#voiceless-terror

[insinirate]

Tbh the main conflict of Stampede is that Knives wants to get nasty with Vash and Vash would rather not

The only meaningful difference in the dog AU is that Vash is very happy about getting bred by his big brother

my anons sometimes have such a way with words that i can only dream to grasp

[concordewillfly]

my favourite pastime ever is screaming along to songs knowing in my heart i could never scream like that but i do it anyway so i sound like a cat yowling and such. my screamo princess status cant be taken away

[metamatar]

While there is no official data on the cancellation, denial, impounding or revocation of passports in Jammu & Kashmir, media reports suggest that about “98-200” passports may have been revoked since the abrogation of Article 370. Amnesty International documented in detail two cases of critics facing arbitrary passport revocation and one case of inordinate delays in issuance of passports.

Masrat Zahra, a Kashmiri photojournalist who has won several international awards, has found herself in a state of limbo after her Indian passport was revoked without warning while she was pursuing higher education in the United States. Her family in Kashmir received a notice on 24 September 2023, dated back to 3 July 2023, demanding a response by 20 July—a deadline that had already passed by the time she became aware of it.

“They had already made their decision to revoke my passport, so responding seemed futile,” said Zahra. “I am essentially trapped. I cannot leave the United States, nor can I return to India. I’ve had to self-censor my thoughts, avoiding anything that might raise attention on social media. But the hardest part is being separated from my family and unable to continue my work in Kashmir. I feel a deep responsibility to be the voice of my people, who are currently voiceless. There are no stories coming out of Kashmir anymore.”

Before leaving India in March 2021, Zahra had been targeted under the Unlawful Activities Prevention Act (UAPA) in April 2020 for allegedly posting ‘anti-national’ content, though she was never formally detained. “Once I left, my name was added to a no-fly list. If I return to India, I know I will not be able to leave again. The police have harassed and surveilled my family, assaulted my father and mother. They questioned neighbors about my whereabouts and subjected my family to endless phone calls,” Zahra explained.

In addition to these challenges, Zahra continues to face death threats, and the charges under which she was persecuted remain active. “Even though I was never given a copy of the FIR, the authorities retain the power to arrest me at any time if I return,” she added.

Waheed Para, an activist and political leader associated with the opposition Jammu & Kashmir People’s Democratic Party (PDP), was accused by the National Investigation Agency, India’s primary anti-terror investigation body of being a “threat to the security of the state”, and had his passport impounded and revoked in May 2023 by the Regional Passport Office in Srinagar before he could travel to the US to start a fellowship at Yale University.

[pretzel-box]

Tags: Romance, Therapist Reader x Patient Sebastian, Human AU where Sebastian escaped as human from urbanshade, fluff.

Cordelia from @splatting-stampede mentioned

Words: 6,4k

Authors Note: May be strangely written since this was supposed to be a series as well that I scraped a while ago.

Sebastian Solace sat in the comfortable seat of a neat black car, his hand absently tracing the soft cotton surface beneath him, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly, almost reverently over the expensive looking fabric. His nails scratched it, ever so softly, just enough to catch on the threads but not enough to tear.

Touch was a simple act for the human kind—so instinctual, so innate. We touch without thinking, without meaning. It’s the most natural thing, something we do constantly, yet we seldom stop to consider it. For Sebastian, though, touch had become something different—something both grounding and disorienting.

He had the habit of touching things. Simple things, ordinary objects, as if by running his hands over them he could tether himself to the present, remind himself that he still existed in this world. His fingers would brush the cold, metallic pole of a street sign on his daily walks, savoring the biting chill of steel beneath his skin. Or they would glide over the rough wood of the cutting board he pulled from the shelf each evening, preparing another meal for his dear mother, feeling the grains of the wood press into his palms—a familiar sensation, comforting in its mundanity.

But the soft cotton of the car seat, the way it yielded so easily to his touch, triggered something deeper within him. His mind began to drift, the memories rising unbidden like ghosts in the corners of his thoughts. At first, it was harmless—the recollection of his childhood, the warmth of home, the innocent textures that filled his world back then. The feel of his mother’s worn apron when he hugged her after school, the smooth glass of the windows he’d press his face against, watching the rain slide down in endless rivers.

Yet those memories, so pure, began to twist. They bled into something darker, tainted by the nightmares that Urbanshade had burned into his soul. The soft brush of skin against skin due the contact with the urbanshade soldiers, once a sign of comfort, now carried the weight of fear. He could still feel the slick warmth of human flesh under his nails, the sensation of digging into it—not out of malice, but out of desperation. The way it gave way beneath pressure, soft at first, then firm, until you hit the bone, that unforgiving barrier beneath the fragile veneer of the body. The rush of terror that coursed through him, through them.

His fingers trembled slightly, still tracing the seat, but now his mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t the soft fabric beneath his fingertips anymore—it was the cold, sterile metal of the surgery table. The way it pressed into his back, hard and unyielding, the chill seeping into his bones as they strapped him down, the harsh, sterile scent of disinfectant invading his nostrils. He could feel the restraints on his wrists, tight and unrelenting, the cold bite of the metal cuffs against his skin. He remembered how the lights overhead blazed down on him, so bright they seemed to sear through his skull, and the shadowy figures that moved around him, faceless, voiceless. He felt the cold steel instruments in their hands, the sharp sting of needles, the pull of something beneath his skin.

Urbanshade.

It wasn’t just a place. It was a sensation, a lingering imprint on his very soul. To feel Urbanshade was to feel a violation of everything human. It was the coldness that seeped into your bones, the sterile touch of hands that viewed you as nothing more than an experiment. The loss of warmth, the loss of identity, the loss of control.

He dug his nails slightly harder into the car seat, as if testing its reality, trying to convince himself that he was no longer there. That this was just a seat in a car, a simple object, unthreatening. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling. The memories clung to him, crawling beneath his skin like parasites, making even the softest of touches a reminder of what had been taken from him.

He closed his eyes, taking a slow, shaky breath. The car seat was soft—too soft. He needed something real, something solid, something that wouldn’t blur the line between past and present. His fingers ached for the sharp cold of metal, the rough grain of wood—anything that could remind him he was still alive, still here. Still human.

But even now, in the silence of the car, in the comfort of safety, Urbanshade lingered.

It always would.

Sebastian kept his eyes closed, trying to block out the world around him with a newfound mental force. The gentle hum of the engine was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present, though even that felt surreal, like a lull between nightmares. He shifted in his seat, feeling the faint resistance of the belt around his waist—another restraint, softer than the ones at Urbanshade, but a restraint that he despised nonetheless. The walls of the car, though padded with comfort, felt like a cage. No matter where he looked, it all felt so unbelievably suffocating as the memories kept replaying all over again.

The road stretched out ahead, dark and winding, and the faint glow of the asylum’s lights appeared in the distance. It loomed there like a monument to everything he feared. His heart quickened, not because he didn’t know what waited for him there, but because he did.

It wasn’t freedom. It wasn’t safe. It was just another kind of prison, one where they wouldn’t peek into his body but rather into his mind like some museum only to label him with a bunch of wrong things.

The two men in the front seats spoke in low voices, barely audible over the sound of the car, but Sebastian wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to. He knew what they thought of him—what everyone thought of him now. Broken. Dangerous. A man twisted by whatever horrors Urbanshade had inflicted. An experiment gone wrong instead of being an escaped survivor.

They didn’t understand. No one did.

His fingers continued tracing the seat, seeking that thin line between control and collapse. He could still feel the cold metal table beneath him, the surgical instruments, the way his skin had been pulled and prodded as though it wasn’t his own. The memories tangled together, one bleeding into the next, and he felt his breath hitch, his body growing tense.

The car jolted to a stop, and Sebastian’s eyes snapped open. They were there.

Outside the window, the asylum stood in the pale glow of the overhead lights, its high stone walls casting long, ominous shadows across the pavement. Barbed wire curled along the perimeter, a silent reminder that no one left without permission. The building itself was old, the kind of place that wore its history in the cracks of its foundation, the air thick with the memories of all the broken minds that had passed through its halls.

“Alright, let’s get him out,” one of the men said, his voice gruff and mechanical, as though Sebastian was just another case file to be processed.

The back door swung open, and cool night air flooded the car. Sebastian felt a hand grab his arm—firm, but not rough—and pull him out of the seat. His legs were shaky beneath him, the world swaying slightly as his feet touched the ground. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light, but his senses felt dulled, disconnected.

They moved him toward the entrance, the crunch of gravel beneath their feet echoing like a death march. His wrists were bound in front of him, not tightly, but enough to remind him of where he was headed. The large iron doors of the asylum creaked open, and the moment he stepped inside, the sterile smell hit him. It was different from Urbanshade—less clinical, more… institutional. But it was the same coldness, the same emptiness.

A receptionist sat behind a glass panel, barely looking up as the men escorted Sebastian through the main hallway. He passed doors, closed and locked, leading to rooms he’d soon know intimately. A faint flickering from the overhead lights made shadows dance on the walls, and for a moment, he thought he saw something—someone—lurking in the corner of his vision. He flinched, pulling back instinctively, but it was gone in an instant. Just his mind, playing tricks again.

“Room 314,” one of the men muttered as they rounded a corner. “That’s where he’s staying.”

The door to 314 stood ahead, solid and unremarkable, but to Sebastian, it felt like another cell, another space where his mind would be left to unravel in the silence. They unshackled his wrists before pushing him gently into the room, the door closing with a heavy, metallic thud behind him.

The room was small and drenched in gray, drowned from all colors. The bed was plain, the sheets folded with mechanical precision. A single window allowed a sliver of moonlight to pour in, casting faint shadows on the cold floor. Everything was sterile, untouched, and devoid of warmth. He stood in the center of it all, feeling the walls close in. It was like the movies he saw as a teen, where he giggled about the silliness of the gray walls, the gummy cells and those weird white jackets.

The men outside exchanged a few words with the nurse stationed in the hallway, but Sebastian didn’t care. He walked slowly toward the window, pressing his fingertips against the cool glass, feeling the barrier between himself and the world beyond. His breath fogged up the window as he leaned in closer, staring out into the night.

The asylum was quiet, peaceful in a way that felt suffocating. But inside his head, there was no peace. Only chaos. Only memories of what had been done to him. His mind flickered back to Urbanshade—the cold touch of steel, the searing pain that followed each experiment, the faceless shadows that haunted him still. The worst part wasn’t even the pain, though. It was the way they looked at him, like he was less than human. Like he was a thing.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands, but the pain did nothing to ground him. His mind still spun, spiraling into memories he wished he could forget. Faces blurred together—his own reflection warped into something he no longer recognized.

