#what does this fall onto... doomed straight..?

[zallosaurus]

bonus lololol

[frantic-fiction]

What Once Was

Pic credit: iiven

Astarion x gn!reader/ gn!Tav

Summary: Astarion and you decided it was best to remain friends, following the fall of the Absolute, Astarion finds he is regretting letting you go.

Warnings: Angst, Angst with a happy ending, Astarion being bad with communication, Astarion is bad with feelings

Word Count: 1.8k

Masterlist

"Astarion," Tav whispers, their breath warm against his ear as their fingers trail down his forearm, nails lightly scraping the surface. Hesitantly, they intertwine their hand with his. Their warm doe eye pierces straight into his, and he feels vulnerable under the intense stare. "I care about you, but maybe what you need right now is a friend, not a lover."

Astarion freezes his body still as a marble statue. Inside, his mind is a storm of confusion. Emotions he barely remembers flood him, swirling in a chaotic whirl that leaves a sharp ache in his chest. He gripped Tav's hands as if they alone were the sole thing keeping him bound to the material plane. Maybe in that moment, they were.

A friend?

When was the last time Astarion had a genuine friend? He doesn't know, but somehow, the word seems too mundane to describe the beautiful person in front of him. Tav, the first creature in 200 years of agony, showed him kindness and love, showing him that he was more than the mindless puppet Cazador molded him to be.

The topic was too heavy to unpack fully at that moment. Astarion had just tasted freedom. He was free of that monster and was learning what it meant to live again. He was too confused and broken to figure everything out, and so what more could he have said?

"I-I would like that."

***

A thunderous round of knocks pounds against the front door, jolting Astarion from his novel; he exhales a long, heavy sigh, flipping the page as he sinks deeper into his armchair. The crackling fire provides a once comforting backdrop, now barely audible over the persistent knocking. He tries to ignore it, his eyes skimming the lines without truly reading. But it's becoming harder by the second.

"Astarion!" Your voice is slightly muffled from behind the door. "Are you seriously going to leave me out here in the cold?"

"Where's the key I gave you?" Astarion calls out; his voice tinged with irritation. He remains firmly in his chair.

You're quiet for a moment. "I may have lost it, b-but it's not my fault, I swear!"

Astarion clicks his tongue, tossing the novel onto the side table, and moves to the door. "If only the history books knew the real hero of Baldur's Gate instead of their exaggerated grandeur." Unlatching the bolt, Astarion swings open the door with a smirk. You stand impatiently on his doorstep, arms crossed over something, lips puffed out in a pout. "If the world knew the real you, I doubt you'd have many admirers singing your praises."

You push past him, pressing a warm jar into his chest as you go. "You're just jealous I'm famous and adored. Now stop being mean to the only friend who puts up with you, you grump."

Astarion's heart clenches as he stares at the jar of blood in his hands. He watches absently as you flit around the room, tidying up the minimal mess he's accumulated since your last visit.

Friend.

The word stings like sunlight on his skin. A rock settles deep in his stomach at the reminder.

Astarion has many regrets, but letting you slip through his fingers is the one that haunts him most. If he could go back, he would pull you into his arms and never let go. He would whisper how much he loves you and beg for time because he can't imagine facing the darkness without his light.

But it is too late for that because how do you ask someone as bright and full of life as you to return to someone as broken and doomed to the shadows as him? Astarion has to settle for the barest comfort your friendship can offer him despite the pain that comes with it.

"Hey, Star, could you sew this button back on after your meal?"

Your melodic voice pulls Astarion back. He turns and heads to the kitchen, where you are already seated. It's only then that Astarion truly takes in your appearance.

Gods, you're beautiful. You're wearing clothes that perfectly accentuate your body, stirring a sense of longing in Astarion. You're even wearing the delicately embroidered scarf he hand-crafted for you last winter. Why did he let you go?

Astarion swallows hard and retrieves a chalice from the cabinet. "Of course, my dear."

"Thank you! I can't believe I popped a button."

Astarion pours the blood into a glass, watching the deep red liquid swirl as if it's the most captivating sight. His eyes flicker up briefly before darting back down. He asks carefully, unsure if he wants to hear the answer.

"What's the occasion?"

You drop your chin, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. You fiddle with the fallen button, spinning it on the table before slapping your hand over it and repeating the action.

Astarion takes a sip and waits. The sweetness of your blood coats his tongue, and he savors the mouthful. It's nothing compared to drinking from the source, but you felt it was best to do it this way. You said the prior act felt too intimate for two friends and blurred too many lines, and Astarion felt he had no place to voice opposition.

He takes another quick mouthful, knowing he only has so much time to savor the blood before it congeals into an unpalatable gel.

"I-I have a date."

Astarion chokes on the blood, pulling the glass from his lips as a fit of violent coughs overtakes him. An unsettling feeling churns in his stomach, making him feel like vomiting, but it's not from the burning in his throat.

"Is it really that surprising that someone would ask me out?" You scoff, taking Astarion's coughing as an act of humor rather than the painful surprise he's currently feeling.

"No-" Astarion wheezes through another round of coughs. "That's not-"

You come over and smack his back harshly. Astarion's unsure if it's to help him or express your anger, but the pounding against his back seems to finish his fit.

"I thought vampires couldn't choke," you mumble under your breath. He can hear the annoyance drip from each syllable.

"I am quite the unique spawn, it would seem." Astarion wheezes, slumping into the chair you were previously sitting in. You opt to lean against the counter away from him. "So… who is the special lady or gentleman who has captured the hero's attention?"

Astarion cringes at the hollowness in his voice. He doesn't care to hear the answer, and it's obvious. He doesn't care to hear you gush about whoever has captured your heart and will whisk you away tonight, ripping the last sliver of you he has left.

"Don't pretend to care." You glare, a scowl stealing away your beautiful smile.

"It's rather uncouth to assume your best friend does not care, my sweet," Astarion lies, hurting for all the wrong reasons, but you don't need to know that. "Now, are you avoiding the question because you're afraid I won't approve?"

"No," you respond, not meeting his eyes, opting to fiddle with the button again.

"Then out with it."

"Do you remember the bard?" Your smile says all he needs to hear. Your voice fades to the white noise of his mind.

Astarion feels like he's dying all over again. The damn bard, the suave casanova with a voice as alluring as his smile. 

The two of you, Shadowheart and Gale, met at an old, bustling Tavern earlier in the month. Astarion had wished to stay home, but you all dragged him out of his house.

It wasn't a terrible evening; the wine was decent, and despite his best efforts, he enjoyed hearing what Shadowheart and Gale were up to. Astarion was having a good night. At least until the bard sauntered over with his brightly colored ensemble and his dashing smile, asking you for a dance. Astarion had hoped you would decline, but you bashfully accepted his outstretched hand and let the bard whisk you away.

For the remainder of the night, Astarion watched glumly as the bard swung you around the dance floor. He watched you giggle as you spun, dipped, and turned into his sturdy arms. He watched as you fell for his charms. Astarion felt what was left of his heart, the sole piece that belonged to you, crumble into powder. Because there you were, happy with a man who was everything he could never be. A man you deserved. A man with as much light and life as you.

Astarion left early, not wanting to see the love of his life slip further away, missing the crestfallen look that dawned on your lips the moment you saw Astarion slip out the back.

"Astarion?"

Your voice brings him back. And suddenly, Astarion realizes he can't let you go. He will lose you forever if you leave his home tonight; Astarion cannot live with that. He cannot live without you by his side. He cannot live without your smile, your laugh, and your touch, everything. 

Astarion wants to be selfish and keep his light, even if that means dooming you to the dark.

"Don't go," he chokes out, voice cracking. Astarion is out of his chair and stumbling to your side before he can tell his legs to move. He's cradling your hands, his eyes pleading for you to understand the gravity of those two simple words.

"What? Why?" You balk, stepping back.

Astarion matches your step. "I think you know why, Tav," he says, his voice firm this time. He cups your face with his palm, and you inhale shaky, seeming to freeze under his touch.

"Astarion,"

"Stay," he pleads, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone, eyes burning with desperation and hope.

"Astarion," you say softly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "Why now?"

His heart breaks, feeling tears burn in his eyes, knowing he might lose you forever. "Because I can no longer pretend to be happy with just being your friend."

Astarion crashes his lips to yours before you can respond, pouring his desperation and passion into the kiss. You gasp, clutching onto his shirt in surprise before meeting his kiss with equal enthusiasm. He swears he can see stars and feel warmth deep in his chest. When he pulls away, he's panting, his eyes searching yours.

 "I love you," he confesses. "Gods, I love you, Tav. I should have never let you go."

"Astarion, I-"

Astarion pulls you close, wrapping you in a tight hug. "Please, Tav," he whispers, his voice thick with tears. "Just stay."

"I'm not leaving," you assure, nuzzling in his hold. "I-I love you too. I've always loved you, you know that. But after everything, can we just...can you-" You pause, struggling to find the right words, torn between past traumas and new beginnings.

"I don't know," Astarion admits, "But I've never been more certain about anything than I am about you. The rest, we'll figure out." 

And with no other words needing to be said, you held Astarion tighter, and he swore he would never let you go again.

This was heavily inspired by the fact I'm replaying bg3 (again) and romancing Wyll and went the friend route with Astarion. It was painful but I survived...mostly. Anyway, feedback always makes my day so let me know what you thought 🥰

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[deadsetobsessions]

Between the whole “clone trying to kill her original version” thing and the whole “trying to find herself after being freed from the millionaire fruit loop halfa” thing, Danielle “Ellie” Phantom figured that she’d fit right in with Gotham.

They’ve got shades, a concerning amount of undead, and the people there seem to have traumatic backstories galore. Perfect.

Danny might die again if she told him where she’s staying, though. So she won’t tell him!

Ellie touched down in an alley near the first bus stop into Gotham, returning to the visible spectrum and returning her intangibility. She wanted to explore everything, and where better to start than the entrance of Gotham?

She slips out of the alley, walking past the terrified looking tourists. Ellie ignores the smell of soot they gave off, attributing correctly that it came from the explosion she heard before she approached Gotham. The city, like any other major city, was littered with trash and odd bits of metal. There’s graffiti too, but less so than the sunnier cities. The clouds- and smog, because Ellie could smell it miles away from the city- that obscured the sky left the city in a chilling atmosphere. Hazy. Like, a graveyard at dawn. Perfect for someone like Ellie.

It’s so different from Amity, stone where she dreaded plaster, gloom and doom where she dreaded seeing sunshine she couldn’t reach. 

Ellie wandered, under bridges, and in between paths. She danced through shootouts, glides past brawls, laughs when pick pockets find their hands empty after bumping into her.

She gets a coffee and one of those delicious lemon bars, with Vlad’s money. Hers, now that Tucker’s gotten his hands on Vlad’s inner systems. The barista gives her a suspicious look, but she brings out her strongest midwestern accent and the look melts into exasperation. And pity, but Ellie doesn’t really care about that. She “ooh’s and ahh’s” at the grimy stone, the gothic inspired architecture that Sam would kill to experience, goggles at the boarded up buildings. There’s a cathedral or two or five, she doesn’t remember, but the pretty glass seems to be broken at most of them. She wonders what happened. Then she remembers that there are vigilantes here, and concludes that she has to remember to look up more often. A giant clock-tower. A district with less people and fancier homes. A university! She might apply after she’s done traveling around and have gotten her GED.

Her shoes pound the pavement, something about the effort it takes to take a step burns in her soul. Yes, this is what it means to be free. She kicks the knees of two would be robbers in as she passes them on her way to purchasing three bars of the best chocolates she’s had in her short existence.

The cashier looks at her like she’s odd. Oh, well.

And then night falls. Ancients, does the city truly come alive. There are screams and sirens and surges in ectoplasm that balances her essence of being out. Ellie, with a new pep in her step, follows the trail of ectoplasm right into an area called “Crime Alley.”

“It feels almost like… a haunt…?”

Ellie hums and keeps walking. Maybe this is the territory of one of the undead Gothamites…?

She’s got a bit of Danny’s saving people thing after all, because the three bars of candy on her is gone in minutes to children with hollow cheek and dead eyes. 



Ellie startles backwards as a body slams onto the pavement in front of her, barely missing the risen steps of the building they were in front of.

“Oh.” She says. Because this is one of the Undead. And he’s Red Hood. Danny is going to flip.

“Run- run, kid.”

Ellie tilts her head. “And why would I do that?”

“You’re gonna get hurt, brat!” The man barks, and winces as his ribs shuttered. The red helmet’s tinny voice doesn’t intimidate her nor does it hide the concern and fear bleeding into the guy’s body language.

“Not really?”

And with that, Ellie slams her elbow into Goon 1, knocking him straight into another building. Goon 2 tries to grab her and she phases out of his reach, floating upwards and slamming her fist into his face. He joins Goon 1 in decorating that building’s new mural, called the two dumbasses that picked a fight with a wandering Ellie.

Hood watches her, cradling his ribs.

“You a meta?” He grumbled at her, wheezing as she crouched down and poked his sides. He smacks her hand away.

Ellie, who has clearly spent too much time near Danny, replies, “Being dead is a medical condition.” without missing a single beat.

Hood, on the other hand, misses several beats.

“What?”

Ellie barrels on, amused at his fumble. “Did you know you died?”

Hood looks at her and Ellie swears she can see the dumbfounded expression.

Ellie laughs, free and sharp. Yes, Gotham is nothing like Amity.

[ariiadnes]

ㅤ╭ ⿻ ･ FOREVER , YOU & I

i've hoarded your name in my mouth for months ; LOOK HOW LONG THIS LOVE CAN HOLD ITS BREATH.

ଓ.°・・・ synopsis : BECAUSE THE WORLD IS FULL OF MADNESS & WRETCHED EVILS , A SURVIVOR FALLS PREY TO THE DEPTHS OF GRIEF & GUILT INTERTWINED. but in the midst of chaos , beneath the catastrophe , leon knows where his heart lies all along , knows that there is always a home to return to.

it'll always be you , he tells you. it always has been. -ˋ ♡ ◞ leon kennedy. resident evil 4 remake. female reader. nsfw. MDNI. quote cr : sierra demulder. repost. i want what this reader has for myself. happy kinktober ( the kink is love and affection )

THE PROMISE OF A TOMORROW DOES NOT EXIST IN A WORLD WHERE THERE IS AN EVIL WALKING , the dead among the living , tragedy upon tragedy in the renewal of man and MONSTER. the promise of a future does not exist in a world where the end lingers in the shadows, hungry for doom and damnation.

leon kennedy knows of horror and loss as it flourishes in his existence, feels the end of days surge in his bloodstream, but even then, he would endure heaven and hell if it meant coming home to you.

there is no belonging without you, after all, and it is in reunion that you are both reminded of this.

YOU LOVE LIKE IT IS A DESPERATION, a need, a wanting, & you are almost afraid you will choke on this heavy desire, but you succumb to the feeling, drown in the waves. lower and lower and lower you go, mind sinking until everything has consumed you and all you know is the feeling of him inside you.

"leon--" your voice is so fragile in this moment, the longing so prominent in the way it breaks, "i need you so bad--"

it's not enough-- god, this isn't enough. the distance you have shared all these months has weighed too much on the heart, the pressure so hideously insufferable, and even with him beneath you now, your palms resting on his chest as your hips move on instinct, it's still--

god, you can't even think straight, gasps harsh and haphazard, frustration pooling between your legs no matter how much you touch him. you need him more than he needs you, but if you ever dared tell him that, you're almost sure he would spend the day desperately fucking you in means to prove you wrong. your back arches at the pleasure that rushes up your spine, but you can't chase it, thighs trembling as you sink down onto him, feel his cock hit all the right angles.

"please, i--" and you just sound so pitiful ; the whimper that escapes drips with such need that you almost sound love drunk, and maybe he'll tease you, make you do all the work, but you swallow your pride anyway because damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"easy there," he tells you, hands on your waist, voice far more gentler than the way his hips thrust up into you, "you've already got me, baby. hope you didn't forget that while i was gone."

and the way he looks at you-- there is something so excruciatingly tender in his gaze, the corner of his lips slightly raised in a knowing smile. there is something about this all that makes the tears surface before you can even realize you're crying ; maybe it's the way his hands are on you or the recognition that he's home safe and sound, or maybe it's the way you are still left wondering when he has to leave again. you swallow that lump in your throat, imagine that you can rid of that sorrow and selfishness and bite your lip so hard that the taste of rust threatens to come. but leon notices all too quickly, a faint flicker of concern on his visage as he pulls you forward until he's kissing you. it's that muddled mess of love and heartache and familiarity that binds you together, and you both wonder how you have survived this loneliness.

