exhaustion. How you’d managed to avoid being killed or eaten you attributed to a stroke of dumb luck. You’d meant for the stop to be brief, but a lack of the comfort you’d been afforded in Imladris and Lothlorien made you feel more hopeless than ever before. You managed to secure a job washing sheets and towels for a large inn, but the menial work brought you no joy, just coins. You slept outside in an alley as of recently, wrapped in an old sheet, unable to afford an inn room anymore. Woefully under-prepared for how difficult the journey would be, you’d sold most of your belongings two weeks ago for food and shelter money. You’d gone from feeling comfortable to having nothing. Cursing yourself for being stupid and not trying to get over your crush while in Imladris didn’t make you feel stronger or better. Your mind was starting to turn on you again. You’d fought for so long and been so successful, but all it had taken was one little hardship and you fell apart all over again. It was impossible to be kind to yourself now. You didn’t deserve it.

Covering in dirt and grime, only your hands and arms were washed regularly, as you needed them to be clean to handle the sheets. Last week, just when you had enough money again for a room at the inn, you were beaten and robbed by street thieves. The eye that had been swollen shut had just opened again today, the swelling almost gone. All of the bruises and cuts remained, but you fit it with everyone else in that regard. As you soaked another sheet for washing, you looked up at the darkened sky and hoped the rain would hold off a little longer until you were done. The last thing you wanted to do was work into the night, out in the open with no shadows to hide in when the lurking figures began walking the streets.

One of the townspeople rushed past your workstation, shouting to someone who’d already walked by. “Is it true? They usually don’t pass through this town.” More people began to move along past you, with a crowd starting to form. They were all muttering to one another, saying things like, “Is it true?” and “What could they be here for?” You couldn’t figure out what they were all trying to see, but you knew it was nothing to you. Getting paid for your work was the most important thing now. Novelties and new folks were no longer interesting.

“An elf army?” One woman cried in surprise, turning to the man behind her. “Is that what everyone’s in an uproar about?” Now that caught your interest. Eyes wide, you stood up, trying to scan the crowd for signs of an entire army of elves. “We see a stray one here and there,” the man remarked, “but never this many.” Unfortunately, the sheer volume of people clogging every street and alley made it impossible to see what everyone was looking at. People were pushing past you, some rather violently. You quickly stepped aside to avoid being run over. After all, it could be any elf army, and it’s not as though Lothlorien would have sent an army after you.

“It’s not an army,” someone said. “I saw them from my window. There’s only about twenty or so.”

“Y/N!” Elrohir’s voice carried across the noise. “Y/N!”

Your inhaled breath caught in your throat, tears immediately springing to your eyes. Unable to believe what you heard, you remained silent, trying to come up with a reason why he would be calling out to you. Did he mean to bring you back with him? Had he come to rescue you from the hopeless situation you’d gotten yourself in? How had he even known you’d be here?

“Y/N!” His call was louder this time, closer. It was really him.

You climbed on top of an overturned wash bin. “ELROHIR!” “Y/N!” This voice didn’t belong to Elrohir. It was deeper and filled with emotion. It was a cry of fear and relief at the same time. The crowd began to move, with people stepping aside for someone pushing through. You stepped off the wash bin and held your breath.

It was Elrond.

It was Elladan.

[bizarrelittlemew]

tagged by @saltpepperbeard @summerlinenss @edsbacktattoo @xoxoemynn @jaskierx a while back to share my fav fics i've written!

my favorite thing i've ever written has to be Five Birthdays and a Funeral (6 chapters, 57.8k words, E), so i'll start there.

this fic focuses on Stede navigating depression and anxiety while finding himself and figuring out his feelings for Ed, and its thesis statement is very important to me - that the whole "you have to love yourself before you can love others/before you can be loved" thing is a lie, and that you don't have to be a perfectly "healed" human being before you can love and be loved in return.

i put a lot of personal stuff into it, which was both scary and cathartic, and the response has been incredible and extremely validating. seeing how this stuff resonates 🥹 made me feel less alone (and i always love it when people shout at me about ketchup lmao) 💗 and along with the heavier stuff, it has strong romcom vibes, some of my fav Ed/Stede banter i've written, and lots of smut which i have on authority (from lovely readers) is very hot 😌

next, i'm pretty proud of A Series of Cases of Penetrating Stab Wounds of the Abdomen - a short fic (1.9k words, T) written entirely as a scientific paper in the (fictional) Republic of Pirates Medical Journal! it was extremely fun to find a way to make a narrative work in this format (and i especially love the footnote referencing Roach inventing ye olde toppe surgery) 🤸

i have a soft spot for In the sack (2 chapters, 8.3k words, E), which has a mix of innkeeper domestic fluff/smut, character study relating to Stede and clothes, exploration of why both Ed and Stede might find freedom and empowerment on either side of dom/sub play, and Stede getting to wear the onesie of subification 😌

lastly, this is my least-read fic (which is to be expected for fics with crew member POVs, though it actually has a lot of Ed and Stede being obnoxiously in love), but one of my favs is Bathtub beginnings (4.1k words, M). i just love the 60s New York vibes and think it came out really well ✌️

if you see this and want to talk about your fav fics you've written, consider yourself tagged 💗

[luxurybrownbarbie]

Beautiful Barbie hi!

Do you have any advice on how to get over someone you genuinely thought was the one? I don’t know if I will find someone comparable to him because I rarely like men.. 😪🥺

Hi bestie! 💛 This is late, but I hope you’re doing better now. You’ll always be able to find someone. Don’t make the healing harder by limiting yourself, as hard as it may be.

Most important things: 1) Make sure you get out of the house regularly. No skipping classes, practice, work, gym, whatever. Be around other human beings. Do not isolate yourself.

2) (Only after point one is solidified!) When you’re done with your day, go home and wallow. Let yourself feel. Cry it out. Scream into a pillow. Stay in the shower for thirty minutes. Let your emotions run free.

3) Vent. Rage. Share as much as you can with your friends. Talk about it. Talk through it. Hell, if you can, get a therapist temporarily. Again, don’t isolate yourself.*

4) Buy a journal. Or a notebook, whatever works. Write a letter. Write what you’ll miss, what you won’t miss, why it hurts, and anything and everything else you want to say. Pour all of it out. No holds barred. Make it as messy and angry and sloppy as you need to.

5) When you finish, just sit with it for a while. Don’t read it, just run your fingers along the lines. Treat every single letter as though it’s sucking poison out of an open wound. Visualize the draining. Let yourself feel emptied out. Cry a bit more. Or a lot.

6) Take five minutes, get up, walk around. Drink some water. Focus on your breathing, come back to it and close your eyes for just a minute. Open them again and then look at the letter. It’s not about him, or the relationship. It’s a testament to you. Those pages show the boundlessness of your capacity to love. You loved someone. It meant something to you. It ended. It hurt. But those pages mean you experienced something and it impacted you, and that is what living is about!

The version of you before this relationship probably couldn’t conceive of loving someone as much as you loved this guy. And someday you’ll look back on this moment and realize this love was nothing compared to the love you found later on. Those pages are tangible proof that you will love someone again, and most likely even more, someday. It just may not feel like it at the moment.

7) Burn it. Shred it. Turn it into papier-mâché. Dispose of it permanently. Do not return to it. Seek comfort in the fact that you loved once, and that means you will be able to love again. Breathe. Give yourself time to be alone, but don’t cut yourself off from things. You’ll be okay.

(3.5) (Optional) Get absolutely hammered with your friends and have a very cathartic drunk cry session. Not too many times though, don’t make it a habit!