He stepped back from the window, turning to face the empty room. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse, but it wasn’t the simplicity that unnerved him. It was the silence, the lack of life. There were no beeping machines, no harsh lights, no whispers of doctors making notes in the corner.

Yet somehow, that was worse.

For all its sterile emptiness, Urbanshade had felt alive—like it pulsed with the dark, unspoken secrets of the things that happened there. The asylum, on the other hand, felt like a void, waiting to swallow him whole.

And here he was. Trapped again.

Sebastian closed his eyes, sinking onto the stiff mattress, his head falling into his hands. They told him this place would help. That it would make the nightmares stop, make the memories fade. But he knew better.

This was just another place to lose himself.

And deep down, he wasn’t sure there was anything left to save.

On the next day, a woman with bright cyan hair came to his room, ripping the door open. She was clothed in pristine white, holding a clipboard and a pen while she scanned the room. The she glanced over at him. “My name is Sasha, I am the head nurse. And this wonderful young lady is Cordelia, your personal nurse. We will now begin to escort you to your first therapy session with the doctor. Please do not resist. Another woman stepped in front, probably Cordelia, she pulled the blanket from his body and let the cold air hit his limbs. He knew better than to resist, so he followed the lead of the two women.

The therapy room was sparse but comfortable, designed with a muted palette of soft blues and grays to soothe the nerves of its occupants. There was a large window with a view of the asylum's manicured garden, but the bars over the glass reminded everyone where they were. You sat relaxed in a chair across from Sebastian, clipboard resting lightly on your lap, pen poised but not moving.

Sebastian sat across from you, his body stiff in the armchair as though the cushion beneath him were made of nails. He hadn’t said a word since entering the room, hadn’t even made eye contact. His posture screamed defiance, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his legs locked at sharp angles. The air between you two was thick, charged with his silence. It was a barrier, one he had no intention of letting you cross.

“Sebastian,” You began, keeping your tone professional, calm. “We don’t have to talk about anything too difficult today. This is just an introduction, a way for us to get to know each other.”

Silence.

You resisted the urge to glance at their watch. The first session was always the hardest, especially with someone like Sebastian, someone who had been through horrors no one should ever have to experience. Urbanshade. The name alone sent shivers down your spine, even though you didn’t know the full extent of what had happened there. But you had read the reports, the endless files filled with medical jargon, lists of procedures, and psychological damage that painted a grim picture.

But reports were just words on paper. They didn’t show what was really inside a person’s mind, didn’t reveal the layers of trauma, fear, and anger that might be hiding behind the walls someone like Sebastian had built.

“You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready,” You continued, trying to fill the silence without making it feel pressured. “This room is a space for you to express whatever you feel comfortable with. Or, if you’re not ready to talk, that’s okay too. We can just sit here.”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered, but not toward you. They remained fixed on a spot just beyond your shoulder, as if staring through you, beyond you. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his arm, a silent beat that seemed to fill the room, replacing the conversation that should have been happening.

You glanced down at your notes, briefly scanning over the key points they had planned for this session. Establish trust. Create a sense of safety. Encourage small, manageable steps toward communication. But how could you build trust with someone who refused to acknowledge your presence? How could you help someone heal when they wouldn’t even meet your eyes?

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” You asked softly, giving Sebastian the space to respond.

Nothing.

Sebastian’s breathing was even, steady, but there was a tightness in his shoulders, a slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his calm exterior. He was a storm, held tightly within the confines of his own body, and you knew that trying to force him to open up would be like trying to pry open a sealed vault.

“Sometimes just being here, being present, can be a start,” You added, not expecting a response but hoping your words might at least reach him. “You don’t have to rush. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

The minutes ticked by in heavy silence. You could feel the weight of Sebastian’s resistance pressing into the room, thickening the air between them. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on that point in the distance, and you had to remind yourself to breathe, to stay grounded, to not let the quiet suffocate the session.

You could see it in him—the walls he had built, the armor he wore to keep the world at bay. And who could blame him? After everything he had been through, everything he had survived, of course he would protect himself. Of course he wouldn’t trust easily, or perhaps ever again. Urbanshade had taken so much from him—his sense of safety, his autonomy, his humanity.

“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” You repeated, more to yourself than to Sebastian at this point.

Sebastian shifted, his foot tapping the floor once before going still again. He was listening, that much was clear, even if he wasn’t engaging. His silence wasn’t apathy—it was something else. Maybe fear. Maybe anger. Maybe both. Your professional detachment reminded you not to push, not to pry too hard, but it was difficult not to feel the sting of rejection. You were here to help, but the wall between you two felt insurmountable.

“I want you to know that whatever happened to you, whatever you’re feeling, is valid,” You said gently, your voice steady but soft. “You don’t have to talk about it now, but when you’re ready, I’m here to listen. And I won’t judge.”

Still, no response. But you hadn’t expected one. Not today.

The session was coming to a close, the hour slipping away in a haze of quiet tension. You made a few notes, documenting the silence, the lack of interaction, but also the subtle tells—Sebastian’s tapping fingers, the tightness in his posture. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small sign that despite his refusal to engage, Sebastian was present. He was here. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for now.

“Thank you for sitting with me today,” You said as you stood, tucking your clipboard under your arm. “We’ll try again next time.”

Sebastian didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the end of the session, but you didn’t expect him to. You offered a small, professional smile before leaving the room, the door closing softly behind them.

Outside, you let out a slow breath. It was only the first session, and it hadn’t gone anywhere near as you had hoped. But healing took time. Trust took time.

And with Sebastian, they would need all the time in the world. You could see the two women, Sasha and Cordelia, walking down the hall, ready to retrieve Sebastian from the room. And then it finally hit you, Sebastian would need you.

…

Sebastian sat in the chair again, the same one as last time. His fingers drummed against his knee, but this time, the rhythm was slower, more measured. He stared at the floor, at the scuffed tiles beneath his boots, the edges of his vision blurring as he let his mind drift.

He knew the routine. The therapist—you—would walk in, sit across from him with that same calm, professional demeanor, and start talking. You would ask gentle questions, give him space to respond, and when he didn’t, you’d continue, as though his silence didn’t matter.

But it wasn’t that he couldn’t talk. He just didn’t want to. He didn’t want to pull the memories from the dark corners of his mind, didn’t want to speak them into existence, give them life outside his head. Speaking made them real. And he wasn’t ready for that.

He heard the soft click of the door opening and glanced up briefly, just enough to see you walk in. Your movements were graceful, unhurried. You were always calm, always composed. It was almost unnerving how collected you seemed in the presence of someone like him—someone so broken.

You don't know, he thought to himself. You have no idea what I’ve seen.

His eyes followed you as you sat down, the chair across from him creaking slightly under your weight. You smiled, a gentle curve of your lips that never reached your eyes. Not a fake smile, just... professional. Detached, like everything about you. But even then, there was something warm about it. Something that made him feel… different.

“Hello, Sebastian,” You said, your voice soft but steady. You crossed your legs, resting the clipboard lightly on your lap. “How are you feeling today?”

He didn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t answer. But instead of looking away like he normally did, he kept his gaze on you—just for a moment longer than he should have. There was something about the way you spoke, the way you sat there with that calm expression, your brow slightly furrowed in concern. It was different from the others. From the doctors at Urbanshade who treated him like an experiment, or the guards here who watched him with suspicion. You were present, really there, even though he gave you nothing in return.

“Today, I thought we could talk about some grounding techniques,” you continued, not fazed by his silence. “They can help when things feel overwhelming. When the memories come back, or when you start to feel like you’re not in control.”

Your voice was gentle, soothing. Not too soft, but not authoritative either. It was balanced, measured, like you’d practiced every word, every sentence, to avoid triggering a reaction in him. He knew what you were doing—he’d been studied, analyzed enough times to recognize the tactics—but it didn’t irritate him the way it normally would.

He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes flicker to your hands as you spoke. Your fingers were long, delicate, resting lightly on the clipboard. He imagined what it would feel like if those fingers touched his skin, tracing his scars, the ones Urbanshade had left behind. Would they tremble? Would you recoil? Or would you be steady, unfazed, just like you are now?

A strange warmth spread through him at the thought, something unfamiliar. He pushed it down quickly, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.

“I know it might be difficult to talk about things right now,” you continued, your tone softening even more, “but sometimes, even just being here, in the present moment, can be a small step forward. We don’t have to talk about Urbanshade. We don’t have to talk about anything painful.”

Your voice was like water, soothing the edges of his raw thoughts. He found himself staring at you more openly now, watching the way your lips moved, the slight tilt of your head when you were trying to find the right words. There was something about her, something that drew him in despite himself.

It wasn’t like the clinical, detached therapists he’d seen before. You weren't prodding at him with cold instruments, trying to dig into his mind. You were just there, sitting across from him, giving him space to be whoever he needed to be at that moment.

His gaze wandered up to your eyes. They were soft, focused on him, but without judgment. There was a calmness in them that made him feel… safe. He hadn’t felt that in a long time. Maybe not ever.

Sebastian’s throat tightened, and he quickly looked away, staring back down at the floor. His heart was pounding now, though he couldn’t quite explain why. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. But something about your presence stirred something deep inside him, something he hadn’t felt in years. Something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel.

Love.

The word hit him like a brick, and he nearly scoffed at himself. A crush? On his therapist? Ridiculous. Pathetic. But the more he tried to push the thought away, the more it clung to him, like a persistent shadow.

He forced his hands to still on his lap, trying to focus on your words again. You were talking about grounding techniques, but he wasn’t listening. Not really. His attention was drawn to the way your hair fell softly around your face, the way your eyes met his with a mixture of curiosity and patience.

Why were you so calm? Why didn’t you flinch like the others had? Why didn’t you look at him like he was a monster?

His chest tightened again, and for a brief moment, he thought about speaking. About telling you that he wasn’t worth your time. That you should stop wasting your energy on someone like him. But the words wouldn’t come. They were stuck, lodged deep in his throat, weighed down by all the things he could never say.

So instead, he stayed silent, watching you as you continued to talk, your voice filling the room like a soft, soothing melody.

He hated that he felt this way. That he was letting himself feel anything at all. But every time he looked at you, every time you smiled that calm, patient smile, something inside him cracked just a little more.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he wanted to put the pieces back together.

The third session begins like the others—with silence.

You sit in your chair across from Sebastian, clipboard balanced on your knee, pen hovering just above the page. You’re used to this now, the quiet that fills the room whenever he walks in, his eyes refusing to meet yours. He’s always so distant, so closed off, as if the world outside him doesn’t exist. But today, something feels different. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you notice it—an energy, a shift in the air that wasn’t there before.

Sebastian sits there, his body tense, arms folded tightly across his chest. His gaze is, as usual, trained on the floor. His fingers, though—those are what catch your attention. They’re tapping rhythmically against his arm, a slow, steady beat that mirrors something deeper. His hands are large, strong, but there’s a kind of fragility in the way his fingers curl in, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for something just out of sight.