"you've got me." he mumbles against your lips, smiling when your body rocks against his once more at the mere words of comfort. "i'm not going anywhere, so be a good girl and show me how much you missed me."

you shudder at the way his hands fall back to your waist, lips peppering kisses along your jaw, voice low and heavy with want. you inhale, shaky, nod aimlessly as you straighten your posture, nails gently trailing down his chest as you sit up. your hand rests over his heart for a brief moment and you almost think you feel that wild beat beneath it all, remind yourself of the humanity that lies under the greatness and kindness and devastation of it all. he trembles at the feeling, laughing softly at that little spark of surprise that lights up in your eyes at his reaction. his thumbs trace lazy circles into your hips as he lightly guides your movements, allows you to take control as you find your rhythm. it's slow and agonizing and tantalizing, this dance between lovers, but leon has always been patient, watching your expressions with adoration as you find the motions, head lulled back and eyes shut as you surrender modesty and humility in sacrifice for euphoria.

patience soon turns to pleasure, dwindling self-control quickly spiraling beyond recover. leon's grip tightens as he tests the waters, resolve thinning and weakening at the sight of his forever taking all of him so well. when he slams your hips down on his, he cannot tell what he loves more: the feeling of you tightening around him or the flustered cry that he drags out of you with each thrust.

"you--" you gasp when he goes faster, feel your face heat up with shame and exhilaration at the noises that fill the bedroom. "i thought you wanted me to prove how much i--" the words die down into yet another whimper at the sound of his groans beneath you. his movements become more aggressive, needy, and he shows no sign that he's willing to be merciful. "--fuck, leon-- you wanted me to prove how much i missed you, not the other way around."

heartbeat to heartbeat, skin against skin, leon knows damn well what his request was, but you are entirely too captivating that he can't help give into his senses, urged with the need to see you come undone.

"sorry," he says, breathless, grinning when you grab his hand as if it could anchor the sanity that gets lost in the flux and flow, "i'll make up for it, angel."

with one hand holding yours, the other releases its grasp on your hip, slides up your waist, frantic touch dancing across your bare skin as it grazes your stomach, pressing firmly as you jolt in response. the sound you make causes your body to burn in embarrassment, but the way leon looks up at you almost resembles something of worship, gentle reverence in blue hues. there's something so incredibly warm in his eyes that draws you in, lures you like sirens in the seas, but before you can even think to lean down and kiss him, he wets his thumb with his saliva and brings it to your clit, the dreadfully slow drawl of the circular motions making you lose your senses entirely.

you're biting your lip again, unable to silence yourself at the newfound high that sends tingles through your body, makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

"you're doing it again." leon tells you, and somewhere in the softness and concern in his voice is an underlying command to relax and give in.

you want to blame him, tell him that your first thought was to cover your mouth, silence all those filthy noises you didn't know you could make. it's his fault, you decide, because he knew exactly what you would do and held your hand tighter because he wanted to hear you. it takes you a little too long to regain your composure, but the moment you think to speak, he's picking up the paces again. you feel him so much, feel the way he fills you up as he thrusts in and out at a sickening sweet pace.

now you're the one squeezing his hand like your life depends on it and it takes everything for you to not move away, because it's all an overload on your senses-- the fullness of it all and the way his thumb applies just the slightest bit more pressure on your clit, movements quickening.

you're so close, so close so close -- and he knows this, intends to be the reason for your undoing and ruin, so he tells you it's okay, that you can let go and that you're doing so well for him, taking him so good just like he knew you would. he tells you that he misses you, misses the feeling of you, and maybe those declarations are what pushes you over the edge when you finally come, throat ravaged and raw from all the moans and pleas that spill from your lips. it's the way you clench around him, body twitching as you ride that high out, feel him follow you soon after in desperation.

his movements slow, eventually come to a stop. the silence in the bedroom is deafening -- a significant contrast to what it was minutes before, save for the labored breaths that fill the air.

something snarky lingers on the tip of your tongue, but when you open your eyes and look down at him, he's looking at you like that again -- like he's learning what love is again, like he's realizing all over again that you're his happiness, his end game, his ever after, and your mind goes blank, the haze of euphoria all too powerful. so instead, you let out a shaky exhale, smile blithely as you lean down and kiss him.

it's careful, cautious-- quiet, reverent, wanting. it's love, you think, and he tastes like safety and divinity and all you've ever wanted. you lie on top of him for god knows how long, fatigue settling in as his hand wanders up and down your back, slowly lulls you to the edge of slumber.

"i missed you, leon."

he presses a kiss against your temple, tells you he reciprocates the feeling tenfold, pulls the blanket over your bodies to shield you from the cold air.

"...love you." you mumble, body relaxing against his in the surrendering to exhaustion. "might fall asleep on top of you, sorry."

"right where you belong." leon laughs when you absentmindedly smack his chest, words of protest dying down when he holds you closer, warmth shared and known. "love you, too."

[anonymityisfunwriter]

it will come back.

"i warn you, baby, each night, as sure as you're born, you'll hear me howling at your door..." - hozier, it will come back

pairing: yandere!bucky barnes x reader c.w.: dark!bucky (he definitely does some questionable things, but nothing graphic)

a.n. - it's official, i've become addicted to lower case fics. they're just so much fun. they've got a vibe, you know? anyway, this is my first attempt at a darker bucky, so i hope you enjoy!

Bucky Barnes Masterlist | AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

this is your fault. it’s all your fault.

you know better, or at least, you should have known better.

what else could you expect from a man like him? a man robbed of his humanity for so long. a man so close to ferality. that's who he is in all matters of you, a man more beast than human, no better than an animal when it came to you.

that’s how you should’ve treated him. as a beast. prowling back and forth in their confinement. poised to devour any unlucky soul that got too close. so long as he was caged, you were safe.

you didn’t though. you didn’t treat him like the beast he became the moment he saw you.

maybe in another life, he could've loved you in a normal, sane way. in another life, he could give you the sweetness you deserved. in a life where he wasn't so twisted and tormented, he would have done just that. the flowers. the chocolates. the romance.

but this is love, he tells himself.

this raw, deranged, twisted, obsession.

this is his love.

he loves you.

he swears he does.

in this life, this is the only way he can show you just how much he loves you. just how far he's wiling to go to love you.

something happened to him the moment he set his sights on you. perhaps something broke. perhaps something mended. but maybe this was always who he'd been. all he knows is that heaven is not fit to house the love he has for you.

it didn't matter. the moment he set his sights upon you, you were doomed.

he wanted to scream, to bellow a warning to stay as far away from him as possible.

he stayed silent during that first meeting. his jaw tense, spine straight as an arrow, fists clenched so tight he was sure there would be indents in the metal of his vibranium palm.

"it was nice to meet you, sergeant barnes." you made a point to place yourself in his line of sight, forcing him to look at you in those bright, wide eyes. "i look forward to working with you."

that was your first mistake. he had the strength to stay away. to resist the feeling creeping up his spine. but you just kept rattling his cage. calling out to him with your siren song.

"bucky," you rest your hand on his shoulder. you're trying to soothe him. you don't realize it's a kindness neither you nor him could afford. "it's alright."

he stiffens, that's the first time you've ever touched him. it's the first time he's ever heard his name fall from your lips. not sergeant, not sir, but his name.

his chest heaves, rising and falling as he tries to control himself. you think it's just the adrenaline of the mission. you don't have any idea how overwhelmed he is by your presence.

it's your own kindness that was your undoing, that was his unraveling. years of discipline, years of training, years of strength gone with a touch.

if he didn't love you so much, he'd hate you.

from that moment on, it all spiraled. he spiraled.

he wasn't a patient man, not by any stretch of the imagination. but for you, he'd wait. for you, he'd bide his time.

first, he watches. he watches and look for ways to insert himself into your life. it was almost too easy. for a shield agent, you were careless. doors unlocked. blissfully unaware of your surroundings on long, morning runs. you barely realized how he'd slithered his way onto your missions.

it helped you were vying for his approval, for his adoration. you didn't know that you had it from the moment he saw you. he started slow. inserting himself into your daily routine. a simple good morning. a good night. passing by you in the corridor, always offering a quick grin. he listened to you. to your ideas. your wants. your little anecdotes.

soon, you were close enough to invite him into your apartment. if only you knew that he'd seen it before.

"bucky, we're friends, right?"

he gritted his teeth. friends. no. you weren't friends. you were the love of his life. you were everything he had ever wanted, everything he would ever want. you were the center of his universe. he couldn't tell you that. not yet. "yeah. why do you ask?"

"i just wanted your opinion on this guy."

"a guy?" his voice is so clipped, so gruff, he's shocked you can't hear his teeth grinding together. his fists clench. can't you feel the rage rolling off of him?

"yeah, this agent," you sigh. "he keeps asking me out. i keep trying to let him down easy, but he's not taking the hint."

"oh."

your eyebrows furrow. he almost smiles to himself. you're so aware of him, of what he does or doesn't do. you're worried you upset him. you're worried you shouldn't have told him. he likes that you're this concerned about what he thinks. "should i - i'm sorry i shouldn't have said that to you."

he places his hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. "no, i'm glad you told me."

it was too easy for him to swipe your phone when you weren't looking. too easy for him to find out which agent dared to try to take you from him.

and it was even easier to get the agent paired with bucky on a field mission. just the two of them. overseas in an unfamiliar country. there were just so many things that could go wrong.

he was respected in the avenger's compound. and in this moment, he's glad he put in the work to earn that respect. he didn't think they'd respect him so much if they knew how easy it was for him to sabotage that agent. he couldn't kill the guy, but if a gun shot to the leg wasn't enough of a warning, there were other ways to get him off your back.

all of this was your fault. you opened the cage, whether you knew it or not. you pushed him to this. you showed him the warmth of your doorways.

you could've left him alone. left him to the land. left him to the cold that he knows from the depth of his bones. you should never have let him taste your warmth. you shouldn't have uttered a single word to him, not when he's sat in silence for so long, not when the sound of your honey sweet voice in enough to feed his hungry soul.

you can't show warmth to someone stone cold.

you can't feed someone starved for decades.

you can't show mercy to someone used to the harsh, unyielding world.

you should never have let him in unless you planned on keeping him.

or he'll come back.

"bucky," you pant, running to bucky's room after hearing about his disastrous mission. "i heard - i heard things went wrong on that mission. i thought you were -"

"i'm okay. don't worry." he tries to bite back the smile at the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. you were worried about him.

your words come out in short bursts. "i just - the guy - he's the one i told you about - i heard he was shot - and - and that you were on the mission with him-"

"that was the guy who wouldn't leave you alone?" there's an intentional lilt to his voice. of course he knew. but he didn't want to give away just how much he knew. you weren't ready for that. "he's okay, if that's what you're worried about."

"i was worried about you." your eyes lift to his, shining with tears, with admiration. you were so close to putting the final nail in your coffin. "i was so worried about you."

he should tell you to run. the lion should never live with the lamb. if only you'd left him to the land.

"i'm okay. i promise."

run, he silently warns you.

run.

run.

"i just- " your frantic eyes find his again. you don't say another word. you lunge forward, planting your warm hand on the side of his face. your lips meet his in a frenzy.

too late.

it was far, far too late. it was too easy for him to become addicted to your presence. how easy you are for him to need. how easy you are for him to crave.

he'll always come back for more. he'll never be satisfied. he lived deprived for so long.

you should've know the reason they locked him away and threw away the key. he's a greedy beast.

and he's decided, he can't live with a taste. not anymore.

"i just want to talk to you," the agent pleads with you. he follows you down the hallway, still limping on his leg after that gun shot. "just hear me out."

"look," you sigh, stopping for a moment out of pity. "i'm sorry you got hurt, but i've already told you, i'm not interested."

"you're not interested in me, but you're interested in the maniac that had me shot?"

your eyes widen at the accusation. "you're lying. and don't - don't talk about bucky like that."

"i just thought you should know what kind of man you're falling into bed with."

"you're just jealous." you're about to turn on your heels when he grips your bicep forcing you back around. he squeezes tightly, forcing you to stay in place. you look down at the white knuckled grip, "you're hurting me."

"he told me that i should be more careful next time. that next time it wouldn't be in the leg. you should ask him about it."

you wrench your arm from his hold. "stay away the hell from me."

you felt guilty about your reaction. even guiltier when he turned up dead just days later. the details of that assignment were so fuzzy. even an entire investigation turned up nothing.

"i can't believe he's gone," you softly cry into bucky's shoulder. "we were friends for so long, you know?"

"i'm so sorry, that can't be easy for you," bucky coos at you.

"i don't what happened. he was acting so strange the last few months and then we got into that fight. i said terrible things to him."

"you got into a fight?"

"he said some things. about you. about us."

"about me?"

"yeah." you nod, tears still stinging your eyes, but offering no other details of that argument. you didn't want to upset bucky with those strange accusations. "these last few months, he was like a different person. he wasn't the friend i knew. i'm sorry, i know i'm rambling at you. i just - i don't know how to feel."

"you don't have to be sorry," bucky promises, he strokes your back up and down, following the curve of your spine. "i understand."

"thank you." you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. "you're being so sweet to me."

"i would do anything for you."

you're not sure what it is. the inflection of his voice. the way the words fall from his lips without pause. or the intensity with which they ring in your ears. you freeze, peeling yourself out of his embrace. your heart hammers against your chest, the blood pumping faster and faster.

you look up and, for the first time, you get a glimpse of it. those blue eyes are almost unrecognizable. that vibrant blue is gone, replaced by something much darker. almost lupine. feral.

it was the first time you ever flinched away from him. you stumbled back, afraid of him.

if you didn't know better then, you certainly did now.

but it's too late for you. he's supposed to unlearn the warmth of your skin, the taste of your lips? he's supposed to let you go? just like that?

no. not a chance in hell.

he doesn't know why you can't see it. can't you see that blood that stained his hand was for you? that agent will never lay another hand on you. you'll never wince under his grip again. he'll never plant seeds of doubt in your head ever again. you're safe. here. in his arms.

you sent him away that night. but he doesn't care. it doesn't matter. he'll always find his way back to you.

he'll always come back.

can’t you hear him just outside your door?