You try to focus, to stay professional. You’ve been here before, with patients who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak. You’ve spent hours in silence, waiting for them to take that first step. This is no different. Or at least, it shouldn’t be.

But Sebastian is different.

You don’t know when you first started feeling it—the slow pull, the magnetic draw that seemed to emanate from him despite his silence. Maybe it was the way his eyes flickered ever so slightly when you spoke, or the tension in his body when you mentioned Urbanshade. But it’s more than that now. There’s a heaviness in your chest that wasn’t there before. A tension that tightens around your heart whenever you look at him.

And then, something changes.

His fingers stop their tapping. For a moment, everything is still. You sense it before you see it—the way the air shifts between you. Slowly, almost cautiously, Sebastian lifts his head. His gaze meets yours.

It’s the first time he’s looked at you—really looked at you. His eyes, dark and intense, are fixed on yours, and for a moment, the room feels smaller. The space between you shrinks, though neither of you move. The weight of his stare presses against you, heavy with something unsaid. He doesn’t speak, but the silence between you is charged, humming with an unspoken connection.

Your breath catches. There’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s not just pain or anger or the shadows of his past. It’s something else. Something that feels dangerously close to interest, to curiosity. And for the first time, you realize that he’s watching you, studying you just as you’ve been studying him.

You swallow, trying to push down the warmth rising in your chest. You’ve always been careful, always kept a professional distance. But with Sebastian, it’s harder. It’s harder than you ever thought it would be.

“Sebastian,” you begin, your voice softer than you intended, “I know it’s difficult for you to talk. And that’s okay. We don’t have to rush anything. I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

You’re trying to sound calm, collected, but his eyes haven’t left yours. The weight of his gaze is unrelenting, as if he’s seeing through the layers of professionalism you’ve carefully built around yourself.

He doesn’t speak—he’s not ready for that—but there’s a flicker of something in his expression. Something vulnerable, something that makes your heart ache in a way you weren’t prepared for.

The tension in the room grows, thick and heavy, and yet neither of you move to break it. He doesn’t turn away this time, doesn’t retreat into his silence like before. He just… watches you, and you watch him, both of you suspended in this moment, like two people standing at the edge of something neither of you can fully understand yet.

You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to look down at your clipboard, your hand trembling slightly as you pretend to write something down. But you can still feel his gaze on you, lingering, like a touch that hasn’t quite happened yet.

This isn’t just another session anymore.

It’s something more.

And it terrifies you just as much as it draws you in.

And then he moved. Sebastian stood up from his seat, as if he was ready to leave. His actions held an unfamiliar confidence but instead of walking to the door, he took a step towards your direction, walking around the small table that seperated you.

And then he moved.

Sebastian stood up from his seat, as if he was ready to leave. His actions held an unfamiliar confidence, but instead of walking to the door, he took a step toward you, moving around the small table that separated the two of you. The room seemed to shrink as he came closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

Your heart raced, confusion swirling in your chest. You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words lodged in your throat. He wasn’t supposed to get up—he wasn’t supposed to break the unspoken boundaries that existed between patient and therapist, between the quiet safety of this room and the darkness you both carried inside. But here he was, crossing a line, drawing nearer with each slow, deliberate step.

His eyes were locked onto yours, still dark, still unreadable, but now there was something beneath them—something that made your skin prickle with both fear and an odd sense of anticipation. Every muscle in your body tensed, as if preparing for something you couldn’t quite understand yet.

The space between you disappeared as he stood directly in front of your chair. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed at his sides. His movements were slow, calculated, and there was a strange gleam in his eyes—something dangerous.

"Sebastian…" you whispered, unsure of what was about to happen.

He didn't respond, not with words. Instead, he reached out, his hand lifting slightly as if he were about to touch you, but then paused, hovering inches from your cheek. Your breath hitched in your throat, the proximity making your pulse quicken.

For a brief moment, a flicker of fear shot through you. The way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers twitched… It felt like something was wrong, like this moment was teetering on the edge of something you couldn't control. You wondered if, maybe, he was about to lash out, to hurt you, to let the trauma and anger he carried inside finally spill over.

But then, instead of striking, his hand gently cupped your face.

The touch was startlingly tender, a stark contrast to the intensity in his gaze. His fingers brushed your skin softly, almost reverently, as if he was testing the reality of you being there, in front of him. His thumb traced the curve of your jaw, and despite yourself, you leaned into the warmth of his palm.

Your breath caught again as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. His eyes, though still intense, had softened, and the tension in the room changed. The danger, the anticipation, melted into something else entirely—something even more frightening in its vulnerability.

Sebastian’s gaze flickered to your lips, and for the briefest of moments, you saw the battle raging within him—the conflict between everything he’d endured and this sudden, raw connection with you. He wasn’t supposed to do this. Neither of you were. But the pull between you was undeniable, the boundaries crumbling beneath the weight of it.

And then, without a word, he kissed you.

It was slow, hesitant at first, as if he were afraid you might pull away. His lips were soft against yours, his hand still cradling your face with that same unexpected tenderness. The kiss deepened, and something in the room shifted again—whatever line had existed between you two was now gone, lost in that moment.

Your hands, almost instinctively, reached up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer as you kissed him back. Every ounce of fear, every question that had been running through your mind, disappeared as the kiss grew more intense. There was no need for words now, no need to explain what this meant.

In this moment, the silence between you wasn’t empty anymore—it was filled with something deeper, something far more dangerous than you’d ever imagined.

But you couldn’t pull away. Neither of you could.

For a moment, the world outside the two of you ceased to exist. The heat of his mouth, the weight of his hand on your face, the warmth of his body pressing closer—all of it consumed your senses, drowning out the rational thoughts that had once kept you grounded. You knew you should stop, knew you should pull back and remind him, remind yourself, of the rules.

But then you felt it—Sebastian’s slight retreat, as if testing the waters, his lips barely parting from yours. The absence of him was like a shock, the cool air rushing between you as he paused, his forehead resting against yours. You both lingered there for a second, just breathing each other in, his breath mingling with yours, the charged space between you humming with something neither of you dared to define.

Your heart thundered in your chest, your fingers still clutching his shirt, as if you feared letting go would shatter the fragile moment. He didn't move, waiting, watching you with those dark eyes that now seemed impossibly soft, full of a vulnerability you’d never seen before. It was in that moment you realized the thin barrier you had built, the one designed to protect your professionalism, had crumbled entirely.

You could hear your own voice inside, pleading for control, urging you to step back, but the whisper was distant and weak. The pull between you was undeniable. The heat of him, the way his body angled ever so slightly toward yours—it was magnetic, irresistible.

And then, as if on cue, you leaned up, closing the space once more, your lips meeting his again. This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was deeper, more insistent, as if both of you had surrendered to the inevitable. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer still, and you let him. You wanted him closer, needed him closer.

Your carefully constructed rules dissolved completely, fhe professional detachment you'd clung to for so long disappering in the face of this undeniable connection. You had spend so much time trying to remain objective, distant and now it all seemed foolish. All that mattered was this, the way he held you, the way your bodies moved together as if they were meant to.

As the weeks passed, the stolen moments between you and Sebastian grew more frequent, more intense, yet somehow quieter. The tension that had once simmered beneath the surface had given way to something gentler, something more tender. It wasn’t just about the stolen kisses anymore; it was the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way he would linger at the end of a session, reluctant to leave.

Sebastian had changed.

At first, his walls had been as impenetrable as ever, the therapy sessions filled with the same guarded answers, the same dark silences. But little by little, you noticed a shift. He started talking more—not much, but enough to notice. He would occasionally let slip fragments of the pain he carried, the anger that had always bubbled just beneath the surface. And when he did, his eyes would find yours, as if seeking reassurance that it was okay to let go, even just a little.

The asylum, a place that had once felt like a prison for him, became something else. His steps were lighter, his time with you less of a battle and more of a release. And though neither of you had ever spoken about what was happening between you, there was an unspoken understanding. It was dangerous, yes, but it was also necessary—something that grounded both of you in a way that nothing else could.

Sometimes, after the sessions, when the building was quiet and the dim lights cast long shadows, he would stay behind. You both would sit in the darkened room, no words exchanged, the boundary between patient and therapist blurred beyond recognition. In those moments, when the world outside was distant and the only sound was the ticking of the clock, it felt like everything was on the verge of changing again. And yet, neither of you pressed for it. The uncertainty lingered, hanging between you, a reminder of the rules you’d broken, the risks you were taking.

One evening, as the session ended and you stood by the door, he paused on his way out. He hesitated, his hand gripping the frame, as if unsure of something. He didn’t say goodbye. Instead, he turned back to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

You didn't ask for what. You didn’t need to. His eyes told you everything—the progress he had made, the comfort he had found, the lines he had dared to cross. For the first time, it felt like he was no longer just surviving, but living, however uncertain that life might be.

And then, as always, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. You stood there for a moment longer, the echoes of his presence still lingering in the room.

You knew this couldn’t go on forever. Eventually, something would have to give. The relationship you had with Sebastian—whatever it was—was unsustainable in the long term, the delicate balance you’d struck destined to unravel. But for now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, to accept that things didn’t always need to be defined, that sometimes the most important connections were the ones that defied logic and rules.

The future remained uncertain, but one thing was clear: Sebastian had found something with you—something that had softened the edges of his world, made him feel, even just a little, that he wasn’t alone in the darkness. And in return, you had found something, too—a connection that made you question the boundaries you’d built around your own heart.

Where it would lead, you didn’t know. But for now, you were both willing to wait and see.

[hussyknee]

Still on a mental health break. Frankly gonna be a while before I want to step back into this racist cesspit. Just coming back to tell them, from the bottom of my heart, that I hope the ghouls saying, "The leftists and Muslims that wouldn't vote for Harris can now watch Trump bomb Palestine into glass," spend the rest of their miserable lives in terror, lose everything they love, die a drawn-out, agonizing death, and burn in the fiery pits of hell for eternity.

Biden-Harris wanted to maim, bury and burn alive, starve, and torture a thousand children a day more than they wanted to save your goddamn country from Project 2025. They sacrificed your lives for their own bloodlust as surely as they are doing the same to Palestinians. They continued nearly all of Trump's policies and went further right than the Bush Administration until even the Cheneys supported them. They deliberately hemorrhaged voters because they depended on you to scapegoat every minority they threw under the bus and the people having the correct reaction to having a genocide live-streamed into their pockets for 400 days. And now they tell you to blame Muslims, Latinos and Black men while white women voted for Trump in the same numbers as in 2016.