Bucky Barnes Masterlist AnonymityIsFun Masterlist

a.n. this is my first attempt at writing a yandere fic, so let me know what you think! reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

Taglist: @marianita195 @meli18gonzalez @ludicbouquetfromearth @matchat3a @famousbreadcherryblossomsstuff @valoraxx @blue786sworld @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @geminigengar @ansaturn @ecolle @lexhalstead3 @ybflkmj @mediocre-daydreams @shanye1112 @thegirlnextdoorssister @toomanyfanficsbruh @moonlightreader649 @breathtaking-cynthia @mirikusashes@beans-and-toast @niyahcoca @katiechikin @elxvrr @antiheroxsblog @infamouslyclumsy @krissydclayton93 @buckysbarne @deadheadwbedhead @qualitygiantshoepsychic @whitexwolfxx310 @getosprettyboy @matchat3a@weallhaveadestiny@mostlymarvelgirl @honeydew3064@michealharrypotter @mrs-bucky-barnes-73@withyoutilltheendoftheline@the-photo-hoe @rae-nna@sarachabeans1

[luminique]

HEAR ME OUT, one sided love?? Imagine s/o doesn’t like lighter back, being oblivious about lighters feeling and only see lighter as a friend meanwhile lighter is so MADLY in love with them and is aware of s/o not liking him back but he can’t help it because you’re the only one that makes him feel this way even if his feelings aren’t reciprocated… they’re so doomed think about the potential angst!! 🫤

lighter isn’t perfect. his body is littered in scars of his past, his actions are solutions to mistakes he had made before. to say that he deserved something as rewarding as love didn’t sound right to him, but oh, would it feel right if it was from you.

it was definitely not an immediate fall, rather it was slower like starting a fire. you bring the materials you require, some wood and a starter. it’s difficult to get a fire going, even he knows that with his lighter in hand. his hand gets warmer the longer the flame is out but it doesn’t compare to the accidental grazes of your hand against his gloved ones.

he had poked you once with the spikes on his gloves. the look on your face when you brought your hand up to rub it while you apologized for it. why were you apologizing? every soft “sorry” that came out of your mouth was like sprinkling water onto the fire. best to get fresh firewood so that it doesn’t go out.

ensuring that the fire is a consistent flame is also important to prevent accidents. accidents like playfully taking off his sunglasses and putting it on yourself while imitating him. somehow, that didn’t cause the fire to go out, in fact, it made it burn even brighter than before. the redness on his face when he watched you was comparable to the orange and red hues of a fire.

he stayed close to the fire, close to you. feeling the warmth of love on his skin, finding it calming but also terrifying. it doesn’t rain often in the outer ring but that doesn’t stop him from worrying that it would all of a sudden. so he lies awake at night, thinking about all of the possibilities, the what ifs and its outcomes.

he thought he had considered everything. from keeping the fire from going out, to ensuring it was a stable flame, to tending it slowly and carefully. what he didn’t consider was getting too close to the fire, burning through what he thought was tough skin.

he was too focused on trying to maintain a certain personality, not quite showing his interest in you. so when caesar was talking to you about her love stories while everyone was hanging around the bar, his heart rate increased. just like how consuming alcohol affects one’s mental and physical state, so does it affect a fire. maybe someone poured his drink into the flames as he watched it burn even brighter than before, making him eavesdrop on your conversation.

but a large flame meant a higher possibility of getting burnt, and soon he saw the burn marks on his skin. as you continued to talk with caesar, the longer he let the fire burn him. how you had said that real love wasn’t like the stories, how you seemed disinterested in romance, how you had believed that no one was interested in you. at that moment, he ended up getting more drinks from burnice, hoping it would soothe the roaring flames within him. he drank so much and fell asleep to the soft crackling of the fire, your voice acting as background noise.

he woke up to the coldness of the bar counter pressing on his cheek. the fire had been put out by you when you tapped on his shoulder. the memories of last night flooding into his mind like water. maybe it was all some nightmare and you did like him back, but the sudden coolness of your touch made him realize the reality of it all.

you didn’t like him, and not because he did anything wrong but because he didn’t do anything in your eyes. you were feeding the fire in his heart and he mistook that fire for your heart too. he sat up straight, took one look at you and shook his head. you still cared for him, came with water and woke him up gently. he never intended to get so severely injured because of his own growing feelings for you.

his own feelings, you didn’t even know he had any for you. the pile of ashes, you both stared at it and yet only he knew that fire existed. the flames had misled him, danced around his heart that craved for you, that only asked for you as its fuel. now all he can do was sit next to what was once a big fire, feeling the cold on his skin despite the layers. no warmth left, no light left, no love left.

[mae-gi-writes]

Finders Keepers | Gally [TMR] - Part 4

In which Gally gets soft for one of the boys in the Glade, only…is it a boy? alternatively; In which Mai disguises herself into a boy to fit in the Glade, only to be suspected by the keen eyes of the Builder's Keeper.

taglist: @edynmeyer1 @ss28 @kurowvie @vaugarkel

Also available on Wattpad.

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-----

Don't look at him.

Gally stares straight ahead, not realizing that he's glowering at the wall where Frypan's apron is currently hanging. It's been three days and he's still not over his crazy theories because somehow his brain doesn't want to shut up.

He's tired, he lacks sleep and he merely wants to take a fat nap despite the risk of missing dinner tonight.

His fork, currently stabbed into a piece of meat from his curry bowl, is left unattended as he keeps on scowling at the apron like it's done something to him, and would've probably continued doing so if not for Alby's hand falling onto his shoulder.

"Gally."

That's when the said young man looks up at his leader, blinking and replying a gruff, "yeah?"

"You alright shank? You've been glaring at this wall for ages," the Leader motions towards Frypan's apron, "Fry did something to piss you off?"

"No," Gally resumes eating with a little too much vigor as Alby takes a seat across from him, "I was going to tell you that we're doing Bonfire night tonight."

"Why?" Gally says through a mouthful of food.

"Because we missed Mai's Bonfire night and I think everyone needs a break."

"Count me out then," Gally finishes up his bowl before he pushes it away, and when his leader's gaze turns stern, adds, "what?"

Alby leans forward just enough for the Builder to catch his eye,"You're a Keeper. How's it gonna look like to your Builders if you don't turn up?"

Gally's own blue eyes narrow, "I'm tired Alby. Just do it without me."

"We can't. We need you, and plus," a smile flickers across Alby's face, "who's gonna beat Mai up?"

Gally snorts at that, "the Greenie'll probably wet himself before he even gets to the circle."

"Is that a yes then?" Alby bumps his shoulder, "c'mon shank. Let's have some fun."

And that's how Gally finds himself mixing up his booze for Bonfire night, grumbling under his breath as everyone around him bustles with excitement. Stacks of wood are piled up high and Frypan's going all out in the kitchen, cooking up a feast for the occasion. Others are chattering his ears off and Gally wishes he can dump everything down the drain and find his hammock.

It is then that a particular blonde, second-in-command, sidles up to him, "ey Gal, you alright?"

"Fine as a ray of sunshine," Gally grumbles out, still not out of his hole of impending doom as he realizes what a mistake this is.

"Come and sit with us when you're done," Newt motions towards the table at the far back where Minho is knocking back a few drinks with some other Runners, "you look like you need a drink."

Gally has to agree with that.

He does need a drink.

As Alby lights up the bonfire and the flames bursts out like a million fireflies, the chatter of Gladers increase tenfold, the night slowly giving way to a much lighter atmosphere filled with hope and fun, an escape from the doom that usually fills their days. It's a different image from their routine and it's like a breath of fresh air, something that they need just so that they can hold on a little longer.

Finally done and ready to hit the sack, Gally decides to stride over to where Newt and Minho are currently discussing matters in hushed voices. He storms up to them, drops his body onto a nearby chair and takes a swig of his drink, relishing in the familiar burn down his throat.

The rest of the Builders are sitting at another table, laughter and boisterous chatter reaching his ears and making him want to walk away. It's in moments like these that Gally wishes he could be alone.

He hates noise, hates it so much more when it's useless.

And that's when the Greenie decides to plop in the seat right opposite him with a beam, "hey Gally!" the slur is evident in Mai's voice, causing the latter's eyebrow to rise up in curiosity.

He tilts his head towards Newt, eyes narrowed in suspicion when he glances over to Minho, "that shank's been drinking?"

"Mai wanted to know what your secret recipe was," Newt shrugs in response, seemingly undisturbed by the fact that this Greenie is literally swaying in front of Gally's face, "I think he likes it."

"That's an understatement," the Builder mutters. He spots Mai trying to swig another mouthful from his cup and quickly snatches it out of his hand before anymore damage is done, "that's enough for you," he snaps more sternly than intended.

Mai pouts, "but it's Bonfire night. Alby said anything can happen on Bonfire night."

"Yeah and if you keep drinking that clunk, terrible things will happen to you, slinthead. So slim it," Gally proceeds to toss the rest of it into his own cup, much to Mai's displeasure.

He makes a noise of protest from the back of his throat, "you're so rude, Gally. I was just trying to have fun!" his hands wave in the air in a dramatic manner, causing Newt and Minho to chuckle at the scene.

"Yeah I think you're right," Newt says, "the Greenie's a goner."

"He's a shucking lightweight, that's what he is," adds Minho.

Nevertheless, Mai is still challenged to a fight in the ring circle, and when Gally adamantly refused to fight a drunkard, is replaced by none other than another one of the Builders who seems all too keen to beat the newbie. A cut lip and a couple of bruises later find Mai sprawled out just outside of the circle, prompting hollers and exclamations of success, some sniggering as they leave Mai on the floor for Newt and Minho to pick up.

Gally's about to turn in for the night -- god knows he really does need that sleep and his hammock is looking tempting right at this particular moment -- when Newt dumps the Greenie beside him, cut lip and all.

"Gal, keep an eye on him for a minute will ya?" Newt says, and before Gally can say anything else, disappears into the crowd.

"Great," Gally mutters as another sigh falls from his lips. He doesn't have a choice but to gaze at Mai, whose face seems to be blossoming with new blue and purple decorative bruises every minute. "you look like shit."

"Gee thanks Gally, that's very kind of you," comes Mai's shaky inhale. Gally watches as the young Glader winces when he touches his face, "everything hurts," he whimpers like a kicked puppy and the Builder can't help but roll his eyes. Pathetic.

Finding a spare napkin that someone had left on the table, Gally holds it out to the Greenie, "here," he says gruffly, and when Mai doesn't respond, proceeds to press it into his palm.

"Thank you," Mai hiccups as he starts to wipe the blood of his face, "thank you very much...Gally."

The glader merely grunts in response. He's not quite sure how to respond to the rush of gratefulness in Mai's voice. He's not used to it, to people saying thank you and looking at him with anything other than disgust or fear.

Mai is different and he senses it. He's just not sure in what sense of the word.

Maybe because he's not what he seems--

Oh stop it, he says to himself. He should not be worrying about someone else's affairs when he has enough on his mind as it is.

So despite his reluctance to leave the Greenie alone with Minho and the rest of the Runners, Gally takes it upon himself to walk away to find the comfort of his hut, telling himself that the Greenie doesn't need him and in any case it's not his problem if ever something happens. He's not his babysitter after all, is he?

He tries not to think too hard about that.

----

The morning has started off on a wrong foot.

First off, Mai had woken up only to find a dark spot along the side of her inner thigh, a sign that her monthly duties are up. She'd scrambled around in a panicked heap as she tugged fresh clothes from her small rucksack hanging from her hammock before making a dash for the shower stalls, thanking god that it was still early morning and the sun hadn't risen yet.

She thought that would be the end of it -- setting a white protective cloth over her underwear and changing out of her dirty clothes -- but what she hadn't been expecting was the pain. It seared through her abdomen, squeezing her lower stomach as she made her way back to Homestead and Mai had no choice but to curl over, breathing loudly through her mouth as pain seized her body.

Great, and with those monthly duties came the consequences. As if she had time to deal with those in a camp full of boys that were not even aware of what she was exactly.

She was mentally kicking herself for not having divulged the truth in the first place when she's suddenly met with a familiar-looking asian.

"Hey Mai," Minho leans down to frown at her contorted face, "are you okay? You look like shit."

Despite herself, Mai forces a shaky smile onto her lips, "yeah, I'm fine. Just hungover."

"Ah, that would be Gally's doing," Minho grins as he falls into step beside her, "you can tell him off at Breakfast."

"Do I look like have a death wish, Minho?"

The latter lets out a bark of laughter, "yeah you're right. Not a wise idea."

Still, Mai has no choice but to feign that she's not that bad, trying her best not to curl over her stomach whenever a cramp would suddenly pulse through her abdomen. Her pelvis was aching and her spine felt so sensitive that every turn and motion had her wince in pain. Frypan took notice around mid-morning before asking her if she was alright, to which Mai reassured him that she was. But not wanting to have her in the kitchen and engulfed by flames for a second longer, the Cook then decides to send her out to the Builders to give them food instead.

"Are you sure Frypa--" he shoos her away with a wave of his hand, "I'll be fine, just go give them their lunch, would ya? These shanks are probably starving."

So Mai does as she's told even if every step makes her want to scream.

She'll need to change at some point in the day, but she's not quite sure how to do that without raising suspicion.

Reaching the Builder's area is like stepping through a different dimension. They're all big and huge and look like they could pack a punch, and Mai swears she feels all eyes on her the moment she steps around the half-built pieces of furniture. Quickening her pace, she finds the table where all plans and drawings are laid out before placing down the sandwich bag onto its surface.

Her brow is filled with sweat and she swears she might collapse, but then spots Gally and a few other Builders making their way towards her, and straightens up, "hey Gally," she says meekly, trying not to think of the embarrassment she'd made of herself last night because of his concoction.

"Greenie," he nods at her, eyes moving to the bag in question.

"Ah, Frypan told me to come give you guys lunch because you have a busy day today," she explains as she unwraps the bag. Handing out the sandwiches to each Builder that give her muttered thank you's, she leans down to get the last sandwich, her figure trembling with effort.

That doesn't go unnoticed by Gally, whose frown deepens tenfold, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she's quick to dispel his doubts as he takes the sandwich from her hands, quickly grabbing the empty basket and turning around to get away as soon as possible.

Her vision darkens and for a moment she sees stars.

Mai sways, stumbling against the side of a tree and causing all Gladers to react.

"Hey!" Gally's first to grab her, yanking her up and against him, "shuck. I'm bringing him to the Med-Jacks," she hears him say to the other Builders before she's suddenly scooped up into a pair of strong arms and brought to a chest so warm that she almost nuzzles into it. Gally's scent wraps around her like a blanket as he brings her to the Med-Jacks hut. He smells of pine and something like grass after it has rained, an earthy smell mixed in with the scent of boy that he carries around with him and if she closes her eyes, she's sure she can fall asleep to it, burrowed in its comfort.

She's not quite certain of her whereabouts until she hears Gally speak again, his voice rumbling through his chest and resonating through her, "Greenie collapsed a few minutes ago," he seems to be explaining her situation and a second later, Mai is deposited onto one of the beds before a hand is laid across her forehead.

"He's got a fever," another voice says, "we gotta strip him."

But when a sudden pair of hands clasp onto the edge of her shirt, Mai's eyes fly open in realization. She squeaks out a loud, "no!" causing all Gladers to fall back in surprise.

"Y--You can't--" Mai grips her shirt so tightly that her knuckles turn white, "no, no, please--"

Gally's the one that speaks up first, "You're burning up Greenie, we gotta take it off and let you cool down."

Still, she fights off any hands that come close to her, clasping both arms around her middle and curling up her legs in defense, "no," she gasps out, "you can't."

She spots the two Med-Jacks exchanging glances, but Gally is getting impatient, for he snaps out, "stop being a crybaby and let them do their job. We haven't got all day--"

"Please," her eyes land on his own and he curses at the way they're begging him, pleading. Mai's voice drops to a whisper, "please don't."

"Alright Greenie, no need to get antsy. We won't do anything," one of the Med-Jacks speaks gently, pressing a reassuring hand onto her shoulder so that she has no choice but to lie back down, "but we're gonna keep you in this room for a little while, 'cause we gotta monitor your condition. Sound good?"

Mai only nods in relief, and the Med-Jack responds with a smile, "good that, Greenie."

"Stupid, stubborn shank," Gally mutters under his breath. Mai's about to open her mouth to thank him, but he's already whirling around and walking out before she can even try to formulate a sentence. She sighs out in exasperation and closes her eyes. Gally is so complicated in all senses of the word, she just doesn't understand where his temperament comes from sometimes. What she's pretty certain of though, is that for one reason or another, he's mad at her. It's clear from the way he's stormed off and in any other situation Mai would've just brushed it aside without caring. But somehow, she can't.

Maybe it's the fact that despite all this aggressive exterior he's been the extra helping hand she needed throughout those few days, which makes Mai guilty of the fact that she hadn't been able to even thank him for being there when he's got loads of other stuff to do around the Glade. She makes a mental note to find him later.

In the end, Jeff and Clint -- the two Med-Jacks-- allow her to have a bit of a shut-eye until she feels better, attributing her symptoms to that of a common cold. By sundown, Mai has gathered enough energy to stumble out and towards the Homestead, just in time to bump into a sweaty Minho along the way.

"You still look like death," he comments, causing Mai to scowl. He extends a hand towards her, "need some help?"

"I'm--" Mai's brain stutters. No, actually. She's not fine, and so quickly replies with, "actually, yeah. Please."

And so this is how she finds herself being supported by the Runner as they make it back to the Homestead just in time for the Dinner bell. After forcing her down onto one of the seats so that she can at least regain some of her strength with Frypan's food, they are soon joined by Newt and the Track-Hoe Keeper Zart, who quickly usher her off to her hammock while stating that they'll take care of her utensils, all while brushing away her thanks.

Mai's heart can't help but swell with gratitude at how eager they all seem to be in helping her, and struggles back to her Hammock where she all but collapses into it. Her breathing is shaky and unsteady and she places a hand over her heart, feeling it vibrating right through her chest.

Maybe she just needs to sleep a little bit more. She knows she's gotta shower -- with her period, it's even more complicated -- but that'll have to wait. She resigns herself to sleep, rolling to the side before closing her eyes.

"Hey Greenie."

Her eyes fly open. She almost jumps up, spotting a disgruntled Gally standing beside her hammock, a towel slung around his neck and -- did she ever notice how handsome he is with just that mere towel?

She clears her throat, swallows thickly, "hey Gally."