For once in your fucking life speak truth to power, stop going after the fucking left whose sole demand was an arms embargo to Israel and tried to negotiate with these demons every step of the way, stop making up conspiracy theories about commies and hold your fucking party accountable for their behaviour. Because you cannot fuck over so many voiceless people and expect your own lives to never be affected.

[gertold]

having very regular thoughts about william clarke. his alienation from other people is a constant reminder to us and him in the body he no longer possesses. because in that moment when he connected with tanya, in that moment when he was reminded of lila’s existence…he knew there was no escape from this state he was born into. his habit never wore off when he first met lila, because he never had any sense of bodily autonomy to begin with, not with his mother.

in some ways it feels like a continuity of his mother’s torment, now in a metaphysical form: his mother saying horrible things to annie, making him cry, begging her to stop > lila directing the stranger to kill tanya for trying to get rid off her. the only difference that sets the finality of his condition is in the same terror william is gilded with, but now it’s voiceless, silent.

[corruptedcaps]

A Worthy Successor

Beth’s eyes widened in terror as the ominous voice echoed through her mind. "No! I won't let you! I won't let you take over my body! No! Noooooooohhhhhh!" Her desperate plea filled the dimly lit room.

Suddenly, the air grew heavy, and an unnatural calm settled upon Beth. A sinister chuckle resonated, followed by a soothing voice that whispered, "Mmmm, that's much better. I don’t know why you fought against this Beth, your innocent little body will be the perfect vessel for me. You should be honoured that you’ll become the new Black Queen! But if we’re going to strike fear into this world then we’re going have to look a little more... wicked."

The room quivered with an otherworldly energy as shadows danced around Beth, twisting and contorting. An eerie silence fell before a surge of dark power consumed her. The transformation began, and the air crackled with malevolence, signaling the birth of a formidable force within the unsuspecting church mouse.

"No! This can't be happening! Stop!" Beth’s desperate cries filled were voiceless inside her head as the dark power intensified around her. Her own voice chuckled with a sinister delight. "Embrace it, my dear. You'll thank me for the gift I’m about to bestow upon you."

Despite having no control over her body anymore, Beth felt a strange warmth spreading from within her. "What... What are you doing to me?" she stammered, her voice quivering.

The Black Queen's laughter echoed, drowning out Beth’s protests. "You'll soon find out, my pet. Watch as your dull world transforms."

Beth’s chest began to swell, and she gasped, feeling the fabric of her clothing stretch against the burgeoning curves. "No, stop! I don't want this!"

But the dark queen's whispers continued, weaving through her thoughts like a venomous thread. "Oh, but you do. I can see inside your mind that you’ve always wanted respect, power, control. I am giving that to you. Embrace the beauty and power I grant you. Become the vessel I seek."

Resisting the changes, Beth’s once-flat chest now defied her will and gravity, blossoming into a voluptuous display. “What have you done to me?”

A seductive laughter filled the room. “I’ve only just begun, my dear. I’ll give you a new form that will turn heads and command the attention you so desperately crave.”

Beth’s ordinary brown hair transformed into a cascade of silky black, each strand shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The glow seemed to extended to her skin which changed from her usual pale to a deep brown tan. Long sharp nails painted a deceptively soft pink shot out of her fingers. The Black Queen observed her reflection in the mirror allowing Beth her first glimpse at her transformed body.

The Black Queen’s voice resonated with triumph. “Behold, you are now a vision of beauty and power. You are no longer a mouse; you are a lioness of wicked beauty.”

Beth couldn’t believe how she looked. Her plain body had been warped into a wicked altar of beauty and cruelty. And yet, with each passing moment, Beth’s resistance waned. A conflicted expression crossed her face, torn between fear and a growing fascination with the newfound allure.

As the Black Queen’s power continued its course, Beth, her voice now a hesitant whisper, uttered, “Please… more. Change me further.” The once defiant good girl found herself succumbing to the Black Queen’s irresistible influence.

“A Queen does not plead; they demand, they take. Go ahead, Beth, change yourself further.” The black queen’s command echoed through Samantha’s mind, and a surge of dark magic coursed through her veins. Control over her own body returned, and Beth found herself standing at the precipice of an important decision.

The newfound power within her granted the ability to exorcise the black queen, to reclaim herself from the clutches of this malevolent force. However, the allure of the dark transformation lingered, a tempting proposition that whispered of untold power and wicked beauty. The power felt too good, she looked too good. All she wanted now was to be bad.

With an evil smirk crossing her lips, Beth embraced the dark power that coursed through her veins. Raising her hands, she conjured a malevolent energy that enveloped her.

"Well, well, my dear aren’t you a natural," the dark voice whispered within Beth's mind. "Show the world the irresistible allure of shadows."

Beth's eyes gleamed with dark intensity as she surveyed her reflection. "Watch and learn," she replied, her voice now a sultry whisper, a stark contrast to her former self.

The once-subdued garments gave way to a tight-fitting, glossy black strapless oufit that clung to every curve. Intricate red patterns adorned the fabric, forming arcane symbols that seemed to writhe and pulse with an unholy energy. The outfit accentuated Beth's voluptuous figure, leaving little to the imagination.

"Is this what you desire?" the dark voice purred. Beth, with a wicked smile, replied, "Oh, it's only the beginning."

Her legs, now encased in knee-high boots crafted from shimmering obsidian leather, exuded a seductive allure. The boots, adorned with silver spikes along the heels, added a touch of danger to each step. Beth's reflection in the mirror revealed the transformation—a vixen of shadows, ready to command the forces of darkness.

Sleeves of sheer obsidian fabric billowed around her arms, as if woven from shadows themselves. A high, embellished collar framed her delicate features, imparting an air of dark authority.

"A queen should command attention," the dark voice echoed. Beth, with a flourish of her hand, summoned a flowing, sheer cape around her waist. It billowed with an otherworldly breeze that seemed to originate from the abyss itself. The inside of the cape was lined with red velvet, adding an air of regal malevolence.

As she completed the ensemble, Beth's eyes glowed with black intensity, mirroring the dark magic that surged within her. Her hands, adorned with talon-like nails, hovered over her transformed self with a newfound sense of mastery.

"Behold the queen of darkness," Beth declared, her smirk deepening. The room, now tinged with an aura of dark enchantment, bore witness to Beth's transformation into a queen of wicked beauty, fully embracing the dark path laid before her.

"Ah, my worthy successor," the dark voice resonated with a sinister satisfaction. "You have passed the test, Beth. You shall bring this world under your heel."

Beth's eyes gleamed with triumph as the dark magic continued to pulse within her. "Of course, I am worthy," she declared with an evil cackle. "I am the black queen, and this world shall bow before me."

The room seemed to shudder with the weight of Beth's newfound power. Her laughter echoed, a chilling symphony of malevolence that heralded the rise of a dark monarch. The glossy black bodysuit clung to her like a second skin, and the obsidian boots echoed with each step she took.

"I shall revel in chaos, and my reign will be one of wicked splendor," Beth declared, her voice dripping with arrogance. The cape billowed behind her as she reveled in the proclamation of her dark destiny.

Beth, with an air of regal arrogance, extended her hands, reveling in the malevolent power coursing through her veins. The once-timid girl had fully embraced her role as the black queen, ready to unleash her reign of wickedness upon the unsuspecting world.

[eri-pl]

Tengwar <3

It's the best thing Feanor made. Seriously. Nobody will murder you for using Tengwar. Nobody will hack your brain when you use Tengwar in the wrong moment. (The lamps are ok, but kinda meh, Tengwar is better)

Did you know, just did you know, that every consonant has a name, and the name is a noun, and some are really cool (and foreshadowing)? (chart and translations below the cut)

So, if you want a chart, here is a chart. And the names are (I don't have diacritics, so I just double the long vowels) (Quenya mode, with some historical notes from LotR appendix and elvish.org):

"Normal stuff Feanor had on his desk" row:

T tinco - metal

P parma - book

K calma - lamp (like those Feanor made? Or... like those Aule made)

Q quesse - feather (birds are important!)

"Things that keep you trapped" row:

ND ando - gate (like... the Door of Night?)

MB umbar - doom (doesn't need a comment...)

NG anga - iron (also, used in sword names, even for non-iron swords)

NGW (in TA changed to NW) ungwe - spider's web (foreshadowingsight on Feanor's part? :) )

"Mountain things???" row

S suule - spirit or breath (Manwe Sulimo... king of winds and stuff...) | TH thuule - spirit or breath, but I'm a Feanorian, or at least I'm a linguistics geek and love the phonetic scheme (me! but otoh it sounds dumb :( ), or I love the Teleri and/or Sindar, who use it as th (Finarfin, iirc).

F formen - north

H (h before t) harma (voiceless velar fricative phonetically /x/... I think. the sources are confusing. In TA mostly softened into a breath h.) - treasure (my precious Silmarills...) | aha (later renamed, idk when) - rage (my Silmarils! and, even more importantly, my father!)

HW (like "wh" in "why" especially the fancy British way of saying it where it's actyally h-w, not w-h) hwesta - breeze

"We need to name a row after places of articulation" row

NT anto - mouth (couldn't you think of a better name? I get it's a place-of-articulation row, but i don't like it anyway)

MP ampa - hook

NC anca - jaw

NQ unque - hole

"Things that Melkor likes" row:

N nuumen - west (Numenor...)

M malta - gold

NG (by TA: N) noldo - Noldo, as in type of Elf. Yes, it was initially Ngoldo. I mean, initially initially it was a gnome, so...

NW nwalme - tornment

"I have no idea but vaguely positive-metaphysical?..." row

R (pre-consonant or end-of-the-word R | non-vibrating r, whatever this means. My bet is that it's "r" as in Japanese --- position like "r", movement like "d") oore - heart (or: rising. Guess whose name includes this component. funny that it's the same word as heart, especially given that heart is also defined as conscience here)

V vala - power (duh.)

Y (? it has some history) [there was a consonant here]anna - gift (totally not made into a sus word by now...)

W/V (Initially W, by TA changed to V) wilya - air / lower sky (funny how those two names are next to one another. )

"Really, I think Feanor ran out of ideas for coherent name sets" row

R (vibrating, typpical "rrr") romen - east (the same sound being written with "East" and with a word alternatively translating to "heart" or part of Melkor's name --- I love it! Why? See my recent post. I love that. Call it a coincidence, but I love it)

RD arda - realm

L lambe - speech

LD alda - tree (!)

Now we are not in regular rows, so, the extra letters:

S silme - starlight (or... metaphysically important light in general? because guess what word is connected to this one. Also, funny how it's just after "tree"). It's always S, never TH.