He shuffles a bit in place, looking uncomfortable. Silence prevails and Mai blinks at him. It's not in his nature to be so quiet, "is there anything I can help you with?" she asks instead.

Finally, he grovels out, "I'm gonna shower."

"Oh," she blinks once more, "uh--okay."

"You need to shower."

"I--" flames of heat burst through her face, "yes, I do."

He sighs and frowns at her, "Are you coming or are you gonna ask one of these other shanks to stand guard for you like a shuckin' idiot?"

"Oh, right." Realization dawns on her, "you're right, uhm--" but the young man's already storming off at this point. Mai scrambles for her set of fresh clothes and a new cloth pad before dashing to him, almost tripping over her own feet as she does so, "wait, I'm coming!"

He didn't have to, but he did ask. And that's enough to make Mai grin at his broad back. Gally can act all tough and intimidating, but there's no way there's only just that. No, he's hiding behind this cold and menacing exterior for other reasons. But it's good enough to know that deep inside somewhere in the crevices of his heart, he cares in his own way.

[incesthemes]

this is the exact halfway point in 1.20 dead man's blood. it's also the first time we see dean stand up to john in any capacity. from here on, too, dean continues to hold his ground against his dad, and his defiance grows more confident and definitive.

the first half of this episode therefore represents the "status quo" of their family dynamic: sam is angry and defiant, dean is blindly loyal, and john is domineering. we get a sense of what life was like for them before the series began and how the family functioned. the second half, then, represents sam and dean's development. sam and dean are working more as a unit, and they demand to be treated as equals not only among each other but to their father as well. this half shows sam seeming to get meeker in a way now that dean is defending him (sam deflates falls back into a comfortable routine with john, his yessirs a vast contrast to dean calling him out and an even vaster contrast to his own shouting matches with john in the first half of the episode)—this is the dynamic they're working toward and have been working toward this whole season.

but this halfway point is so cool. because right after this moment, dean is left helplessly torn between two options:

sam gets in the impala, and john gets in his truck. the two vehicles become physical manifestations of the choice dean now has to make: john or sam? status quo or development?

he gets in the impala. he chooses sam.

but the cool thing about it is that the impala is dean's car. of course he was going to get in his own car. it's a no-brainer. but at the same time, this doesn't stop the impala from representing sam in this moment. what this means, then, is that dean never had a choice in the matter: he was always going to choose sam.

dean lacks narrative agency for the majority of season 1. he constantly defers to sam's decisions, and even when he does make decisions that would lead to significant development for himself (see 1.11 scarecrow, where he chooses to let sam have his independence instead of clinging onto him, signifying a massive step forward for his own sense of self and independence), sam inevitably shapes the outcome of those decisions, leaving dean in a position where he isn't actually choosing things for himself (and sam returns at the end of the episode, preventing the possibility of his growth and keeping him defined by his place in his family).

this moment in dead man's blood is symbolic of that lack of agency. dean is tied to his brother, doomed to choose him because it's the only real option presented to him. this isn't to say that's a bad thing by any means obviously, just that it's an interesting setup for his narrative arc. dean is set to spiral straight into sam's orbit, helpless to stop it or escape, and frankly he doesn't want to, either. sam is the center of his universe, after all, and choosing sam was what he was raised to do. sam is his everything—including the master of his story.

so when dean chooses sam and gets into the impala, there was never any other option for him. dean was always going to choose his brother, was always going to stand up to john and defend sam and himself, was always going to get into his own car. unlike sam, whose season 1 conflict is between his fate and his family, dean's fate in many ways is his family, and he has nothing to convince him off that path (indeed, the one time he does falter in this during season 1 is because he's again deferring to sam's decision to leave him).

and the best part about all of the whole metaphor, to me, is this:

sam is the one driving the car.

[bluebellowl]

Ok, fnaf submas idea(maybe)

Now, i cant remember if you said something about a train chase scene between the twins and the player or not but if you didn’t then that is what i am proposing.

How i imagine it going is at first the player/gregory is taking the train to some new area that’s been unlocked with the twins having been a neutral party throughout most of the game until now or freddy mentioning them and helping gregory reach them to unlock fast travel(with little train stops here there that have been found across gameplay)

And upon the first encounter the twins become hacked and attack gregory as the train is going with you the player racing to get the conductor car with the twins following in suit behind you quickly (either rushing at you on their two feet or that really creepy bent-backward crawl on their hands and feet and their heads turned[360 turning capabilities?] in order to accommodate that position)

Once you get to the front car you then have control of the train and veer it onto an unfinished track, freddy contacts you and sets up some type of like bomb or something, you somehow escape the train before it crashes leaving the twins to scream metallically (and somehow fearfully) into the trash area. Fast travel is still accessible, you just don’t have the twins there to manually run the train, its on autopilot now until you get them back up.

Alternatively, if one them catch you, you either get fucking decked/punched to death (one punch only shown) or suffocated. Gruesome yes but i imagine afton getting real fuckin sick of the player at this point and commands animatronics to kill on sight no matter what.

And depending on who you find first they will either follow you around the trash dump(Ingo after you get him a battery) or head straight to the nearest train station to wait for you(Emmet).

Once they’ve been reunited you take em to the repair area, find a few leftover parts and fix em up as much as you can. Ingo’s voicebox still has that unnatural, glitchy, autotuned baritone and Emmet still twitches(he twitched and sputtered a lot before the repair, a result of his fall) here there due to faulty wiring/coding that would require an engineer and coder to fix fully, not a child. That and the parts were a little outdated.

Oh man I'm eating good today!! Thank you so much for that plot idea. I'm having a lot of fun juggling that around in my brain!

Some of that I already sorta used in previous fnaf AU pieces.

Like crashing the train into the trash dump and befriending the twins again after finding them down there.

or

Using the train as a means of fast travel to make navigation easier but with a catch.

But you mentioned that the twins are neutral at first, but the first time you actually encounter them they'll attack? Will they be a mystery at first then? Like you only ever see a portion of them from the back? Freddy would probably insist they'd be such nice fellows, like he does with music man. I wonder what would move him to place a bomb in order to blow them up. Maybe the train crashing off tracks and the fragile pizza plex floor might even be enough to doom them.

I do love the idea of them just straight up punching Gregory to death upon sight as their jumpscare. Just unrestrained violence. And you know those guys have the Newtons to crush an adult skull! Suffocation might be even creepier I think. Just their manic eyes staring you down, hands around your throat at your vision goes dark. As if they were simply putting you to sleep.

[vampiretendencies]

im starting to scar, im going through phases !

summary; he does everything he can to push you away, leading to his downfall. warning; angst, sadness, there’s no happy ending, mentions of events in seasons 3, chateau still exists, mention of throwing up, proorfread but may find mistakes. pairing; jj maybank x fem!reader. authors note; decided to take another approach because not everything always ends with hugs and kisses. wishing you all the best. hope the ending doesn’t seem rushed, requests are open. creds to gif owner. this is based on phases by chase atlantic, and lyrics of the song will be used. there’s a spotify link below, if you’d like to listen and read. lyrics are in bold italics.

It's been 24 hours

I'm getting impatient

I'm sorry you're scared

The feeling is shared

I'm sorry I'm dangerous

Ever felt that feeling when an impending doom is bound to strike?

Like when you know the earths about to cave in, and all you can do is let its currents drag you under.

The calm before the storm, maybe.

And JJ can feel it creeping in.

The sensation that he knows he won’t make it past a certain life span with his lifestyle, and he’d be damn if he’d drag you down with him.

Hell, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it past twenty five, at this rate. Between reckless trips to South America, and nearly dying in Barbados multiple times.

You were his last remnant of hope in life, and now he can’t even hold onto that anymore.

The filaments of love that intercepted his veins at just the sight of you, he couldn’t bare it.

He couldn’t bare so much love.

Or at least, he refuses to allow himself to.

The instance now is being in bed but miles away. And he’d been doing this for around two weeks now— throwing away the most valuable year of his life for a notion, or just the thought that you’d be better off. That you’d be better off without his baggage, his issues, without him.

He’s facing the wall, his boxer-clad frame away from you. Whilst his knees curl into his stomach, because he can’t see your face and he definitely can’t look you in the eye. He fears the longer that he lets you ponder his heart, and graze him gently that he’ll back out. Due to the fact that he’s been toying at the idea for two weeks. You stomach it, thinking maybe he’s had a bad day— still, you trace your fingers tips on the freshly tanned skin of his back hoping maybe it would comfort him. Or lull him into explaining his shift in attitude.

But he’s been like this long enough now, what if he’s going through a funk, you thought. But in reality it was you praying to yourself about what you kept denying.

He wouldn’t, would he?

He lets you touch him, he lets it linger like a cut to flesh, searing, burning, stinging at the same time. Recognizing the familiar pattern, curving and then going straight down to form the shape of microscopic hearts. He wants to stay in this moment, freeze time, so that the possibility of you despising him forever wasn’t something he’d have to deal with. So, he melts into the comforting touch, reminiscing on the times that it brought him infamous joy and not gracious amounts of sorrow.

He knows he can’t keep you.

He knows that you can’t continue to stick around.

In his own fucked up opinion anyway.

“What’s the matter J?” His insides clinch at the nickname, one only you typically called him. It was reserved for you in fact. And you weren’t a plain idiot, after a little over a year together, knowing when somethings off with your partner tends to become prominent.

But this … this was true anguish.

Mental anguish, if you will.

Grieving and missing you, when you’re a fingertips touch away. The great fall of JJ Maybank and Y/n was to ensue, and he was preparing himself for it. Realizing no amount of preparing could heal the hole that losing you will cause.

“M’okay bab-“ the pet name on the tip of his tongue comes to a hault, as if he were about to insult you by saying it. Something that he says out of habit and instinct that he couldn’t shake. God, he just wanted to call you baby in constant rotation. It was routine, but it couldn’t be any longer.

He has to follow through on every step of this path to breaking up with you, and if icing you out is what he has to do then he will. He solely wanted to sulk in his last few pleasing memories he’ll ever have with you. Beginning to break his ways in this relationship with you piece by piece. Hoping it would make the leaving part all the more ‘easier’.

Whilst you were oblivious, he was dying inside.

“M’okay,” he repeated, and stuck with it.

What the fuck was that? You thought.

Your facial features scrunched up in disgust at the dry response, the boy that was involved and cared what you had to say even about the stupidest things, usually; has a tone of no interest. He couldn’t see you, hence his back being turned away from you, but he felt the reaction through your stopped movements on the subtle skin of his back.

A grave dispense of heartache is upon them.

You say we should talk, it's falling apart

I hate when you say this

I feel like a child

I know it's denial

I'm going through phases

As anyone’s mind would wander in this situation, you felt unwelcome. Unwelcome in JJ’s room at the chateau. Unwelcome near JJ. The entirety of your presence seemed as if it wasn’t needed here.

“Something has to be JJ.”

Has to be.

It rung in his hears, and struck a sutured nerve or two. Because he didn’t want you to know something was wrong, or to even be let in that realm of his thoughts. You also have this agitation towards JJ right now as he’s treating you as if you don’t exist.

When at one point you were the only one in a room full of people.

You pull him back by his shoulder, forcing this fulfillment of eye contact. A weeping tear glazing over his eyes, a sob he’s been holding in the short hour you’d been over. He can’t keep it together but, he’s trying for the life of him. Even if you hadn’t seen the isolation of a salty tear forming, you sense the numbness in his features. Caught so off gaurd, mouth parted and all he can do is stare up at you with no emotion.

The boy you love was eons away.

Meanwhile that boy is compelling himself to not love you anymore.

And no, he didn’t want to see you go. You were his lifeline—on this constant high that he couldn’t come down from. You kept him high in the ways weed didn’t.

Knowing that he’ll be at this record breaking low when you’re gone makes him want to spiral. But, he’s not what’s preeminent for you, he’s not what’s best— anymore antics with the Pogues and he’ll ruin you. He’s baffled it’s even lasted this long.

“Why’s something have to be wrong?”

You’re propped up on your knees to the mattress, his blonde tresses are sprawled out against the pillow just as beguiling as he’s always been. Yet, not the same.

“I don’t know you just haven’t … you haven’t-“

“I haven’t what?” He bites back, sheer irritation. Adding to fuel of the irate frustration that’s being built upon brick my brick. One push and it’s all coming down. Though he needed his last few weeks with you to be pure elation, he can’t help but detach himself already. Protecting you, all whilst protecting his own sauntering feelings.

“You haven’t touched me in weeks JJ … everytime we kiss it feels like you don’t mean it. I can’t be the only one putting in effort here.”

You were right, going from his hands all over you anytime, anyplace so, a love language of utmost physical touch— to absolutely zilch. Not even a hug or a hand hold. Essentially stuck to you like a sticker, that sticker has fallen off, been stepped on, ripped, and trampled in rain.

JJ wanted to slam his head against the wall until it was fucking blue. He had to act like he wasn’t phased, a douchebag or an asshole. Quietly hoping it would make the letting go less intense. Lovelorn, at most.

He’s wrong. So utterly wrong.

What is he doing? — in a larger sense.

“Anything else you wanna’ complain about?”

End it now or hold off longer? JJ battled with himself again.

Get lost in love or escape it? If you love her let her go. You know this won’t be good for her. You’re such a fuck up. And again.

Your eyebrows knit together, you hadn’t known what you were saying could be taken out of context into a complaint. You’d let him be out of tune for long enough, you bit your tongue long enough, it was long enough. A stranger could tell something was desperately wrong.

You just wanted him to fix it.

You just wanted JJ.

“I wasn’t complaining J,” You pleaded almost, a quiver could be sensed in your voice. “I-I feel like you’re disgusted with me … like are you even attracted to me anymore?”

His irritation grows as that could never be a possibility. His undying attraction towards you has multiplied since kindergarten. You were the first one to notice him that school year— his dad gave him a pack of crackers for lunch, not caring about the child’s well being. And you, shared a PB&J with him, it’s been his favorite since that day.

And so have you.

You knew that, often taking advantage of it by getting your way with him, whenever need be.

If only you knew what he’s struggling to get off of his chest now. He can’t even believe there’s a version of his world without you in it.

“Please shutup.”

Is all he can suffice, as it’s minimal and not giving away too much. But it still pings at the strings of your heart all the same. Glaring, he presses a hand to his forehead, thumb and index finger colliding with his temples— to infer that you were giving him a headache on the verge of a migraine.

Tears are now pricking at the crevices of your eyes.

Why is he talking to me like that? You thought.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood tall, your body intensely drenched in the heat of JJ’s lackluster coated tongue.

Passionless so it seems.

You fought the tears wearily, even still they streamed and he held his hands over his eye’s because he can’t stand to see it. He can’t stand to see himself being the cause of those sopping tears— though he would be eventually anyway.

Just not now, he doesn’t know if he can do this. His insides are physically wearing away at the sound. He can’t comfort you as he would, due to it wringing the both of you by the neck when it comes to the end. For him it would reel him back in, and make him stay repeatedly. And you, it’s going to be all the more difficult to let go.

You known each other since before you knew how to spell, how do you let go of that?

“… t-then are you fucking around with someone? You’re cheating on me aren’t you?!”

He was astonished such a sin would leave your mouth. You thought it was in his nature to have such relations with another— he’s let your imagination run widely enough.

And he thinks he’s going to throw up— legitimately puke all over his bed, full on having to push you out of the way.

He’d overcome so much to get you, winning you a little over 365 long days ago.

All for what?

For nothing?

To just have you sit here and think the worst of him?

“If you aren’t going to shut the fuck up, you can go.”

Feel like I'm going insane, I'm going through phases

Pharmacy's rotting my brain, I'm going through phases

Heaven is calling my name, I'm going through phases

Oh, oh, yeah

I'm going through phases

He vowed he’d never do this to you, there for each other whilst having no one. Any of this, really, but being spiteful on top of it is making your hands clammy and your mouth dry, Now, he opens his eyes and removes his hands, sat upward as he gestures toward the door. Jaw clenched with a heaving chest, it was a damn insult to call him a cheater. It was agonizing. He’d never made you leave, even in the smallest of arguments he wants to make up seconds after. Cracking jokes about ‘how hot you looked while mad at him.’

After he’s done with you, you’re going to wish he’d cheated.

It’s menacing and erie, the repulsive silence that surrounds the two of you. He’s just fiddling with the rings amongst his fingers. Abruptly brought out of his trance once you leap off of the bed. Yanking his Bait Shop Tee past your shoulders, you throw it at him. It catches wind with hair, plopping him directly in the face, falling into his lap.