(nuquerma is just "flipped" or something I guess)

Z aaze - day / sunlight (in Noldorin changed to Z - aare) | SS esse (Numenor and later, because they did not use the "z" sound, I think) - name

HY (Numenor and later: H) hywarmen - south

I yanta - bridge

U uure - heat

(doesn't have a sound, in Sindarin it's A) osse - terror (I guess he isn't a very nice Maia?)

H (voiceless h: /h/ not /x/; in TA replaced by harmen) halla - tall | gasdil - stop

(short wovel carrier) telco - stem

(long carrier) aara - dawn

The Tengwa names after directions are also used as marks in the compass (like we use NSWE) And snarky comments aside, I love the schema and how the names connect into many interesting and often Silm-events-related patterns. I love how each (almost) row is named after a set of similar things.

I'm not an expert, and if I made some mistakes, I'll be grateful for corrections.

[deripmaver]

What’s The Point Of Elaine?

There are three eras of Casca in Berserk so far: Golden Age, Elaine, and Revived Casca. I find that within the fandom, Elaine is written off as not particularly worth analysis, that she just represents a transition state between the real Cascas, pre-eclipse and now revived. 

I do in some ways understand this feeling - Miura has said that in developing the story of Berserk, he ultimately decided in keeping Casca alive only because he needed a way to keep Guts’ rage intact, and not let the sands of time dull his need for revenge. This comes from an interview with Miura from 2017, that he spared Casca because she makes sure Guts never forgets the Eclipse. If I may editorialize, though, I think there are narrative reasons to keep a character alive, but that doesn’t mean said character isn’t being independently developed and doesn’t have their own inner world, especially when Miura has said repeatedly he’s trying to write real people and not archetypes. If I may also be snarky for a moment, considering one of my first interactions on Berserk tumblr had someone arguing that Casca stans read too much into Miura’s quote on her recovery to the point where you can’t even really assume he intended to have her recover - perhaps it’s reading too much into this quote to extrapolate that “Casca remained alive to fuel Guts’ anger = Casca as a character is only a plot device for Guts and Miura had no intention of developing her outside of that.”

Another reason to overlook her as a character that I do understand: Elaine is completely voiceless. She literally does not speak except for baby-ish noises from the time after eclipse until chapter 355, practically 275 chapters. For all of that time, we are given no indicating of how Casca is processing the eclipse (or not processing) - and so in some ways Elaine is just a narrative place holder as Kentaro Miura found his footing with her recovery. 

My intention with this post is to show that it is possible to gain a bit of insight into Casca’s feelings and emotions as Elaine from some key moments, even though she is never given a voice. Much like (in my opinion lol but also I’m right) Beast of Darkness is just a facet of Guts’ mind and not a separate being, ditto Femto for Griffith, Elaine is Casca, and she’s being written as Casca, just a shallow and surface level version of her. 

Elaine has these few shining moments where Casca comes through, showing that deep inside her mind, Casca is there, a terrified little sprite shielded by this childish outer shell, hiding from the world. First, when she jumps down the cliff during Conviction Arc:

Next, when she kills the men who attempt to rape her during the Winter’s Journey. 

I won’t post any more panels from that chapter lol. It would be better if there was just... A look into her mind during those moments, just for an instant. What made the actual Casca come through in those moments? How did she feel, suddenly being back in her body, in a world infinitely more terrifying than the one before she regressed? What happened to make her go back in, in her safe little cocoon of Elaine? 

Another moment where Casca comes through just for a moment is, in my opinion, one of the most powerful in the series: 

Casca has run to Griffith on the Hill of Swords. It’s not clear why - perhaps she remembers their closeness before the eclipse, or perhaps she’s being drawn to the moonlight boy, her son, in his body. All of a sudden, the unstable rock wall cracks, sending boulders tumbling towards her, and Guts isn’t close enough to get to her in time...

But Griffith is.

He protects her from the falling rocks, and we get the page posted above. This is the first time Casca has seen Griffith since he raped her during the eclipse. She starts to shake and sweat with him holding her still, her noises becoming terrified. She reaches out to him with a trembling hand, her eyes filling with tears. Her brand lets out a burst of blood, and her trauma and terror overwhelms her, while Griffith stares down at her impassively. Casca is still in there, and being confronted by her rapist again, she is absolutely terrified. This, to me, says so much about Casca in this state. Again, if we only could have gotten a glimpse into her mind at the moment, even if it was through the jumbled confusion of Elaine. I think it would have added so much.

I kept waiting for this scene to happen again with Casca revived, but at this point it hasn’t happened. Even with Casca in Falconia it hasn’t happened. MAYBE ONE DAYYYYYY.

There’s a particular look Casca gets when she’s terrified and dissociated, and that remains constant from the Golden Age, to Elaine, to post-revival. 

I also especially like that second panel, when she first wakes up as Elaine because her first instinct when terrified is to attack and bite Guts. It feels like a very Casca thing to do, and in fact that’s more or less what happens on their first meeting in the Golden Age, just a tragic perversion of it. Also, her expression is so similar to the one she made when she was begging Judeau not to die.

I think it’s worth noting that the impacts of Elaine on Casca are ongoing, and unlike some of the discussion I’ve seen, I don’t think anything that’s happened to her as Elaine will be brushed aside. As Elaine, we’re first introduced to her because she is absolutely terrified of all men, even her companions. 

This is reflected in the corridor of dreams, in my view, with the very unsubtle penis monsters (which I won’t post an image of LOL) - the association of men with sexual violence and sexual assault. Her close companions as Elaine were majority women, and this remained true after her revival. By the time Guts and Casca were reunited in Conviction arc, she seemed to have lost some of her mistrust of men, and him in particular - but of course that didn’t last long.

There’s also this imagery of her in a coffin, which is again reflected in the corridor of dreams.

Finally, and most interestingly, in chapter 372 it was pointed out to me that it seems Casca remembers her ordeal at the Tower of Conviction, and being surrounded by Falconia’s soldiers reminds her of the mob trying to burn her at the stake. 

There’s a lot to say also about Casca and Guts’ relationship and how his assault of her as Elaine impacted it, but I think that’s been discussed elsewhere and better than what I could. My point in writing this is to show that Miura was writing Elaine as Casca, and that there are moments where Casca seems to come to the surface and break through the protective façade. I think it could have only helped to give us just a brief glimpse into her mind in those moments, and it’s a detriment that there was nothing. In looking at the panels of Elaine, I think we can get a sense of where Casca’s recovery might go.

Interestingly, most of the moments I’ve shown here happen from before Farnese and co. join the group, and as the later arcs drag on I feel like Elaine gets goofier and less serious of a character, kind of like chestnut puck. Still, I still hold out hope that with Casca revived, even if she is in Falconia, we’ll start to see her process what happened to her as Elaine - especially if she comes across Luca and the girls, as I’m sure she will. 

Must protecc

[toxxictrait]

she is voiceless. her own unique personal story is begging to be told. she’s hurt but quiet and no one is bothered enough by her quietness to figure out what’s wrong (maybe because girls should be quiet anyway). it doesn’t matter you were hurt and changed because ultimately it doesn’t matter what kind of person you were or the potential you lost. it never mattered. you were inconsequential to them (you are a girl). people around you love you but the love you are given isn’t the love that saves you because those who loved you never really understood who you are (they loved you like they think a girl should be loved). nobody ever has. they have used your body and that made you feel even more of a stranger in your home, in your life, completely depersonalised (you’re starting to realise you don’t really exist as you, you only exist as a girl. for the world and your family, you’re not you, you’re just a girl. and girls are only good for their bodies) you know something has happened, is currently happening, and that something is wrong, but then why isn’t anyone making a fuss? (losing track of who you are is just what happens to girls. it doesn’t matter that it happens because it’s not robbing the world of anything but a girl). you can’t tell whether you even should be upset. maybe you have died but you don’t know it yet. why else won’t people see you for who you are? why else would people treat you as if you’re not there? you’re trapped with your existential terror. even your death isn’t enough to open the family’s eyes to what they lost. even after they find the safe, the cassette, even after they read her diary. sure it’s weird, alice was more than we thought she was, but they move on without understanding it. the family doesn’t realise Alice is in the pictures all along, but we see it. her desperation is conveyed to an audience of strangers who gloss over it as much as her family has. they focus on the depiction of the family’s loss more than on Alice’s experience of teenage-hood. no one grieved her. she’s alone. she says so, she writes so, she visits her family in their sleep, she spells it out; yet—even though they read, and listen, and watch the footage—no one sees or hears her. she’s ignored. but there’s no malice, because this is just how things go (as a girl).

[thesoggyraincloud]

Catching her Chapter 8

/ Daryl Dixon x OC // Merle Dixon X OC (platonic)

Season 1-3 // THE QUARRY

word count: 2913

Updated

Warnings- Allusion's to SA, Cannon swearning and physical violnce ------

Instead of the comforts of a viable, functioning society, she had gotten two rednecks. They had arrived in a whirlwind, a week after the initial outbreak and a day after Quinn had run out of food.

------

Daryl. 

He hadn't felt terror in a long time. The kind that leaves you powerless, voiceless and without a scrap of logic left to reason with. That hadn't touched him since he was big enough to be called a man, since before he realised his fists left less room for argument than his words and he’d never seen a reason to turn back. The first time he’d felt terror was at the hands of his father, but this time maybe he understood Merle’s. Why he took the beatings and why he left. Because it paralyses you, when someone who feels like a part of you gets hacked away. Leaves you primal and wanting to charge towards the danger or away, whatever helps the feeling in your chest subside fastest so you can fucking breath again. 

Because he can't breathe. Not while she's in there and it’s his fault. He doesn't even know if she's ok, totally absent from their earlier scuffle at the Vatos base. All his senses tell him to run head first into the danger to get her, but the guilt in his chest makes him wanna turn on his heel and run away from it all entirely and back to Merle. His thoughts crashed and rolled against his skull as Rick spoke, forming words that were sucked away before they reached the redneck's ear. 

He was pulled from his thoughts when the items of offence were pushed into his view, the guns they unwittingly traded for their friends. And now would be forced to trade back, leaving him just as unable to defend her as before. He hated himself for it but his body felt tight at the thought that he’d be trading Quinn for Merle if he did this. One wrong move and he wouldn't be around to look for his brother. Hell every second that passes separated them by another mile, was she really worth more than Merle to him?

“Them Guns are worth more than Gold.” He huffed, rubbing his face, and quickly continued,  “Gold doesn't protect your family, put food on the table.” 

“Are they really worth it?” As the word left his mouth he physically pulled away from them, turning from the men and only thinking about the guilt coating his mouth. . 

“If I knew we’d get them back, I might agree.” Rick quickly turned toward T-dog, “What, you think Vatos across the way is just gonna hand 'em’ over?”