He deserves it.

He stood by not looking whilst you changed like he perpetually tended to do. You could’ve been the sun, the way fuming exhaust radiated off of your body. Slipping your head into your sweatshirt, whilst rummaging through his floor for your shorts— doing so quickly, if you were to look back on it you’d recall every moment of this painstakingly long conversation.

He cups his face into his own hands at the ‘last’ thing you’d say to him. Watching you rush past his door.

“If I wanted to be in a relationship by myself, I would’ve just stayed single.”

Collapsing into your side of the bed beside him, he takes in your remaining scent. So sensual, he wouldn’t get that satisfying scent again. Grasping the open flesh of his chest in misery. He’s torturing himself.

You’d eat those words.

Swim in the dark

The water is changing

Floating away, the fear in my brain

The feeling is fading

Kie frantically called you in urgency, days later. There was a plan to unfold, one that would be the cause of you resenting the Pogues for years to come. They were closer with JJ, you didn’t have as much freewill as the four of them did, or so much as you didn’t have the guts to leave your parents wondering where you are for days on end. You didn’t fit, the outcast of the group. The Pogues accepted you as you were but there was a tendency, that they too would agree, to gravitate towards JJ.

Even when the two of you were pining and it was all 'no Pogue on Pogue macking," blah blah blah, they never intervened.

You were JJ’s girl.

They knew it before you did.

Alike, with how they knew the outcome of the blood curdling screams to follow.

The elongated porch of the Chateau is fully occupied like how it normally would be, but there is no JJ.

Unbeknownst to you, he's on the other side of the front door. The same front door that's attached to the porch, and tended to be used for eavesdropping. JJ’s back is against it, clothing hanging off of his feeble frame. He didn't have an appetite, didn't have the motivation to shower, or even comb a hand through his hair.

What use to have meaning, is now meaningless without you.

This is what JJ intended, to have the Pogues did his dirty work. And after seeing JJ's current condition they obliged without much convincing. He didn't mind his friends getting caught in the crossfire, because as long as they were involved you'd detest them too. Meaning, there'd be no trace of you here.

He didn't have the fucking guts to break it to you himself; always caving and falling back under your spell.

Having the Pogues do it is more reasonable for the both of you, or at least he thought. You loathing all of them wouldn't make you come around and that was a sacrifice JJ had to make, for he feared if he saw you again, he'd become a ghost. Already a shell of the person he use to be.

Utter captivation and enrapture would be no more. He'd abhor himself if he let you witness another bloddy nose, another 'help me I'm in trouble text message', another close loss of life.

He beckoned he was much too treacherous and threatening to your purely refined soul.

There's life before you, during you, and now he has to attempt an after.

Here goes nothing.

You say it's not me

I hate when you say this

I'm falling apart

I'm starting to scar

I'm going through phases, yeah

Sheer exhaustion nearly causes you to miss a step, hand gliding with the screen door of the Chateau. You hadn't slept a wink, yearning for a sign that JJ still was still lathered in infatuation along with you, but there hadn't been. Two and two were coming together, and you weren't heedless no, just in open denial. In fact, you were willing to forgive the events of days ago to relive any sentiment with your boyfriend.

But that wasn't going to happen.

Not in this eternity, but he hopes to see you in the next.

With each inch you take towards the couches atop the porch that Kie, John B, and Pope were sat on, the atmosphere was muggy and rancid of thick air, fitting. The floral printed couch was where JJ hesitantly kissed you for the first time, slow and everlasting. Maybe if you touched your lips one more time, you'd be able to feel the linger of it again.

Kie is pacing with a box in her hands now upon seeing you closer in vison and throats are clearing as you stop in your tracks to end your approach on them. The box is lidded and closed, so the contents were unknown. Her lips curve into a sympathetic smile.

Fuck, you knew the end.

They were told to make it short and sweet, and at the sound of Kie's voice conversing with yours JJ perks up like a little dog that’s awaiting a treat. Except this was no treat.

Far from it.

"What's the emergency you called about?" You question, noting nothing of an emergency. Pope and John B are peering down at the cracked wooden boards below, allowing Kie to soften the blow. "And where's JJ-"

"He told me to give this to you Y/n."

You take the cardboard box that's planted into your hands, lifting its taped down lid your heart might as well have fell to your feet. Grabbing onto something, legs about to give out from beneath you. JJ's palm is flat against the bordered door, skin anticipating to be one with yours again.

Inside the box were shattered pieces of you and JJ combined. Your relationship shriveled into something so little, so insignificant. His film from the specific camera he purchased for photos of you and him aside from his other one. Claiming he wanted to savor every second he spent with you, but now as he can't digest the hard-to-swallow pill. He thinks you would be better off with them. A pink bear, that was dressed in overalls, JJ named it 'pinky', from another various date that the two of you went on to Build a Bear. Neither of you had been as children, healing apart of the untouched inner child in one another. There was the t-shirt you'd given him last year for his birthday, that read I heart my girlfriend, with an image of you in the middle of the heart. You could've went on and on about how each individual item in that box made you feel, but its not the items.

Its why are they in this Goddamn box?

"He doesn't want to be with you anymore."

Kies plummeting, echoing, and spit-firing words are the last thing you hear before the box clashes with the creaking floor of the porch. And you just knew JJ wasn't going to be one to miss out on this 'show' that he created.

Hiding behind a door and sending you off to venture a life without him, was a fucking slap to the face. A punch even, maybe even a headlock.

Who does he think he is to leave you so empty?

To leave you to peace together this mess of used-love?

You're pushing past them in absolute mortifying embarrassment. The infuriation towards them hasn't kicked in yet, but you were sure it would when you'd be left alone and inside you room pondering how you lost everything in a moments glance.

To have the Pogues break up with you for him, was a new rock bottom even for JJ.

Your fist collides with the broad door frequently, ear clasping against it to be met with nothing. JJ's face is buried in his knees whilst he sobbed with aching coughs in between, unable to catch his breath. Matching your cries that are too spilling out. So vulnerable on his own and for his person, or the one that was his person.

The end of all either of you have known.

"You're a fucking coward JJ!"

It seeps off of your tongue and causes a collision like dynamite, the daggers of the Pogues eyes are digging into your back. You continue to drag forward on the door, fist likely drawing blood from how hard its hitting.

"I wish I never even met you, d'you know much better off I'd be?!"

And you wouldn't be, neither of you would be the same. Sharing a love story others dream about when they sleep, and sharing an ultimate ending that most would dread. He whimpers as this is this the exact reaction, he'd been positive about, despite which way he approached it.

'Please don't forget how much I love you baby.'

He speaks to himself, as if you were here. Etching a baby in for the hell of it, the final hoorah.

You've resulted to kicking door, animosity, exasperation, and displeasure roped into one. John B is pulling you away, as he doesn't want the door to come off its hinges. Even still you shove John B away from you, running from the life you once knew.

"Can't believe I let myself love someone like you!"

Someone like you.

What's the point of love if it's not real?

Hanging onto me and in your feels

I can't even tell if it's the same to me

I'm falling apart, I know it's denial

I'm going through phases

[machineheraldandy]

RETROFANG: talking about the ship

Xina Kwan x Miguel o’hara

For the 1992-1995 spiderman 2099 comics, and the world of tomorrow 2099 comics that followed.

Welcome back to me rambling in a way that probably doesn’t make sense

Miguel x Xina is one of my comfort ships, something I love, it’s flawed, but beautiful, it tells a story that the writers no longer want to show which is upsetting, it’s flawed loved of two people who care for each other deeply but cannot bring themself to be together, one is self destructive, while one seeks for ways to help. A relationship to its core doomed to fail.

The first time we ever see Xina is when she is that of what we can assume to be around 12-13, both her and Miguel were young students attending school together, two people that would later stick together and not befriend anyone else that we can see, and from the very starts it’s love at first sight for Miguel, you can see with the way it’s drawn to the plot that falls that Miguel falls instantly In love, and it can be argued that Xina also fell in love, or at least let Miguel flirt without being uncomfortable. He gives her a glance, and turns his head to follow her as she does the same before they officially talk.

Later on it’s straight away to flirting, asking to go to the pool, a possible sign of trying to get what a child may consider a date in a way. They spend the rest of their school years friends, and helping each other, it appears that even if both In love, they decided to take it slow, become friends, then best friends, then lovers, a way to build up a healthy and trusting relationship, a relationship that shows Miguel waited years to be with Xina, waited years for her.

This is what I consider deep love, a love that movie, craved but also feared, a love he had to destroy in order to destroy himself

The next time we see Miguel with Xina is when he is moving into his alchemax apartment (it appears), which due to the way we assume Xina is, and how she is in general, even if she went to an Alchemax school, she doesn’t really like Alchemax, yet would do things in support of Miguel working there, she saw flaws in his design and yet hang on, because she loved him, it’s then hinted that they of course did it, but it also shows one of Miguel’s biggest flaws when it comes to Xina, he loves her, but waits too long to learn about her. In later times he learns what she likes, what she does, but here it’s shown that he didn’t even known his best friend had gotten a tattoo of her favourite real life person, something he would have known because they are seen to be best friends that stick together.

Which brings up the issue and possibly why their relationship ended so soon, yes Miguel definitely found Dana attractive, and was emotionally cheating in front of Xina, but at his core he wasn’t ready to be a good partner, he wasn’t ready for a healthy commitment, he couldn’t even properly care for what Xina loved, even after knowing her since they were basically pre-teens. Miguel was not a good man at this time, he’s he waited for Xina for years, but he was too much of a bad person to hold onto her after finally getting her,

You also take into consideration that he is self destructive, he loves Xina more than anything and therefore he had to destroy it fast, he had to find another fast to destroy what he had, he had waited years for a woman, he has her, now he has to get rid of her in a way she will never want him back, how does he do that? Cheating. Emotionally first, and then physically.

When we end up seeing them again it’s because LYLA is broken, LYLA who resembled Xina in the way of it being based off of her tattoo, Miguel doesn’t care for Marilyn Monroe herself, he cares for the fact she is xinas tattoo, hence him only now caring for xina’s interests, caring too late. He becomes desperate to fix her because she is in his way a way to be close to Xina without havent to be near her, he loves Xina, but he can’t return, he messed it up too much on purpose. Though that ends fast as he soon learns that the best person to go to, to fix LYLA is Xina, which could possibly also be seen as an excuse to see Xina again. Once let in the first thing he does is go to her bedroom, to remember the old times, to live in the past, the past he craves but can’t get anymore.

You also see that Xina who is still single and assumed to have stayed single after Miguel, still loves and misses him, her bedside photo is them together. She loves him, she wants him, but she hates him as of now.

Within this time we also see Jack, Xinas Android, Miguel mistakes him for a partner, and seems to be almost jealous, upset. More signs he still loves her even if engaged to Dana, you also see Xina making it clear she doesn’t want him there and hates him, but she doesn’t kick him out, and it’s clear as much as she was uncomfortable, she cared enough to listen, cared enough to help, and of course we know this was going to happen, as even if she claims she just wanted to see him “crawling back” as a joke, it’s clear from the photo in her room, that she wanted him back deeply.

When she talks to Miguel many things are clear, one she is lying about things and two she is desperate to be the one he needs the most, even if she doesn’t want to make that clear.

She lies when talking about why they dated she claims it’s because she felt sorry for Miguel, but once again her photo in her room proves that wrong, along side the fact that she caught Miguel cheating as she came home early to be with him and to make him happy, she deeply cared for him, it was never about his dad, it was always about their love.

You also see how she is almost trying to push him away and is mocking his fiancé, Miguel doesn’t stop her, almost as if he wants her to insult Dana, because truthfully he doesn’t care for Dana the way he should, he cares for her as he loves her as she is what he considered dumb, someone that can’t question him, someone that blindly follows. Yet he sees Xina as smart, independent, and important to him, he loves that about her, yet is also scared about that. Because it means she can help him see his errors, and he doesn’t want to be shown, he wants to remain blind

Next one I want to talk about is this comic panel, you see that Miguel is finally caring for her interests, he is taking the time to get her real old things such as a gumball machine, because he knows she loves it, he is caring enough finally, he knows what she likes, what she want, why she wants it, he cared for her deeply and after years is finally showing it. Only now

next bit in this panel Miguel mentions the fact he was going to end it, he directly tells Xina he is planning to end it in a way, and Xina instead of making a joke, instead of being her nasty self she has been a few times, instead asks him to join her on a trip. Alone. She cares for him enough that she is literally wanting to spend time alone with him as a way to possibly keep him alive but to also reconnect, something that shows her deep love for him, and deep need for him, and also just the fact she is a great friend. These are two people stuck in a bad world they suffer in that still care for each other deeply.

(NO image as I don’t feel comfortable with that)

SA mention

I am bringing up a scene we end up seeing soon into their trip together, a flashback to Kron attempting to harm Xina, this is poorly written and used as a way to show Miguel and Leon’s hate for each other, they directly use Xina getting SA’ED as a way to push two boys fighting. This is no doubt disgusting writing.

But in the sight of this being about Miguel and Xina it has to be bought up in the way that Xina would put himself in danger, and put his family at risk, risk being abused by George, risk loosing everything, risk possibly even being killed by George, to keep Xina safe, he before now refused to fight back, refused to lay a finger on Kron as he was scared for himself and his family. He was frightened, yet he risked it all for Xina. He did at a point nearly bail on Xina, he was scared the worse would happen to him, but in the end he Kepler her. He kept her safe, even if it was poorly written and should have been shown in a different way that didn’t make a man the savour of a woman facing SA

Nor that’s over we get into the venom arc, the arc where Kron as venom attacks Xina and Dana to get to Miguel, something that reveals Miguel’s even deeper connection to Xina, he out of impulse screams for Xina, he is more worried for her, though he is still very worried for Dana, in this he has to save both, he only successfully saves Xina, and Dana passes away, this isn’t used for shipping Xina and Miguel, in fact Xina ends up leaving. This is shown as a way to show their friendship only, they don’t get together, as they both mentally can’t, Miguel lost his fiancé even if he wasn’t the best partner, and Xina had survivors guilt, she hates herself for hating the woman that slept with her boyfriend, a woman who hates her interests (shown by how she hates Gabriel’s retro interests) she so ends up leaving, I can argue that this was the best ending for the comic, until Miguel and Xina returned later. They both weren’t mentally stable, they both yes loved each other, but they would have ruined each other if they tried again.

The next time we see Xina is when she is happy to see Miguel, even slightly seeming to mess around, she cares for Miguel still, and Miguel still cares for her, but she has seemed to move on, she doesn’t care for a relationship, she has a job to do, people to help, and tech to work on, but yet she is still close to Miguel, she still holds onto Miguel, she still in a way loves him, even if as of now that love is platonic, and the same can be said for Miguel, he is trying to find Gabriel, he doesn’t have time for trying to get with Xina,on top of that but they only see each other for what can be assumed to be less than 24/7’S, they aren’t ready to try again, it’s too quick, and the story handles that well, it doesn’t make them a couple, it makes them friends, who still may have feelings for each other.

In the end they end up leaving, Xina just had her best friend did, and Miguel still needs to find Gabriel, they never end up together, from there on Xina stops showing up, she doesn’t appear in canon at all, she is gone from Miguel’s life, if we don’t count time storm a non canon story; it has been nearly I believe 27 years since she was last since.

It is a bitter sweet ending to her story, and she doesn’t get seen again, but it’s also a bittersweet ending to Miguel’s orginal love life for 2099, after that they force him into Peter Parker’s love interests within stories, or he gets tempest from the past, not his time, which I still love, she just isn’t from comics I read. For the year 2099, for the future Miguel has no life without Xina, he is stuck literally and metaphorically in the past.

I would love to Xina come back, she is considered Miguel’s MJ, the endgame, the person he loves more than anything, and really when you see the writing, when you see what was done, that is completely true, it was written that they were doomed lovers, but they could easily become good partners with time and effort, and if Miguel stops being self destructive

In the end they didn’t work due to Miguel’s self harm, and due to the fact Xina wouldn’t deal with what which is good for her. But if Miguel gets therapy…maybe. They could work.

Over all good doomed lover plot, painful for everyone that wanted them together forever such as myself

But in a non canon comic when Miguel is mentally more stable, him and her are married, and ended up growing old together :)

[poisonf0rest]

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

The sun has not risen for twenty-six years.