The boy they grabbed spoke up, Daryl didn't care for the subject of his words, only that the kid's voice made him feel like pushing his nose through into his skull. Hitting him didn't do anything to make him calmer it just poured more into his sense of injustice and had him pacing across the room again

“The question is do you trust that man's word?” T dog spoke over the chaos, and he tried to focus, to use his rage as a tool to help the situation and not hinder it, but he just ended up wondering how Merle would’ve responded. 

“No, the question is what you're willing to bet for it, could be more than them guns, could be your life. Are they really worth that to you? “ In his mind he asks himself the same question, weighing it against his heart and his mind. 

“The life I have I owe to him, I was nobody to Glenn, just some idiot stuck in a tank. He could have walked away but he didn't, neither will I.” he paused and handed Daryl a gun and continued, 

“I could be asking you the same question. That woman, Quinn, came out here to help your brother. She could've stayed back at camp with the rest of the women but she's out here for you.”

He wanted to knock the self righteous bastard around the head with the butt of his gun or push him out the window and into the street, he didn't have a damn clue and he sure as hell didn't have a right talking to him about it right now. That asshat was ignorant of anything that happened in that camp, hell he owes her shit? she owed him if anything. But the nagging feeling was pulling his feet toward fighting, bulldozing through the next few hours to get Quinn back to him so he could try and get some control over this hellish day. He knows where she is and if he could get her back he might have some hope in finding his brother.  

The men around him stared at him, eyes boring in and he realised they were waiting on his answer. 

“What, you gonna hand the guns over?” 

“I didn't say that.” Rick turned to T-dog, “You can still leave, there's nothing keeping you here.” 

Like hell there ain't, Daryl internally snarked, but T-dog chose to stay. Giving him nothing more to complain about. Leaving that space empty to focus on the pricks that took Quinn and Glenn.

“Come on, this is nuts. Just do like g says.” The kid spoke up, and sooner wished he hadn't by the time Daryl's hand connected with his face again. And like a highschool bell, the slap quietened the room, unifying them in their decision to leave. 

 The whole ride down he sat in anticipation, each metre the van flew over filled him with steam and fire. Like the bow of an old ship his mind fractured into a thousand working parts pushing and pulling against itself, the bedlam refusing to placate against what possibilities lay ahead. She hadn't been there when they initially tried the exchange, although from the way they’d displayed Glenn like a Christmas turkey, he's almost grateful he didn't see her. Or he would be if it didn't mean 100 different, worser outcomes might be taking place. It could be happening right now, what had he done to try and stop it but think about leaving her there with them to chase after his damn brother, yet again picking up after him. 

Soon enough the Van came to a stop and He had to prepare himself for the fire fight to come. He stepped out into the sun with a frown and pulled himself alongside the others with boots filled with lead. When the door opened, Rick led with Miguel, displaying the hostage and using him as cover from any enemy fire. It was a cold thing to do, Daryl mused. Stepping in behind them, it was clear they’d not lacked much in man power, at least seven or eight men stood guarding the entrance, locked and loaded ready to push them back out into the street. 

“I see my guns but they're not all in the bag.” The head vato, Guillermo spoke first. 

“That's because they're not yours. I thought I mentioned that.” Rick countered.

Both sides anticipate the pull of metal against their fingers. Someone spoke up from the back but Daryl was so weird on Guillermo he didnt make out what was said just that something was, staring into the crowd of antagonist’s he tried to pin the voice down to a face. 

“I don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation.” The head Vato replied and the room felt like it shrunk as the Vatos pressed them back. 

“No, I'm pretty clear. You have your man, I want mine.” Miguel was freed, stumbling into the men in front and being absorbed by the crowd. 

“Two hostages for the price of one? I'm gonna chop up your boy. I'm gonna feed him to my dogs. They're the evilest, nastiest man-eating bitches you ever saw. I picked them up from Satan at a yard sale. And my boys will do worse to your girl. I told you how it has to be. Are you woefully deaf?” Daryl had to hold himself from throwing the gun and running at the asshole. 

Rick argued back but the situation grew more tense by the second, each man cocking their guns readying for the battle, that was until a small figure displaced the crowd in front. Breaking it apart and revealing themselves to be an elderly woman, calling out for someone to help. 

“Get that old lady out the line of fire now!” Daryl shouted, but she paid the situation no mind, not seeing the true threat before her. Tugging away at a man and crying for them to help someone they couldn't see. 

Guillermo shouted for them to leave but it was too late, with their weakness exposed they had no choice but to back down. The elderly woman, now realising the man in front’s attire started to shout in defence of her grandson, she thought the group came to arrest him. The situation quickly made Daryl feel grateful that his grandparents had never been any thought to him, looking after the old was the kind of burden he knew he couldn't handle with the dead walking. 

“Let em pass” That brought Daryl back to attention, pushing forward to find what he’d come all the way out here for. 

“Where's the woman?” He hadn't bothered waiting for an answer, heading off down the corridor towards Glenn's voice. 

“If your looking for your wife,  she's in the nurse's office.” A larger woman pointed towards a door in the opposite direction and he started for the handle, halfway turning it before he actually registered what she’d said.

“Wife?”  He questioned but the woman had already begun walking away back to the gathering at the end of the hall. 

He clicked open the door with a breath of relief, she lay down sleeping on the examination table and for the first time since she was gone Daryl felt he could shut his mind up, if only for a minute, as if looking at her might salvage this hellfire of a day. 

“Quinn, Quinn?” He shook her but she didn't stir, it took a hard shove before the woman woke up. Shifting in place and wincing in pain as she slowly opened her eyes to his face above hers. 

“Jesus Daryl.” She flinched back until he caught her arm bringing her up to a sitting position. 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“Those damn asshats busted my back when they grabbed me.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke, looking away from him. 

“Lemme see.” He panicked as soon as he’d said it, pulling away almost immediately at the idea but unable to stop the words leaving his mouth. 

She shook her head, yes and took a sharp breath in. 

“There’s something I gotta tell you before you…you know.” 

“I was in an accident, there's a lot of scarring from when I was fused back together, I got a couple of grafts and shit too.” 

“Fused wha-” He was cut off when she raised her shirt, twisting around to catch his face. 

“Jesus Christ.” Was all he could manage, her back was a mass of scar tissues and mottled bruising. A perfect line snaking up her spine stood against the paintings on her skin as permanent evidence of the surgeries she’d had to save her life. 

“This is from an ‘accident’?” He questioned, although he was faintly aware she’d just said as much. 

She didn't reply, clumsily pulling down her shirt and letting out a heavy sigh. Rubbing her face, likely still sleepy. It wasn't unusual but something about the weight in her limbs set his mind in motion, his eyes watching her more carefully. 

“It’s not something I like talking about.” 

He turned away, wiping his damp palm’s on his jeans. He stood rigid on the spot, eyes darting between the wall and his feet trying to come up with something to say. But he was left at a blank, he had never seen anything like that on someone outside of himself, he could only think of his father and the crack of the belt flicking over him.

“We should go find the others, Daryl.” She broke through the image of his fathers torment, slowly walking to him until he took her arm to steady her, moving them both down the corridor towards their friends. 

Once all was said and done, the vatos were left with half the guns and ammo and Daryl hoped he never saw them again. He’d spend the minimal time inside hoping he would recognise the fucker that hit her, and the rest helping her hobble around trying to find a brace for her back. He’d been in a borderline rage helping her look for it in the vast building, but once they had it he was exhausted and ready to head back to the van and away from all these damn people. 

He could have died hearing glenn call out ahead of them. 

“Oh my god. Where the hell’s our van? We left it right there. Who would take it?” 

‘Merle” Rick countered, he looked at Quinn but she had no expression, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“He's gonna be taking some vengeance back to camp.” 

They continued their trek forward, pushing on despite the missing van, it was starting to get dark by the time they found a car in decent enough condition to hot wire. They all passed the journey in anxious anticipation at the wrath Merle might have inflicted upon the camp. He felt too done at this point to feel any guilt over it, Merle's potential actions might be his to deal with but until they got back he could have a moment of peace. 

His focus returned to Quinns rhythmic breathing, deep in sleep her face covered partially by his jacket collar. He found he had the temptation to pull it down from her face to get a better look. He settled on counting her breaths instead, watching the car pass by the highway. 

“Is she alright?” T-Dog spoke from his space in the empty trunk behind them. 

“They roughed her pretty good.” Rick filled the momentary silence as Daryl thought of a reply.

She wasn't ok, not in the slightest. He had no idea what the fuck to do to help her, hell he didnt even know there was something wrong with her and he’d spent the better part of 3 months with her. If she told him there wouldn't have been a chance in hell that he’d have let her run after those guns, she put herself in so much danger. 

“She’ll be fine.” He really hoped she would be. 

When they arrived at a stop the air was cold and silent, penetrated almost immediately as the car door shut by a scream that ripped out across the quarry. A chorus joined them, wailing on as Daryl raced forward, Quinn momentarily forgotten in the back of the car. 

He knew the others were following behind him, their footsteps quickly falling among the shuffles of the dead as bullets rang out. In the smoke and dispersing crowd, it was hard to tell how many there really were, taking extra agonising seconds to clear out the walkers. Every direction he looked they stumbled around, most covered in fresh blood. He took them down as they came to him, eventually running out of ammo and resorting to using the butt of his rifle to smash them down. 

“AMY!” 

“Oh god”

“AMY!”

Andrea’s screams signified the end of the walkers' evasion on their small encampment, Daryl stood alongside the rest of the group. Watching in shocked and equally horrified silence. No one moved for a few seconds, standing stagnant in the sea of death around them not daring to disturb her. 

“I remember my dream now, Why I dug the holes.” Jim broke through the clearing, ending the silence and snapping Daryl back to attention. 

“I need to go get Quinn.” 

He didn't bother waiting for a reply but he equally didn't expect one from the shell shocked crowd. As he got further out, almost halfway down the road they had left the car as he heard another slow, shuffle of footsteps coming towards him in the dark. Grinding dirt under their feet and limping over to him he didn't think twice lifting up the end of his gun and stepping forward in quick succession. 

“JESUS CHRIST” It was Quinn, shuffling down the road, in the dark on her own ready to be chomped down on by any geek around. 

“Are you Dumb? Or just high again because I told you to stay in the Damn car.” He grabbed her arm, his heart beating faster than it ever had before. He took a good look at her, checking for any more injuries as she tried weakly to pull away. 

“Fuck you, I woke up alone. To screaming and gunshots. Where were you? What the hell is going on?” He was silent, staring at her shadowed face watching her expression closely.

“Walkers hit the camp, and you’d know that if you hadn't gone out there earlier and stormed up Atlanta like your G.I Joe.” 

“Is anyone hurt?” At this point she was leaning up to him, so close he held his breath. 

He pushed her shoulder down firmly, immediately regretted it as she cringed back, wincing in pain. 