Daysdeath, ragnarök, the eternal eclipse, the final punishment of the Saints, the will of The Great Ones— it matters not what you choose to call it. Its name will not change its nature. Its name will not spare us from the reality that is the world plunged into a never ending night, a never ending Hunt where the only mercy is death.

And even death does not come easy now.

The blood of beast and man run the streets of Yharnam red, and with every passing hour, each one as unchanging as the last, the remnants of humanity dwindle. Perhaps it was the bloodlust that The Hunt inspired that further awakened that beast within man, or perhaps in a final act of desperation man has cast away his own humanity, hoping that would be enough to allow him to survive.

Fools. As if that did not doom them further.

But there are still those that dare fight. These Hunters who call themselves human even as they slay beasts who were once our neighbors and family and lovers. These Hunters hunt humans to save humanity.

Tonight seems to be especially brutal, the ceaseless wails and screams echoing throughout the never-ending darkness. And yet this Hunter does not heed them, his claymore merciless as it severs through flesh and bone, not the cracking of skulls nor the sickening gurgle of blood enough to deter him from his hunt.

Beautiful, horrible, the blood of his prey falling around him as it glows the same unearthly red as his hair.

He does not rest. Wrenching his sword from the ribs of a mutant, the Hunter staggers backward, slipping on the mess of gore and entrails tangled upon the cobblestones, already spotting a pack of Scourge Beasts feasting on what must have been the remains of someone foolish enough to be caught outside tonight.

The Hunter rolls back his shoulders, dragging his claymore to the side as he charges, an arc of blood spraying from the blade as it lodges itself into the thick, furry neck of one of the Scourge Beasts. It screams. The howl shakes the Hunter to the bone, his arms trembling as he fights to free his blade now tangled in the flesh and fur.

The Beast staggers to its hind legs, forcing the Hunter to release the sword's hilt as it thrashes wildly with its enormous paws. Another two are running up behind him. But the Hunter noticed too late. The monster's claws slash into his side, and the force rams him into a nearby wall, smashing through layer after layer of crumbling brick.

The pack is already upon him. Rolling, the Hunter curses as one Scourge Beast snaps its jaws mere inches from his leg, a shot from his pistole blasting through the damned thing's jaw. He shoots twice, thrice, darting between the raging monsters to find his claymore still lodged in the flesh of the first beast, its head hanging off by ripped skin, swinging as it charges once more. The Hunter does the same.

Running straight for it, he fires once more, blasting its left paw to pieces as it skids across the bloodstained ground, the Hunter leaping above it as he lands on his sword, kicking it clean through the beast's spine.

Another annoyed curse leaves the Hunter's scowling lips as he counts the bullets he has left, turning to face the remaining Scourge Beasts.

Three bullets. Four beasts.

The first two charge, tongues drooling out from their rotten mouths as the Hunter darts beneath them, claymore singing as it scythes through the beasts, the pair collapsing upon each other as he finished them off with a single shot. Two bullets.

Turning, the Hunter narrowly dodges another swipe, its claws slicing through empty air as he pulls the trigger. The shot rings true, but not before another set of jaws crunch down onto his shoulder. A snap and blood sprays across his vision, throbbing pain blinding the Hunter as he rams his claymore behind him, throwing both the beast and himself to the ground from the momentum. And with the last burst of strength, he writhes free, shooting the monster through the skull as he kneels in a pool of blood.

"Fuck." The Hunter's left arm hangs, shredded and broken, rendered useless as he pushes himself to his feet using his sword as a brace.

Grimacing, he has no choice but to hobble into the nearest alleyway, clutching his arm as he sheathes his claymore onto his back. Staying out in the open any longer would mean certain death. He needs to find shelter, not to mention a doctor or at least some blood to help him recover. The Hunters were all products of blood transfusions, and yet this Hunter in particular must bear the sin of his lineage, the horrors behind that long-forgotten castle of ice and snow passed down to him. Without blood, his hunger worsens.

The itching at his gums and the prick of fangs against his lip remind him of that. His thirst grows stronger.

Limping further into the alley, a small courtyard emerges, a decaying tree in the center, what looks to be the remains of a forgotten well, and a ladder trailing up to the roof of the houses.

"Well," The Hunter grunts, hauling himself up the first wooden rung with his one functioning arm. "It can hardly be worse than lying out in the open."

Perhaps by luck or perhaps by yet another cruel temptation by the Saints, there waits a balcony door at the far end of the roof. Limping forward, the Hunter rams his foot against the handle, rotten wood splintering at the blow, announcing the Hunter's entrance with a groan. It was dim room, likely an attic or storeroom of the residence— if any humans still occupied it, that is.

Still scanning the area, the Hunter tucks himself into a far corner, leaning against what appeared to be crates of empty beakers and vials. At least, that's all he manages to make out as his sight blurs with each flash of heat and pain. No matter. He wouldn't stay long, only just enough to catch his breath.

Darkness dances across his vision, the left side of his body going completely numb as he only half-registers the trail of blood made from his raw wounds. A laugh, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull. Yes, just a quick breather, a nap, he thinks, losing the battle to consciousness. He shan't be here long.

And with that, his head rolls to the side, and he slips into the cold embrace of death.

· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·

The Hunter awakens to two things: One, he is still frustratingly alive, his entire body burning like fucking hell.

Two, he is strapped down to a table with a rifle pointed at his face.

He doesn't get to so much as think of moving when the figure before him presses the muzzle of the gun closer. "I wouldn't recommend trying anything," the last word is little more than a growl as the figure leans in, your face illuminated by the overhead surgical light, highlighting your sneer of disgust. "Vileblood."

"I believe there has been some confusion. I was simply seeking refuge." Diluc doesn't bother struggling against his restraints, merely flexing his left hand as he realizes he can control his wounded arm again. He's healing. Slowly, but finally.

Seeing you have yet to relax your hold on the rifle, he clears his throat. "I am a Hunter. I understand you must be frightened, so if you would release me I'll leave your residence at once. I was only looking for an empty place to rest, but evidently, I chose wrong."

"A Vampyr who hunts monsters," You laugh. "Saints. What has the world come to?"

"Hell, by all manners of the word. Now if you'd release me I would leave your premise immediately and return—"

One more hysterical laugh forces its way from your lips, cutting the Hunter off as you shove the rifle forward, burying the barrel into his forehead. "Do you take me for a fool?"

His flesh burns. Diluc hisses through clenched teeth, the skin on his forehead bubbling and bleeding rapidly where it touches the rifle, the gruesome mixture dripping down his face. Silver. Just his damned luck.

Relenting, you prop the rifle up against the table he's chained to, pulling up your coat sleeve to reveal a clean row of puncture wounds along your forearm. The smell of blood and burnt flesh stains the air. "You were nearly sent back to the hell you crawled out of, blood-starved and bleeding out in my attic. I take it my blood saved you just in time."

"So why rescue me, Executioner?"

You grimace. "I am no Executioner, that whole damned Church and you Hunters can go up in flames for all I care. I am a doctor. My oath is to none but the sciences."

Diluc blinks, eyes darting from you, to the rifle, and back to you. "Of course," A scoff. "A doctor."

"Oui, believe it or no, it matters not to me. Truthfully, your appearance is something of a blessing, as I have need of something only you, dear mutant Vileblood, can give me."

Diluc is about to say something of particularly flavorful language when you begin shuffling items on an operating tray, pulling out a scalpel and syringe long enough to make the words dry in his throat. The restraints don't budge. Normally, breaking a set of chains- leather, metal, or otherwise- would hardly be considered a challenge, however Diluc is painfully aware that he hasn't fed in weeks prior to the fight, and the throbbing in his arm and across his body confirms that his body failed to heal itself completely.

Without blood, not only will his strength continue to wither, but so will his control. That means the once mighty Hunter really is entirely at the mercy of some psychopathic, self-proclaimed doctor currently unbuttoning his vest and spreading her hands across his chest, positioning the scalpel just above his heart.

You are just about to make the first incision through the Hunter's pale skin when the door creaks open, twin heads popping out. Two pairs of identical grey eyes stare into the clinic, mops of blonde hair bouncing as they peek out from the doorframe.

"Is breakfast ready yet?"

"I'm hungry and Eileen won't quit hitting me!"

"Liar! Liar! Timmy hits me first, it's true, I swear it."

"It's hit not hits, stupid!"

"Is not, Idiot!"

"Is too, dunce!"

"Lubberwort!"

"Smellfungus!"

"Gollumpus!"

A high-pitched scream. "Take that back! Take it back!"

Diluc watches, stunned, as the children bicker, the heavy atmosphere of the room all but dissipates as they continue to screech and squabble. Then, you stand, sucking in a deep breath— "Silence!"

The echo of the command befalls the room.

"Yes, Miss Doctor."

You pinch your brows, careful not to cut yourself with the scalpel, swearing this alone has eaten away at your already regrettably short lifespan. "Where is Alison? She was on cooking duty today. And do believe I already told the both of you not to interrupt while I am with patients." The twins flinch, looking between each other before their gaze falls on Diluc.

"Do you always tie them up before cutting them?"

"This one is dirty, scary looking. Like an ugly dog!"

Diluc feels a punch in the gut at that one. Children. Blunt as a hammer.

"Yes, he is indeed very ugly." Bitch. "But he is my patient and we are in the middle of a very, very important step in making him feel better. So please, mes petits choux, go find Alison or Edwin at tell them to get started on the food, lest they become it."

"Okay!"

Rattling footsteps echo down the hall, and you finally exhale as the twins scamper off, turning to face a still-bewildered Hunter. You slam the door shut, locking the rusted hinge. "Out with it."

Diluc clears his throat. "Not yours, I presume?"

A snort. "Saints, no. I already told you, I run a clinic... alongside an orphanage, research center, and theater depending on if it's Friday or not."

He fights a smile, something tugging at a memory long forgotten. "Ah. I see."

But there is no longer any lingering hostility, Diluc's arms all but slack against the restraints as the realization dawns on him. "I've placed you all in danger just by being here. Untie me and I'll leave at once, I have already exposed you to my blood for far too long. I refuse to endanger you and the children any further."

And, damn it all, your conscience finally catches up with you.

Cursing under your breath, you slam the scalpel and syringe back down onto the tray, unshackling the Hunter. Diluc is still weary as he sits up, immediately redoing the buttons on his shirt to preserve some modesty, about to make a run for his weapons when he feels a light touch against his shoulder. Contrary to your every action thus far, there you are, hand on his arm, asking silently for him to wait.

You clear your throat. "I already told you, you bloody stupid Hunter, I am a doctor. That means by oath no patient of mine is allowed to leave unless they are fully healed, Vileblood or no. We can skip the... extra procedures for now."

You lift up a box, vials clicking as Diluc picks one up. Blood vials. "I wasn't quite sure how a mutant such as yourself would have preferred it administered— through an injection like the rest of you Hunters or as a drink."

"Either." Diluc feels a prickle against his top gums as he pops off the cork, but swallows the desire down. "Either is effective."

"Very well, then drink."

By the Saints, he doesn't need to be told twice. Mouthful after mouthful, he empties the glass before instinctually reaching for another, feeling the strength return to his limbs, skin and muscle stitching back together on their own, blood coagulating and scabbing over, subduing the beast that dwells inside him once again. He's already thrown aside half a dozen vials by the time he bothers to take a breath. Panting, he wipes his bloodied mouth with his equally bloody sleeve, and you frown at the less-than-sanitary repercussions.

But alas, you suppose when you're wearing the dried blood of beasts akin to a second coat, the cleanliness of it all fails to bother you.

You were so lost in thought you failed to realize the Hunter had disappeared from the operating table, now standing behind you, fully donned in his black coat and hat, already having retrieved his claymore and gun before you could even blink. His voice jostles you, and you unconsciously shift back, reminded once again this man is far from human. "You are far kinder than I deserve." A deep bow, "I am in your forever in your debt."

"That you are, my dear Hunter."

Diluc freezes halfway, snapping his head up as he rises to full height.

"Surely you didn't think I'd give up vials of my own blood for free?"

Your blood. Diluc grimaces, suddenly hyperaware of the taste as it coats his tongue and throat. Heavy. Rich. Fucking addictive. "You're a Hunter so you've got no coin on you, that I'm sure. However, you can help me gather materials. As I mentioned prior I am conducting research," You clear your throat. "On what I cannot allow myself to disclose, but I would appreciate specimens only a gifted killer such as yourself can obtain. And, of course, free-range to test the walking specimen that is yourself."

He pretends not to be bothered by the way you eye him up and down as you say that last part. "Research, huh..." An unamused grunt. "Word of advice, little healer. I wouldn't mess with the Church."

"Doctor."

"Makes little difference to me. The warning still stands."

You scoff. "I know full well that the Healing Church is a far cry from holy, Hunter. After all, they created you." And you don't know what compelled you, but you continued. "That besides, my work is not directly dealing with the Church. I wish to find the truth behind, well, all of this: Ashen Blood, the Beastly Scourge, Vilebloods, the truth of—"

"Quiet." Diluc slams his hand over your mouth, muffling your words as you gasp. Surprise turns to anger as you yell, attempting to claw him off, to no avail. "Do not speak of such blasphemy aloud."

Completely ignoring him, you keep fighting his grasp, almost considering biting his palm before you remember how much filth his gloves must be carrying on them. "Just listen to me for a moment, would you? Quiet." The last word is a hissed whisper, but the ferocity in his glare silence you.

Then, you hear it too.

A rhythmic tapping, a movement of someone or something hopping along the weathered shingles of the clinic's roof. Diluc merely puts a finger to his lips, motioning you to stay put as he unsheathes his claymore in a smooth arch. Silently, he makes his way to a window, leaping out as he disappears into the endless night.

And then he's standing before you. But this time, a dead crow is dangling in his grasp.

The startled shriek from you makes Diluc flinch, and he's about to apologize for the gore when you cut in. "Your ridiculous bird is dripping blood all over my clinic!"

Oh.

"Well my apologies, Doctor. I thought blood would be somewhat commonplace here."

A huff and you inch closer. "Well?" You bend, investigating the crow. Or at least, what you thought was a crow, only it was well-past half your height, monstrously contorted and reeking of decaying flesh. "Why did you feel the need to bring this to me?"

"Carrion Crows. Appear to be rotting, unintelligible creatures, but I've seen far too many come in and out of the Church to believe they are simply wasted pairs of eyes." He meets your gaze and flicks the silver band forged onto the creature's foot. "Your roof just happened to be littered with them."

"Saints."

Diluc grunts, throwing the crow out the window, shaking excess blood from his palms. "As a man of my word I intend to honor our deal, despite your less-than-honorable method of trapping me in it."

"Wait just a moment, I'm not the one who broke into someone else's house half-dead and bleeding while—"

"But call for me, and I will bring you the specimens you require." You scowl as he cuts you off- again- stepping back from pure instinct as he walks towards you. Lifting his hand, Diluc hesitates, arm falling back to his side. He steps away.

You're scared. The smell of fear radiates off you despite your determination to look him in the eye, likely denying that visceral reaction to yourself even now. He can't blame you: if it has fangs and claws and a lust for blood, then surely it must be a beast. He accepted that fact long ago.

"I'll say it once more, stay away from the Church. If not for your own sake, then for the children you care for."

The Hunter had already made his way back to the window, clearly not intending to use the door like a civilized person, when you speak up again, quieter this time.

"It is for them I must continue. There is no future, not for the children nor for Yharnam, unless I find the truth."

Diluc doesn't move. He simply stares at you, finding a conviction, a light in your eyes that he swears he hasn't seen in the decades since this world fell into eternal night. And it terrifies him.

Hope.

"Until then, Doctor."

[hobobobo-fett56]

It’s Bedtime Pumpkin: Lloyd Hansen x spouse!reader

Warnings: slight angst, y/n subtly not liking coffee, sleep deprivation

Excuse the grammar mistakes, I am very tired but I cannot fall asleep until I write down this idea

Insomnia was a bitch. Sorry, insomnia was making you it’s bitch. That, and your nightmares kept you from wanting to sleep even if you could.

Usually your husband would be home to wrap you in his arms and protect you from anything that dared disturb your sleep, but he was out on a job, and you didn’t know when he would be back.

So you had been up for a week, it’s not a big deal to you, you had developed a “routine” for when Lloyd wasn’t home, and you had almost perfected it:

1. Kiss Lloyd goodbye and make sure he has extra snacks in his bag just incase

2. Go to work, the busy rush of your job was an easy distraction from your exhaustion

3. Clean and throw yourself into as many jobs as you possibly can, your current hyper fixation should do the trick

4. Lots of sugar and food, eating kept you awake.

Rinse and repeat daily (except for step one of course)

It was unusual for Lloyds job to last more than two or three days, so of course the exhaustion was getting to you, but at this point, you had convinced yourself that sleep was the worst possible option, that it was life threatening. It was getting so hard to stay awake that you were tempted to drink coffee, but alas your distaste for the beverage won, and you were running out of ideas.

Currently it was two in the morning, the house was spotless, all of your work projects for the next two months had been finished hours ago, and you were out of yarn, thread, fabric, flour, chocolate and basically any art or baking supply you could think of so coming up with a fun new craft to be focused on was out of the question.

Now, in a last ditch attempt to stay awake, you were doom scrolling on your phone, from baking compilations to tumbler stories to some of the filthiest smut you could find, you were looking at everything to stay awake.

If Lloyd were here, he would have scolded you for not taking proper care of yourself, telling you that you need to find a way to sleep without him, and (as your therapist does constantly) suggest some form of anti-anxiety medication to help with your fears.

But he wasn’t here. In fact you couldn’t remember the last time you had talked to him, it felt like years although it had probably only been a day or so. You missed him desperately during the times that he was away, but you knew he loved his job so you were happy for him.

You had switched to instagram and were scrolling through reels when you heard some scuffling downstairs by the front door. It was so quiet that if you were asleep, you wouldn’t have heard it, but you of course were not asleep, just halfway delusional from lack thereof. Without thinking, you grabbed your guitar which you had been taking lessons for, and crept out of your room brandishing the instrument like a baseball bat. You got down the stairs and turn the corner only to scream in fright and drop the guitar when you ran straight into your husband.

He in turn, screamed in surprise causing you to jump and fall.

Immediately he had his arms wrapped around you and was holding onto you tightly before you could hit the ground.

You could hear his rich laugh “honey I’m home” he said still laughing while he pulled you up so he could face you. You began laughing too, finding the situation quite comical.

Lloyd checked his watch “why are you up so late pumpkin? Are you ok?” He asked

Just the question sent you into hysterics. From laughing loudly to sobbing, your body crumpled to the floor, relieved that you could finally rest.

“Woah woah woah, what’s going on here pumpkin, hey sweetheart what’s the deal?” Lloyd crouched down to you and you tried to calm down.

“I’m so tired, I’m so so so tired, I just want to sleep, but I couldn’t” his face softened at that, and he easily picked you up off of the floor.

“Come on then, it’s bedtime pumpkin” with that he was carrying you both up the stairs and placed you into your shared bed.

He kissed your hand before he left your embrace for at the most fifteen seconds (the utter betrayal) to strip down to his underwear so he could crawl into bed with you.

Thankful he had chosen to not wear a shirt as he pulled you into his chest, and gave you as much skin to skin contact as he could, you breathed a sigh of relief. His body was radiating warmth and safety. You finally felt like you could relax.

“Are we gonna need to have a talk about your sleeping habits, baby?” Lloyd broke the silence.

“Mmm probably, but can we do it tomorrow, I’m tired, and I missed you so much” you mumbled

He kissed you forehead “sure pumpkin, go to sleep, I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

“Thanks bubba” the soft rhythmic rise and fall of his chest lulled you into a deep peaceful sleep, unknowingly to you, Lloyd was just as tired, and crashed as hard as you did. Neither of you could sleep without the other.

The end.

[waywardxwords]

4. No Going Back Now

Chapter 4 of Little Secrets

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 1,611

Warnings: Fluff? No warnings, really.

MASTERLIST

The drive was so far silent besides the music coming from the cassettes Dean had chosen for the nine-hour road trip from Sioux Falls to Cicero. This was fairly normal; their drives were usually filled with the likes of ACDC, Kansas and Metallica over real conversation. The thoughts running through Y/N’s mind weren’t as common. Sure, she had thought about Sam before. He had crossed her mind on more than one occasion and definitely more times than she really wanted to admit. But this time was different.

Her phone brought her out of her thoughts as it vibrated from within her denim jacket pocket.

Sam

How ya doing back there?

Her eyes glanced from the bright iPhone screen to Sam’s profile, but he was unreadable. His jaw was set in a firm line; his eyes stared off into the oncoming traffic.

She moved her fingers along as she wrote back.

I’m not sure, exactly. What are you thinking about?

It sounded stupid in her head, but her fingers moved faster than her brain could process and she somehow hit send before she could recant anything she had typed. She tried to stealthily hide the fact that she had texted someone; her eyes glanced up to the rearview mirror where Dean was focused on the road. He hadn’t seemed to notice Sam’s phone light up, but Y/N observed Sam steal a side-glance at his brother before opening the screen to his phone.

She watched his fingers type back and gnawed on her bottom lip gently before her phone vibrated against her thigh once more.

Sam

I’m thinking about you.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile, but she quickly pulled her face into a straight line, afraid Dean might catch on. Why am I hiding from Dean? The question didn’t make sense to her, but Sam hadn’t said anything either. And in their defense, this was all so new…whatever exactly this was, neither of them had figured that out yet.

Y/N quickly typed back. 

Okay, Romeo. Reign in.

The text made Sam laugh out loud, which was sweet, until Y/N noticed it had caught Dean’s attention. Dean glanced at his brother with a furrowed brow, then back to the road, and then to Sam once more. Sam cleared his throat and straightened his expression, pulling his lips into a tight line.

“You doin’ alright over there?” Dean asked tentatively with a curious look. “Anything you wanna share with the rest of us?”

Y/N’s heart beat rapidly in her chest.

“Just…” Sam’s voice trailed off as he tried to come up with something to say. “Just a funny text from Bobby, that’s all.”

Dean’s reaction was one of disbelief. “Since when does Bobby text?”

Sam became visibly defensive. He ran his palms down the thighs of his jeans and straightened in the seat. “I don’t know, since now?” Great answer, Y/N thought sarcastically as she rolled her eyes. They were doomed.

Thankfully, they were officially in Cicero and an exit was rapidly approaching. Even though Sam’s response to Dean had been less than stellar, he somewhat redeemed himself by changing the topic.

“We should probably stop soon, it’s a holiday weekend so hotels are probably going to be slim picking,” he averted his gaze out the window. Y/N tried to think of what holiday Sam was referencing but came up with nothing.

“Holiday weekend?” Dean’s what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about tone was in full force. 

“Yeah, Dean. It’s Veteran’s Day,” Sam looked at his older brother like he was an idiot. Oh. Thank you, veterans, for saving my ass, both in the past as well as this present moment. Y/N felt her stomach tumble as she nervously eyed Dean’s reaction in the rearview mirror. He was too focused on trying to picture a calendar (and probably recall what day it even was). He finally raised his eyebrows and muttered a “hmm” in thought. 

“Well, damn. I guess you’re right,” Y/N was certain Dean had no idea whether Sam was right or not, but he merged onto the exit ramp, nonetheless. “I doubt Cicero is much of a holiday get-away kinda town, but might as well. Beats sleeping in Baby.”

Y/N would second that. While she loved the Impala wholeheartedly, Baby cramped her style when it came to sleeping arrangements–quite literally.

“Besides, I doubt I’m gonna need a place to stay tonight. Think I’ve got that one covered,” he smiled a smug grin in Sam’s direction. Sam rolled his eyes but didn’t say a word; the subject had been changed, that was all he cared about.

Dean pulled into the parking lot of the first sleazy motel he found. Y/N barely had enough time to shut the back door as he hit the gas, turning up dust and dirt from the parking lot in his path.

“You kids have fun!” He yelled as he drove off towards his old flame’s neighborhood.

Y/N scoffed as he took off, flipping him the middle finger, which he graciously reciprocated out the driver’s window. “He’s such an ass,” she mumbled, her frustration distracting her from the tall man who stood next to her.

Sam smirked and shook his head as he slung his arm across her shoulders and took her heavy duffel bag from her. “Let’s just check in, alright?”

Y/N felt the frustration drain from her body with the weight of the duffel. It was bizarre to her how Sam could do that–just make every ounce of stress dissipate from her body. It was something he had been able to do ever since she started hunting with the Winchesters.

Sam headed into the lobby to get two rooms, one for the boys and one for Y/N, while she waited outside with the bags. She folded her arms across her chest and rocked on her heels as she waited, trying desperately not to focus on the butterflies fluttering around in her stomach.

“You ready?” Sam’s voice took her out of her thoughts and she nodded quickly as she followed him to the row of rooms. Sam grabbed both duffels and Y/N pulled her backpack up onto her shoulder. He handed her the key that belonged to her room and she took the lead. She pushed the door open and tossed the bag to the floor by the end table.

______________

All sorts of thoughts flooded Y/N’s brain as she settled onto her queen-sized bed in the motel room. Sam had his computer open, researching the reason they had come to this town in the first place. Y/N was still convinced the poor vic had simply endured a freak accident, but she admired Sam’s thoroughness. He would treat it like a case until he could prove otherwise…maybe that was the lawyer in him.

They rested with their backs against the headboard of Y/N’s bed, Sam’s arm draped over her shoulders while the other hand typed various keywords into Google searches. His eyes scanned various newspaper articles and clippings that had been posted online related to any mysterious deaths in Cicero recently.

Meanwhile, Y/N rested her head on Sam’s shoulder with her knees pulled towards her chest. She flipped through the entries of John Winchester’s journal, though she really wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She wasn’t as motivated as Sam; in her mind, they had traveled all this way so Dean could have a hook-up with an old fling. Sure, the accident was crazy, but she didn’t think it was their kind of crazy.

She found herself distracted with a loose thread dangling on Sam’s flannel right by the buttons that kept the shirt secured over his abdomen. Close proximity was not necessarily new for Sam and Y/N. The kissing, holding hands, arms around each other–that was new.

“What do you think Dean would say about all…this?” She didn’t really know how else to ask but it was something that had been replaying in her mind and there was no escaping it.

Sam tore his gaze from the screen of his laptop and glanced down at Y/N. “Initially? Probably something like ‘about time’. Bobby, however, would probably call us idgits. Dean might agree a little…”

“Why would they call us idgits?” Y/N met his stare with her eyebrows pinched together in confusion.

“The whole ‘saving people, hunting things’,” Sam sighed as he pulled the laptop off of his lap. “It’s risky.” He shrugged. “Dean and I don’t get involved with people because it’s dangerous for them and it’s dangerous for us.”

Y/N contemplated only for a second before she answered. “Yeah, but I’m already a hunter. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“It does,” Sam answered as his gaze fell to Y/N’s hands. He played with her fingers absentmindedly in the palm of his hand; she sensed a ‘but’ coming… “But demons usually focus on hitting our weaknesses and for me and Dean, we’re weak when it comes to people we care about.” 

Y/N felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. It was a ‘beat-around-the-bush’ way for Sam to express that he cared about her, but he expressed it, nonetheless.

“I care about you too, Sam,” her words were soft and barely audible, but Sam heard her loud and clear. Before his brain could process anything else, he lifted her chin with his index finger and lowered his lips to hers.

The rush they both felt as their lips landed together cautiously was overwhelming. Both were only slightly wary as they deepened their movements, carefully exploring each other. Even in being cautious, Y/N couldn’t help herself as she moved to place her body as close to Sam as possible. He instinctively reached underneath her thighs to pull her onto his lap, her legs straddling either side of him.

Y/N’s hands cupped Sam’s face, her fingers rubbed along the light stubble of his jaw line. She felt herself get lost in the moment as Sam’s lips moved against hers. He tested the waters as he pulled her bottom lip into his mouth. His tongue tentatively glided out over her lip, crossing yet another border. At that point, Y/N felt her body completely succumb to Sam.

His large, calloused fingertips pressed down on her hips–their movement had caused her to squirm a bit, which had in turn caused her t-shirt to rise slightly. Goosebumps bubbled all over her as his fingertips made contact with her warm skin.

Y/N barely pulled back, her breathing heavy. Sam’s lips found their way to her neck, kissing and sucking and nipping until she couldn’t take anymore.

“Sam,” she whispered breathlessly, her eyes closed shut as she reveled in the feeling of his lips upon her flushed skin. Her fingers tangled at the nape of his neck in locks of his hair, ultimately holding him to her. She pulled his head away gently and opened her eyes. “Sam, we should stop.”

Reluctantly, Sam detached his lips from her neck and took a few steady breaths. His eyes found hers as he seemed to search for an answer. 

“So we both agree that we care about each other…” she began to dissect the situation. She forced herself to look away from his eyes–those damn eyes made her drunk, practically. She watched him nod in agreement as his hands toyed with hers again.

“But we both also realize this is dangerous,” he interjected, his voice disappointed.

“So…” Y/N trailed on. “How about we just don’t tell anyone?” She asked, hopeful. “No one has to know…” she tried to reason. The warmth that had managed to pool in her stomach when Sam had kissed her the way he had made her want more. No monster, Dean or Bobby could stop her, as far as she was concerned.

Sam smiled with a chuckle but rolled his eyes as he focused on intertwining their fingers. “Dean’s too smart for that. I was pretty sure he had us made in the car earlier.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t,” Y/N seemed to think she could master reasoning with the youngest Winchester. “Or maybe he did and he doesn’t care?” She took her bottom lip between her teeth again, a nervous habit.

“Highly doubtful,” Sam laughed gently. He used his thumb to pull on Y/N’s chin, freeing her lip from the grasp of her teeth. “Yeah, well, if we’re going to keep this a secret, you’re going to have to stop doing that.” 

Y/N laughed as she felt her lips with her fingertips just as Sam’s cell phone sounded with a call from the nightstand. He reached over for the device and flashed the screen towards her. It was Dean.

“Hey,” Sam said into the receiver, putting the call on speaker phone.

“Dude, there is a job here,” Dean’s words echoed off the walls of the motel room.

While Sam and Dean talked specifics, Y/N mentally prepared herself. She felt Sam’s hand tighten around hers in a comforting squeeze. Well, there’s no going back now.

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Mary-go-round... Lan Zhan does not

@sasukimimochi here you go, the ficlet for your prompt <3 writing this made my heart warm, I got to remember so many of my own fond memories with amusement parks and fairs!

Prompt: here

Lan Wangji does not have regrets. He doesn't regret taking up education instead of music as his major, he doesn't regret moving in with Wei Ying after a month (well, 23 days) of dating and, of course, he does not and will never regret falling in love with Wei Ying no matter what his uncle has to say about it.

However, Lan Wangji now regrets something - and the moment the rollercoaster handler fastens the seatbelts and metal bars over his lap, Lan Wangji regrets it even more.

Why did he have to pretend to be brave? He's not. Really, there's not a brave bone in his body - not when it comes to this... contraption that's called something like The Deadly Loop Of Doom and Despair. Very aptly named, yes, but - but the point is that Lan Wangji regrets letting Wei Ying drag him into this.

Of course, if he said something, Wei Ying would have understood and respected it - but Lan Zhan just had to paint himself as this tough man that Wei Ying could always rely on for anything... so now, here is, about to go on the Deadly Loop Of Doom And Despair and probably die during it. So much for being tough and reliable.

He hates heights, he hates loops and spins - and he absolutely does not trust these shoddy safety measures that these very young employees are fastening onto people. Shouldn't there be more engineers around? Safety inspectors? Police? Priests??

Lan Zhan already feels dizzy and the thing hasn't even left ground yet. Well, if he dies at least he's gonna have Wei Ying by his side.

Wei Ying whose face is lit up like a Christmas tree, looking everywhere around, nearly vibrating with excitement in his seat.

Lan Zhan loves him so much - but he's never going to do this with him again.

The ride begins moving and Lan Zhan's stomach drops. This definitely has to be some kind of torture device, he's definitely going to have to check that Geneva Convention again one of these days, perhaps he can sue the park for unsafe practices, human rights violations or at least emotional damage.

The ride picks up speed and Lan Zhan realizes he's going to need to be alive to do those things and he doubts he will be.

---

Wei Ying jumps off his seat like he's actioned by spring, and he begins talking up a storm about how "cool" and "fun" that was.

It was so cool and fun that Lan Wangji can barely keep himself upright, and he's pretty sure he's mentally converted to at least 5 different religions.

"...Lan Zhan? Are you okay?"

Wei Ying looks concerned now, worry on his features much too pretty. Lan Zhan nods and takes his hand, hoping his fingers aren't shaking as much as his knees are.

He feels like a newborn, but in a bad way. No, he doesn't know what that means.