“Aside from you, Yeah. Just wait till you get back to camp, no point crying over shit you can't do anything about right now.” He slid his hand down her arm, letting her lean on him as they started the slow walk back.

---------------------------------

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

Masterlist

---------------------------------

[pastelalleycat]

So I've been thinking about how it's being heavily implied that the Neighborhood puppets are supernaturally linked to their voice actors. When Poppy panicked in her bricked-up house and simultaneously saw an open and closed door, it was similar to ink-and-color Eddie staring at his puppet hand and struggling to move it. The terror of realizing there's another world out there, another you out there, perhaps, had to be terrifying for both of them.

And yet, these links are paramount to their existence. Without them, they'd be voiceless, unable to express themselves, unable to interact with others. It's like- imagine your favorite cartoon character's voice actor being replaced. It's still that character, technically, but it isn't them in the same way it used to be. Every voice actor will bring something different to a character, for better or for worse. It's a very precarious balance between innovation and familiarity.

It's notable that Frank and Sally were present during both Eddie and Poppy's breakdowns, and that both of them have had brief moments of what might be lucidity on the WHRP pages- Frank with the bug messages (though these might be Wally's doing), and Sally with her scary story on the Halloween record. Sally is vain as all get-out and seems to have a bit of a mean streak with Eddie, but she clearly knows more than she lets on. Frank isn't just grumpy, he has a wide range of emotions: singing about his orderliness and winter woes, laughing with Julie, being generally helpful.

Wally is the only puppet who is said to be unclear as to whether he HAD a puppeteer or not. His backstory is by far the most mysterious, other than Home's (and that clock/watchtower/lighthouse thingy, whatever they are). When he interacts with the in-universe You on the website, he sounds noticeably drained and frustrated at being unable to establish the kind of connection he wants to. When the Neighborhood findings are allowed to be observed without interference, he sounds more confused and melancholy.

What I'm trying to get at is- if all the Neighborhood folks had a human they were linked to, if that human died or left, they became functionally lifeless. Wally, Frank, and Sally are exhibiting traits of sentience beyond their assigned roles. I think this means that either Frank and Sally's humans are still alive, still tethered to them, or they found new humans to inhabit among the WHRP.

Think about it. All Wally has wanted through this whole story is for somebody to "let him in". He's tried with the Question-Answerer, he's tried with the in-universe You, he's trying with W, but nothing works. The human-puppet links that came so instictually to his friends are quite difficult for him for some reason, so he manipulates what he can- the website, audios, images- in order to be seen.

Do I think Wally's being manipulated by some outside force, like Home or that clock-thingy? Yes. Why is he still sentient when he's missing the human link he needs to be? There's clearly an exception to him, but I'm not sure what. Maybe he can just get by with the smaller, temporary connections he forges when communicating with W.

Wally's actions are absolutely not entirely his own. There's more pieces to the puzzle we're missing.

[hi-its-kat]

John found Katma in one of the many, many living rooms of Wayne Manor. He took a deep breath before entering, twisting the ring around nervously. This could make or break everything.

...

Katma had lit the fireplace, sitting on the couch. She could feel John's ring just outside the door, hovering. Not coming in. The nervous knot in her stomach twisted even tighter.

She wasn't completely blind. Not enough not to notice her husband's increasing stress, the way he rarely shared her bed. But she could only stand helplessly by the side, unable to stop the spiral of doom. Because until now, the only person capable of stopping it all had been entirely unwilling to so much as talk about it with her.

...

John entered the room on quiet feet, sinking into the couch next to Katma. But he didn't lean into her presence, no matter how much he wanted to.

"My darling wife."

He greeted, slipping into the familiar comfort of Oan.

...

Katma noticed it all. John's tenseness, the way he seemed to avoid even looking at her. The fond nickname. Her worry increased more.

"What's going on?"

John hesitated. For a man that large, he looked impossibly small.

"John!" she insisted.

He didn't look her in the eyes.

"I fucked up."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

...

Katma was still looking at him, endlessly patient. But there was worry written all over her body.

"Alright. Tell me."

The slight quiver in her voice betrayed that she wasn't as calm as she tried to be.

"I've not really been... taking care of myself very much. At all, actually."

At John's confession Katma cocked her head to the side.

"You think I didn't notice?"

Inside of John, something broke.

"It's not just that. I've been using the ring, to push myself beyond my physical limitations. There isn't much else keeping me together. I- I kept telling myself, just one more crisis, one more emergency, than I'd think about myself, but... there was never time."

Katma paled, shocked.

...

Katma knew what John was talking about. Of course she did. It wasn't like she'd never used the ring to stay up for a week, only to heavily regret that decision the moment she deactivated it.

But not to this extent. Never to this extent.

"How long?"

Her voice was toneless.

"I don't know."

"Take it off."

She demanded. John looked at her, voiceless terror.

...

That hadn't been part of the plan. That so hadn't been part of the plan. But John obliged, pulling off the ring and dropping it into Katma's hand.

"Take it off" Katma said again. "I need to see how bad it is."

The effect was immediate.

Like the low-level, background tiredness that had suddenly crashed into him with full force. His body lighting up with different kinds of pain, so strong he was seeing stars. Every injury he had ever sustained ached. It was bad enough he almost lost consciousness. He shivered. He couldn't think, couldn't focus on anything.

Some things were expected, like the way he noticed hunger and thirst again. He could feel his heart starting to beat again, how he actually needed to breathe now. But his breath was ragged, and his heart beating painfully fast. Gravity was asserting its influence on him, leaving him dizzy.

Other things were... new.

He leaned forward before throwing up.

...

Shock. That was about the only thing Katma was feeling. It was so much worse than she expected. And yet her eyes roamed. Keeping track of everything until she knew she had seen everything she needed to.

She reached out to John.

...

Through the haze of everything, John felt a familiar warm hand taking his, slipping over the ring. He connected with it, allowing it to take it all away again.

He could focus on his wife again, who was frozen in shock.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

He repeated over and over again. Katma didn't say anything, still frozen.

Then something in her eyes cleared up. John swallowed hard when he noticed the new look in her eyes. She was furious.

"This ends today."

Her voice was cold like ice, cutting straight to his core.

"Bart needs us. Me."

He pleaded.

Katma shook her head.

"He is out of the reach of even Lucifer and the guardians. We can only pray he comes home. And when he does, he will need you. You, not whatever... this is."

...

The cold fury inside Katma was all encompassing. At the world, at John, that...

John was scrambling for an answer, but she knew he wouldn't be able to give one.

"Why didn't you talk to me? You're supposed to trust me. We're supposed to be there for each other. WHY did you think you had to suffer alone!"

"I didn't think it was a big deal."

"Not a big deal?! You- you-"

"I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Can you put yourself first just this once!"

John blinked up at her, speechless.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I- I need some time alone."

Katma stormed out.

[nrdmssgs]

If only our troubles could treasure us, just as we - them.

I was trying to adapt this text for Nikolai story a million years ago, but abandoned the idea, because I thought, nobody would actually need it. But I think, there is someone out there, who will appreciate this piece of poetry, I translated. For @karlachismylife

Sleigh bells rang, as lathered horses pulled a cart towards virgin soils. You, oh my poor friend, were blinded by two black dash-lamps behind broken nose glasses.

There was a fight for a death. They battled for a place and the right to puke under the bridal desk. They hurried to become everything, raping the bride, firing at random, stopping at nothing.

Today, your town is nothing more than just a postcard. A classic union of a carnation and a bayonet. All the holes of your foul frock coat are stiffly mended by a rough red thread.

Bloodstains blooming on bridal bedsheets. They are hung out as a symbol of the passionate date, mixing in wine together with sins. All this to the accompaniment of the radio-alarm from Moscow.

My friend, they are already here, closer than you might think. Ardent spadones. A voiceless bowstring.

Crippled palaces, not covering their shoulders before the skies. Neva-river is gushing from the wound. Sleeves, that are no more used.

Let the rain wash your cheeks of traces of old slaps. If only our troubles could treasure us, just as we - them.

But our memory goes on the war-path, circles above our heads as an electricity-meter. It loses height above you and turns into a halo.

That's how life rounded us up, tied our bodies in a bow. The beautiful scarlet bow turned into a bloody bandage.

Wedding ceremony flew to railway stations in a prison van.And railway lines flinched and separated like the rays of a cross.

You grind your jaws like a drawbridge covered with loose plaster. But the dome of your forehead is cracking with a deathly melancholy.

A thunderstorm, fireworks and us! - and we fly over St. Petersburg, Cutting the spire of lines into the lattice of terrible dreams.

We are flying through times that have bent the country into the ram's horn and drank from it. Everyone drank from it and so did we take a sip. We drank to conscience and to terror.

We drank to everyone. To those, whose lives were taken with a brush of a Leningrad's blockades scored tongue. To those who did not have time to say goodbye when leaving.

Unbuckle your pants, my friend, and accept your flogging guilt As the Summer Garden accepts the rain falling down.

Having trampled prohibition, The rain pours black and thick autumn moonshine into a marble bowl.

My friend chants patriotic verses as if they were a prayer, Filling them with his own thoughts.

Fireworks thunder outside the windows. Tsar Pushkin shines in a new frame. The dead don't drink, but we don't want to spill a single drop.

Two-headed eagle with broken wings cannot share The crown between the beaks.

A faint ghost of a star at the end of a dying cigarette, Light it up, my friend, stay calm, don't rush...

Oh my poor friend, from the depths of your soul The heart of Petersburg beats with its hoof.

Aleksandr Bashlachev, 1986

[wordsintimeandspace]

Aro TMA Fic Rec List

Happy Aro Week! Since people seemed to enjoy my ace TMA fic rec list, I’m back for another round with aro recs! All of these are rated G or T. Labeling the pairings in these fics was sometimes a bit difficult, so just a note that I use the slash also for queerplatonic relationships. And, as usual, feel free to add your own recs to this post!