Wei Ying seems unconvinced. "Did something happen? You look a little... haunted."

He is.

"I'm fine."

Wei Ying tries to analyze his expression again, and Lan Zhan hopes his poker face is as good as Nie Huaisang complains it to be when they play cards.

It seems to be, because Wei Ying is back to dragging him around, and Lan Zhan is more than happy with that arrangement as long as there are no rollercoasters around.

---

The boy shoots his last arrow but misses the target miserably.

"Sorry, kid, the bunny plushie stays right here with me!" the vendor laughs and the boy sticks his tongue out at him before running off towards his parents.

Lan Zhan can practically see the idea be born inside Wei Ying's mind when he walks up to the stand and pays for a turn. There are a few kids in line behind him, and he turns to them as he picks up the bow from the vendor.

"In order to be a good archer, you need to have good grip on the bow, like this. Keep your back and shoulders straight."

He turns towards the target and the kids huddle to a side, to observe. "Place the arrow right against the middle point of the string, following the direction of your target."

Lan Zhan watches his form, perfect (and incredibly attractive), and imagines himself in those stereotypical scenarios with an apple on his head, half naked, Wei Ying testing his archery skills on him.

This is so not the place for such fantasies.

"And then, you focus on the target, take a deep breath, and..."

Wei Ying decides to show off, winks at Lan Zhan and closes his eyes, spinning elegantly in place, once. He lets go of the bow string as he stops and everybody watches the arrow fly with baited breaths.

It hits right on target, bullseye.

The children cheer and Wei Ying does a little curtsy their way as the vendor begrudgingly hands him the giant plushie.

"Here." Wei Ying says as he hands it to Lan Zhan. "This is for you!"

Lan Zhan huffs a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh and kisses Wei Ying's forehead. "My hero."

---

Lan Zhan is not used to having sugary treats often. When he was little, uncle said he became restless if he had too much processed sugar, so he rarely got to indulge in candy and cakes as a result. The habit was drilled into him, so his interest in sweets remained low all the way through adulthood... until now.

He is on his second serving of cotton candy and he feels at the height of decadence. Wei Ying bites into a candy apple himself, and he looks much like a happy chipmunk chewing on it. Lan Zhan is going to kiss him about it - later, when he's done indulging in this frivolous pink dessert that feels like he's biting into a soft, sticky, sugar cloud.

"You look like you're having a religious experience." Wei Ying laughs. "Last time I saw you like that was the first time you saw me naked."

Lan Zhan half glares at him as he bites into the cotton candy. "Ridiculous."

"No, it's true, you do look like you've made a big discovery about yourself."

And he has. He's starting to understand why uncle didn't let him have sugar as a child - he suddenly feels restless and full of energy, and he knows the sugar crash is going to be terrible after.

But never mind that.

They're selling gingerbread figurines two stalls over.

---

"We need to bring A-Yuan with us next time!" Wei Ying says as he and Lan Zhan walk out of the amusement park, fingers interlocked. "He's going to have so much fun here!"

"No big rollercoasters for him." Lan Zhan says and doesn't only mean A-Yuan.

"Oh, no, he's way too young! That's for grown-ups, only we can handle that kind of thing."

Wei Ying doesn't see the 'speak for yourself' in his lover's side eye as he climbs into the car.

[phoenixrisesoncemore]

Why Eru Didn’t Trip Gollum: Providence, Free Will, and Con-creation in The Lord of the Rings—Part 4 of 5

| PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 (this post) | PART 5 |

[Go back to PART 3: Untangling the Knots]

Part 4: Examining the Threads

Active and Passive

Both of the interpretations of the book’s climax we have explored thus far reframe what appears upon first reading in the text to be a passive event (Gollum falling by accident due to misstepping) into an active one (Gollum being tripped or compelled to fall). Peter Jackson’s film adaptation of The Return of the King likewise reframes (or perhaps transforms) the climactic scene. In the film Gollum’s fall is not presented as purely “accidental”—as a result of his careless dancing. Instead an injured Frodo rises to his feet, clutching his bleeding hand, and wrestles with Gollum; during this fight both fall over the edge into the chasm of fire. Frodo (with the help of Sam) is able to hold onto the rock face and climb out; Gollum, however, is not and plunges into the fire, carrying the Ring with him just as he does in the book. 

Though it isn’t clear who was initially responsible for suggesting this change, Peter Jackson has described his concerns that the scene as written in the book would be “a major disappointment” in the “dramatic context” of film:

We felt that audiences – a lot of people haven’t read the book, of course – would feel very let down and would actually judge Frodo badly for just sitting there watching as the ring got accidentally destroyed. (…)  They’d feel that Frodo would have failed essentially in his quest, and it was an accident that stepped in. We had to be careful in the movie to keep Frodo from looking bad because of that. (qtd. in Sandwell)

In fact according to Jackson the first version of the scene that was shot included even more direct action on Frodo’s part:

When we originally shot the scene, Gollum bit off Frodo’s finger and Frodo pushed Gollum off the ledge into the fires below. It was straight-out murder, but at the time we were okay with it because we felt everyone wanted Frodo to kill Gollum. (ibid)

Jackson apparently told Elijah Wood to play his attack as it appears in the final film ambiguously so that the viewer is left to wonder what Frodo would have done if he had succeeded in reclaiming the Ring from Gollum (Sandwell), thus maintaining the plausibility of Frodo’s “active role” in the Ring’s destruction.

Jackson is not the only person to have considered different and more “heroic” endings to this scene. Tolkien, himself, in earlier drafts of the scene, explored a very similar scenario to the one that appears in Jackson’s film. In The History of Middle-earth volumes VI—IX, Christopher Tolkien presents a number of his father’s early drafts of The Lord of the Rings, including outlines of the climactic scene. In an outline likely dating to 1939 and appearing in the ninth volume, Sauron Defeated, Tolkien writes: “At that moment Gollum — who had seemed to reform and had guided them by secret ways through Mordor — comes up and treacherously tries to take the Ring. They wrestle and Gollum takes Ring and falls into Crack” (3). According to Christopher it is clear that as early as 1940 Tolkien knew that “when Frodo…came to the Crack of Doom he would be unable to cast away the Ring, and that Gollum would take it and fall into the chasm. But how did he fall?” (37).

As Christopher suggests, while his father may have known from early on that the Ring would only fall into the fire along with Gollum, he seems to have been uncertain of the cause of Gollum’s fall. As his work on The Lord of the Rings continued over the decade and a half, Tolkien considered his options, pondering heavily Sam’s involvement—by turns Sam hurls himself into Gollum throwing them both into the fire (4), wrestles with Gollum and then throws him into the fire (4), sneaks up on Gollum while Gollum is dancing with glee and pushes him into the fire (5)—and even the possibility of Gollum jumping into the fire intentionally in a kind of ritual suicide meant to keep the Ring from anyone else. Yet Tolkien eventually ended up back where he started: simply that Gollum falls—no push, no shove, no wrestling. Indeed, according to Christopher the primary draft of the chapter “Mount Doom” (that is, its contents first put in prose and not in outline) is both complete and only differs from the published version in very minor ways:

It is remarkable in that the primary drafting constitutes a completed text, with scarcely anything in the way of preparatory sketching of individual passages, and while the text is rough and full of corrections made at the time of composition it is legible almost throughout; moreover many passages underwent only the most minor changes later. It is possible that some more primitive material has disappeared, but it seems to be far more probable that the long thought which my father had given to the ascent of Mount Doom and the destruction of the Ring enabled him, when at last he came to write it, to achieve it more quickly and surely than almost any earlier chapter in The Lord of the Rings. (37)

As with many aspects of the novel, Tolkien’s choices here were the result of long and careful consideration. But did Tolkien view the destruction of the Ring as “accidental?” Perhaps we should return to those letters and let Tolkien describe the forces in action in the scene himself.

The Supreme Value and Efficacy of Pity

The following are excerpts from four of Tolkien’s letters published in The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien that mention Frodo’s failure and the forces that lead to the completion of the quest in his stead:

[Frodo] (and the Cause) were saved – by Mercy: by the supreme value and efficacy of Pity and forgiveness of injury. […] I did not ‘arrange’ the deliverance in this case: it again follows the logic of the story. (251)

But at this point the ‘salvation’ of the world and Frodo’s own ‘salvation’ is achieved by his previous pity and forgiveness of injury. At any point any prudent person would have told Frodo that Gollum would certainly betray him, and could rob him in the end. To ‘pity’ him, to forbear to kill him, was a piece of folly, or a mystical belief in the ultimate value-in-itself of pity and generosity even if disastrous in the world of time. He did rob him and injure him in the end – but by a ‘grace’, that last betrayal was at a precise juncture when the final evil deed was the most beneficial thing any one cd. have done for Frodo! By a situation created by his ‘forgiveness’, he was saved himself, and relieved of his burden. (234)

In this case the cause (not the ‘hero’) was triumphant, because by the exercise of pity, mercy, and forgiveness of injury, a situation was produced in which all was redressed and disaster averted. (252)

Frodo had done what he could and spent himself completely (as an instrument of Providence) and had produced a situation in which the object of his quest could be achieved. His humility (with which he began) and his sufferings were justly rewarded by the highest honour; and his exercise of patience and mercy towards Gollum gained him Mercy: his failure was redressed. (325)

Two things here are very obvious: firstly that Tolkien places responsibility for the completion of the quest on Frodo’s choice to extend pity to Gollum, and secondly that he describes the action of the climactic scene in consistently passive ways.

Pity is an idea that is addressed several times in The Lord of the Rings; its first appearance comes in chapter two of Book I, only moments before Frodo tries and fails to throw the Ring in the fireplace. Conversing with Gandalf about the likelihood that Gollum has exposed the names “Baggins” and “Shire” to Sauron, putting Frodo and all he loves in danger, Frodo exclaims that it was a pity that Bilbo did not kill Gollum during their encounter in The Hobbit. Gandalf, however, sees things differently:

Pity? It was Pity that stayed [Bilbo’s] hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity. (59)

Our knowledge of Gandalf’s true nature is limited in The Lord of the Rings; it is only in The Silmarillion that we learn he is a maiar who has studied under Nienna, the vala of pity, mercy, compassion, and sorrow. The “supreme value and efficacy of pity and mercy” is likely something Gandalf knows quite a bit about, and he impresses upon Frodo its importance early on. It’s a lesson Frodo will have learned by the time he first meets Gollum; by that point he, too, will have suffered under the strain of the Ring, and will have come to identify with Gollum’s own tortured experience, finding him easy to pity at last. His pity for Gollum will prevent him from killing Gollum during their first meeting and many times afterwards. In fact, Gollum’s survival and presence at the climax is the result of a long string of acts ruled by pity. First is Bilbo’s pity that spares Gollum when Bilbo chooses not to kill him during his escape from the goblin tunnels in the pages of The Hobbit[6]. Next is an act of kindness (almost certainly engendered by pity) by the Elves of Mirkwood from whose custody Gollum escapes; this act of kindness leads to a planned ambush by orcs and the death of several elvish guards, but it also sets Gollum free to track Frodo and the Ring. Frodo’s continuous acts of pity will follow, as he refuses to kill Gollum despite recognizing Gollum is untrustworthy and likely to endanger the quest. Frodo will even plead with Faramir to spare Gollum’s life, despite the fact that Faramir, like Frodo, knows Gollum cannot be trusted. Lastly it is Sam (whose own bungled treatment of Gollum likely prevented Gollum’s full repentance) who will finally feel pity for Gollum: having at last experienced the weight of the Ring, himself, he refuses to kill Gollum on the slopes of Mount Doom just before the climactic scene. 

These acts, as Tolkien says, are folly. No reasonable person would decide that the most prudent course of action is to spare Gollum’s life, especially not once Frodo and Sam have entered Mordor and have the Cracks of Doom in sight. And yet it is clear that without these continuous offerings of pity, grace, and mercy the quest would have failed. Frodo would have claimed the Ring. Sauron would have found him and taken it. The armies of the West would have been crushed, and Sauron’s dominion over Middle-earth would have been final. Gollum’s actions in the Cracks of Doom are ignoble, no doubt—they are driven by lust and total corruption—but they nonetheless inadvertently bring about the Ring’s destruction and the “salvation of the Cause.”

Abnegation and Plain Hobbit-sense

Frodo and Sam’s choices, both as they relate to Gollum and to the Ring, also express an incredible humility and awareness of their position relative to the enormity of the rest of the world. As Gandalf says during chapter two’s pity speech: “Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends” (59).

Douglas Blount in his paper, “Uberhobbits: Tolkien, Nietzsche, And The Will To Power” describes those characteristics which Tolkien most closely identifies with heroism and moral authority: strength, according to Tolkien, manifests itself most clearly not in the exercise of power but rather in the willingness to give it up. “The greatest examples of the action of the spirit and of reason,” Blount tells us, “are in abnegation” (98).

It could be argued that hobbits, perhaps more than any of the “races” in Tolkien’s Middle-earth, reflect the virtues of humility and the abnegation of authority which is not theirs to claim. They are simple people who, on the whole, want to be left alone and do not seek domination of either people or of nature. And while their ignorance and small-mindedness are not traits to be looked up to (and everyone from Tolkien to Frodo to Gandalf does fault them for this), I would argue that they, as a group, represent the closest thing in the novel (outside of Tom Bombadil) to the antithesis of Sauron and the Ring.

Though Frodo does fail the final test, Tolkien assures us that it was a test outside Frodo’s (and indeed any person’s) capability to pass. In the heart of Sauron’s domain, at the fire where the Ring was forged, where all other powers were dimmed, no incarnate creature could have brought themselves to destroy the Ring. Tolkien is clear that in this sense Frodo’s failure was not a moral one, as he had been pushed beyond his capacity and had maintained his moral integrity up until that moment—which, to go back to the discussion of Gollum being cursed, further undermines the idea that Frodo at any point actively used the Ring to curse or compel Gollum to his death. Added together, these themes of pity and humility are part of why I would argue some of the changes made in Jackson’s adaptation of The Return of the King obscure some of the most important themes in The Lord of the Rings—in their effort to add additional dramatic tension or to give Frodo the appearance of more agency, they repeatedly dilute either Frodo’s sensible nature or the chain of pity that runs through the story[7].

Two of the film’s choices stand out in particular: a significantly altered scene while the heroes are climbing the Endless Stair in which Gollum tricks Frodo into believing Sam has turned against him leading Frodo to send Sam away, and the climax when Gollum falls into the fire as a result of struggling with Frodo over the Ring. The former, I would argue, works most strongly against both of the two important themes we have been examining in this section: pity and humility (or “plain hobbit sense”). Frodo’s “plain hobbit sense” is called into question here by his ability to be deceived so easily (in a moment which, as written, I would also argue is simply dramatically unbelievable.) More importantly, his deception in this moment interrupts the important chain of mercy and pity that is responsible for leading to the Ring’s destruction. The compassion and mercy that Frodo shows to Gollum only maintains its thematic power if Frodo remains aware of how dangerous Gollum actually is. A Frodo who can be so easily tricked into believing Gollum over Sam—to the point that he would actually tell Sam to leave him—is no longer keeping Gollum around despite knowing he is untrustworthy. Hence, Frodo’s actions regarding Gollum are no longer acts inspired by pity of him. Additionally, the reworking of the final confrontation at the Cracks of Doom, which places far more agency (albeit agency born of desire and rage rather than righteousness) on Frodo in the destruction of the Ring, muddies the still waters of the moment and reveals a lack of trust in the power and virtue of Frodo’s choices and actions prior to the moment, the choices and actions that Tolkien very explicitly tells us are responsible for the Ring’s destruction.

Now it’s time to bring these threads back together and explain why it is that Eru didn’t trip Gollum—why it is deeply important to the thematic and dramatic unity of The Lord of the Rings and Tolkien’s wider Legendarium that Gollum’s fall was not the result of a singular, direct, and unilateral intervention by Eru.

Notes in Part 4

6. This choice of Bilbo’s did not appear in the first edition of The Hobbit: Tolkien altered the book to reflect the new, more powerful, and far more malevolent nature of the One Ring, and it is worth noting that he felt it important enough to include this act of pity in his alterations.

7. To be absolutely fair, Jackson wasn’t unaware of the pity issue, and states as much in the same interview. However, he presumably felt the theme wouldn’t be communicated sufficiently in the medium of film so as to override concerns about the audience’s reaction to Frodo’s passivity.

[Continue to PART 5: Reweaving the Tapestry]