💚🤍🖤 

Love, Or Whatever You Call It by @morning-softness (Jon/Martin, rated T, 20k words. First part of a series!)

don’t say you love me by @bluejayblueskies (Jon/Georgie, rated T, 3800 words)

something about us by @dathen (Jon&Gerry, Jon/Gerry/Martin, rated T, 2300 words)

Three Little Words by @thekisforkeats (Sasha/Tim, Sasha&Jon, rated T, 4200 words)

More than Enough by @voiceless-terror (Jon/Martin/Sasha/Tim, rated T, 3200 words)

Deep Magic by @dathen (Jon/Martin, rated T, 800 words)

in the reciprocal by @bluejayblueskies (Jon/Martin, rated T, 8300 words)

There's a hole in my soul (I can't fill it) by who_needs_words (Jon/Gerry, rated T, 2000 words) 

ludus by @bluejayblueskies (Jon/Gerry, rated T, 2000 words)

i love him, i love him not by hisimisms (Jon/Tim, Tim&Sasha, rated G, 1400 words)

something in common by @annabelle--cane (Jon&Sasha, rated G, 1400 words)

and now all fear gives way by @backofthebookshelf (Jon/Martin, rated T, 2500 words)

Ordinary Love by @dathen (Jon&Daisy, rated T, 1400 words)

Pour out the gasoline by @qpenguin98 (Jon/Martin, rated T, 2800 words)

philia by @bluejayblueskies (Sasha&Tim, rated T, 2500 words)

we'll be the proud remainers by spacepirate (Jon/Martin, rated G, 1000 words)

[lazywinnerprincess-blog]

A Second Chance at Heaven

Chapter 3: Charlie's Choice

10:40 am

In twenty minutes Charlie will be pleading her case in the most important event of life.  A flash of red flooded her eyes. Instead of preparing for it with the love of her life, she was marching to the office of the High Seraphim with rage in heart and fear in her bones. Heaven would never have tried this s**t with Mom or Dad. No, they had the good fortune of dealing with the weakest Morningstar possible. A perfect blend of terror driven questions and profanity leaden insults filled her mind. Neither of which are remotely helpful. The trail of hoof shaped burn marks would mortify a calm Charlie. Present Charlie was far too busy trying to follow directions given to her by a horrified angelic hotel receptionist.

The hallway’s walls were a specific shade of baby blue designed to put all visitors at ease. It did the opposite; It felt insulting. The place was lively yet silent. Throughout the office, there were countless angels, cherubs, and machines going room to room. Each of them acting as voiceless messengers determined to perform their duties without causing distraction. Charlie scanned the seemingly endless stream of white doors until she found her target. With its pristine marble material and golden borders,The office door was every bit as demure and elegant as its primary occupant. As she looked at Sera’s name plate, Charlie gave herself a little pep talk before opening the door. 

Charlie: Okay Charlie, Take a breath. You walk in, demand Vaggie’s immediate return, and do not back down until your partner is in your arms where she belongs.

The princess gives herself a quick shake. 

Vaggie will be at her side, No Matter What

Sera: “Greetings, Daughter of the Morningstar”

Charlie: “Where’s Vaggie?”

Sera: Please have a seat. I will explain everything.

Charlie sat down without losing eye contact with Sera.

Sera: What do you know about your companion?

Charlie: I know that she is a survivor of the exterminations that have claimed the souls of my people. I also know that the courtesy and protection that covers me applies to her as well. Most importantly, I know that I will not be leaving this room without her.

Sera: Let me clarify, What do you know about her origins?

Charlie: I fail to see the relevance; I’m here to pick-up Vaggie. Tell me where she is.

Sera: I respectfully disagree, Her status as a soul under my change is very relevant.

(Her eyes slowly open wide as she processes what Sera said)

Charlie: Are you saying that Vaggie is an angel?

Sera confirms what she said with a series of images and videos of Vaggies’s life before Charlie. The princess’s eyes jumped from screen to screen absorbing every bit of information laid in front of her.

She saw the love of life in the uniform of her people’s butchers. She saw her training with the same spear that she carried everywhere, studying who she could and couldn’t kill, and performing her “sacred duty” on Charlie’s subjects. The worst part was that on rare occasions she smiled. Nowadays, her smile is a treasure that made the world around Charlie brighten. On these screens, her smile was a cruel stab at the princess’s heart. How much joy did she feel those days?  Was killing her people fun? Did she wish she could go back? 

These questions lead Charlie to reconsider every moment she spent with Vaggie. Her appearance, Her reluctance in talking about her past,and her unusual strength only makes sense if Sera’s telling the truth. 

Vaggie is an Angel. 

Vaggie was an Exorcist

Vaggie has been lying to me every single day for the last 3 years.

Charlie didn’t realize that her claws were digging deep into the angel’s couch cushions. She was struggling to keep it together. A few quick breaths allowed her to maintain some form of composure. She conjures an image of her mother standing tall and proud. Mom wouldn’t let her emotions deter her and sure as fuck would let someone hurt the people she loves. Charlie said that she wasn’t leaving without Vaggie and she meant it. 

Charlie: Okay, well that may be surprising, but it doesn’t answer my first question. Where’s Vaggie?

The multiple screens that showcased Vaggie’s past transformed into a single screen that displayed Vaggie’s present. The young angel was currently suspended in a golden crystal placed on top of an unfamiliar machine covered with buttons, switches, and screens.The most important screen is the largest monitor that was located above her. 

This phrase was displayed on the screen:

CURRENT TIME: 10:43 AM

PATIENT SCAN:  55% COMPLETE    ESTIMATED TIME FOR COMPLETION: 15 MINUTES

She would be cutting it close, but she could make it to the court case on time if she carried Vaggie to the courtroom as soon as the scanning procedure was completed.

Charlie examined her partner for any signs of abuse.They better hope that she does find anything wrong. Instead of her eye patch and normal clothes, Vaggie is dressed in nothing but a simple white gown that covers her body from shoulder to ankle. Her expressionless face and perfectly still body made her look delicate and fragile. A far cry from the blazing force of nature that won Charlie’s heart years ago. Seeing her like this chilled Charlie to the bone. When Vaggie was asleep, she looked tranquil yet vibrant; Her current state felt so cold and rigid. Vaggie should never resemble a corpse. She’s Charlie’s forever girl. The princess may be mad at Vaggie’s deception but watching her like this ripped her heart to pieces. 

She needs to wake her, to hear her, and to hold her.

A demonic growl started to form in the princess’s throat.

Charlie: Take me to her

Sera: Before I do that, I feel compelled to ask you what you intend to do when I take you there.

Charlie: I intend to get her out of that crystal prison and, after the court case, take her home.

If Sera noticed her eye color change, the ancient angel drew no attention to it.

Sera: That “crystal prison” is an angelic device designed to scan and treat physical and spiritual injuries. As mentioned earlier, it is my responsibility to protect and secure the souls under my charge. After the scanning process is complete, her body and mind will be recreated, free from the injuries that plague her.

Charlie: Oh, you did a great job at protecting Vaggie when you let her be injured and left in Hell. Wait, what do you mean “recreated”?  

Charlie’s eyes widen in horror and fear

Charlie: Are you going to destroy her and then rebuild her in your image? Ha, you’re delusional if you think I am going to let that happen.

Sera:Is it true that you claim to love this young lady?

Charlie: Yes, I claim to love her.

Sera: Then, you should want the best for her. What could be better for an angel than an eternity of peace in a fully-restored body?

The audacity of the high angel stunned Charlie. Sera basically told Charlie that her love was fake and that she should let her girlfriend be brainwashed. Dad’s pessimistic attitude toward Heaven was more warranted than she thought.

The previously explosive fury within Charlie was replaced with a cold disdain.This hypocritical bitch was a cold-hearted monster that has not only treated the people of Hell as disposable problems but now wants to replace the love of her life with an obedient puppet.  As her demonic features dissolved, Charlie inhaled and exhaled in effort to focus on what she needed to do next.

While slowly rising from the couch, Charlie stood perfectly straight, using the full extent of height. She adjusted the buttons on her suit jacket while maintaining constant eye contact with Heaven’s ruler. After she was done, the youngest Morningstar generated a glare that would hopefully pierce Sera’s placid expression. 

Charlie: Take. Me. To. Her. I don’t want to repeat myself.

Without a word, Sera teleported Charlie to the room depicted on the screen.

The “healing” machine was far more intimidating in person. Sera can use all nice sounding terms she wants, Its large size, constant sounds, and sterile surface makes it seem like a torture device. Charlie wanted to rip this stupid thing to pieces but feared what could happen to Vaggie if she interrupted the scanning process. It’s okay.  Being in the same room as Vaggie was enough to make Charlie feel better. All that was left to do was wait a few minutes to get her girlfriend out of that machine. She checked the display reading.     

CURRENT TIME: 10:55 AM

PATIENT SCAN:  80% COMPLETE    ESTIMATED TIME FOR COMPLETION: 3 MINUTES

Before Charlie could put the final touches on her rescue Vaggie plan, a screen appeared behind her. Charlie turned her head to see the faces of the two people she hated more than Sera. Well, she hated them as much as she hated Sera.

Adam: Sup, c**t

Charlie’s growl returned in Full Force

Charlie: What. Do You. Want.

Adam: Ugh, you and your Bitch sound like broken records. 

Adam: We want you to go home.

Charlie: What about the court case?

Adam: Forget it ever happened or Never see your bitch again.

Adam pulled a small remote, pointed at the device Vaggie was housed in, and pressed a button.

END SCANNING PROCESS

AND

IMMEDIATELY START RECREATION PROCESS

YES or NO 

WARNING: ONCE RECREATION PROCESS STARTS, IT CAN NOT BE STOPPED 

Charles: (Full Demon Mode Activated)  Let out her now or I will rip you fuckers apart.

Adam: Oh, Threatening the person who has your girlfriend hostage is a stupid fucking idea. What do you think, Lute?

Lute: I think we start the process right now, let the Hell Slut watch her fuck doll disappear forever.

Charlie’s bravado ended at the angel’s suggestion. Before this moment, the prospect of losing Vaggie didn’t feel real. But, Now. She is struggling to avoid crying from fear. Vaggie may have lied, but she’s her friend, her greatest supporter, and her love. The prospect of having to go home without her was too painful for words. 

Charlie: Okay, I’ll do what you want, just let her go.

Adam: What’s the magic word?

Charlie���s eyes were misty and her voice was shaky.

Charlie: Please, First Man

Adam: I was hoping for Dickmaster, but I’m feeling generous.

Adam pushed a different button

RECREATION CANCELLED

PATIENT SCAN:  100% COMPLETE

PATIENT RELEASE IN PROGRESS

PATIENT TREATMENT PLAN CREATED 

The golden crystal that surrounded Vaggie slowly dissolved into light until Vaggie was finally freed. Charlie slowly picked up her girlfriend from the platform. She wanted to be gentle with Vaggie. The last thing Charile wanted to do was hurt her angel. The former “patient” was unconscious but stable and free of obvious injuries. Charlie hoped that she would wake soon after coming home.  A small white crystal was released from inside the machine. She assumed this was the treatment plan the machine talked about. After pocketing the gem, she reminded herself to show this to dad when she got home.

A golden portal appears to the left of Adam’s screen

Adam: Whelp, it’s time for you c**ts to leave. 

Charlie makes her way to portal, too tired to even scowl

Adam: Wait, before I forget. You fuckers are causing us too many problems. In a month, We’re starting the next extermination at your hotel.

Before Charlie could respond, she was stuck into the portal

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