#what if there are consequences to his actions that he could never foresee

[viric-dreams]

Jones was born in the year of the Fall, and grew up in a world in which the British Empire's hold on the world was suddenly not a foregone conclusion. How this would impact him would not become apparent until his teens, when he was radilcalised during his time spent in England. He became heavily involved in the pan-Celtic movement into and throughout his university years. Despite his age, he quickly became a known face amongst friends and foes alike. Jones had a knack for words and for people, and could just as easily rally a crowd with a passionate speech as negotiate across a table from adversaries. He was becoming a political problem.

It was during a speech in 1883 that things had gone wrong. He's not sure himself what had lit that fuse, that had set the rally alight, whether the first blow had come from the police or the crowd. But suddenly there was chaos, and the constables were upon them. One of his comrades was pulled to the ground beside him, the constable swinging at her with a nightstick. Jones grabbed at the man, several stone heavier, tried in vain to pull him off of her. A swing of that nightstick connecting with the side of his face is what he got for his trouble. Half blinded by blood, adrenaline rushing through his veins, he pulled back his fist and threw a punch.

He doesn't remember much after that.

His memories of the next few weeks are hazy, a procession of lawyers, sympathetic faces, furious family. He was being charged for murder. The officer he'd hit had died two days later. One punch thrown at the wrong angle. The prosecution was out for blood. They were determined to make an example of him, get him out of the way, it's all politics, the union leader had told him. He should be ashamed, he's ruined the family's good name, their mother cannot talk about him without bursting into tears, his brother told him. He can get through this, it shouldn't be too long, and she'll be waiting for him on the other side, his girlfriend had told him.

The ship bound for Italy, and eventually, the Cumaean Canal was the list time he'd seen the sun. He was twenty-two.

[lu-is-not-ok]

I see! I see! then in turn, envy probably does fit better, but I'm going to give an alternate viewpoint on these sins that I think you'll find interesting.

personally, I don't think the sins involved are the primary lessons of the sinners, but can be interpreted as the failings of the antagonist. Don is more obvious, given the first kindered's "ingenious" ideas that led to his children suffering. his pride blocking the idea that this dream wouldn't work.

while for heathcliff... I doubt he'd have this much of an issue if more than one person in his life gave enough of a damn, its clear cut that the butlers didn't even bother to feed him if he weren't nelly, slothful neglect.

It's an... interesting viewpoint, I'll admit.

I can definitely see what you mean with the First Kindred's main failing being Pride. Him having excessive confidence in his plans and not pausing to hear out the grievances of his Kindreds more closely is what eventually led to everything falling apart, as he was unable to account for his own flaws and did not foresee the consequences of his actions. That is, very much, a classic Pride move for sure.

...However, I think your assessment for Heathcliff and Canto 6 has some flaws in it. Mainly because saying that "the butlers" are the antagonist of Heathcliff's story is... Did we read the same Canto?

Let's dissect this Chapter a bit to get to the bottom of this and see if there is any way for Sloth to come from a Canto 6 antagonist. For the Canto itself, there are three notable antagonists (-ish). Hindley, Nelly, and Erlking Heathcliff (with a bonus Every Catherine as part of the same archetype).

Hindley's all about bullying and hurting Heathcliff out of his own feelings of inadequacy, he feels as though his father cares more for a random kid found on the street than he cares about him, his own son. His Sins could be read as somewhere between Envy (his lack of self-worth being the core of why he lashes out) and Wrath (him feeling cornered and unloved cause him to try to change it by doing everything he can to get Heathcliff out of the picture).

Nelly is... interesting. Her colluding with Hermann is caused by her feeling like she's trapped, helpless to change her fate of being hurt by the fall-out of whatever happens between Heathcliff and Cathy in every Mirror World. This is, also, a very Wrath-coded action. However... she does accuse Heathcliff and Catherine of being too Slothful to actually communicate their feelings for each other and in the process causing harm to everyone around them. Put a pin in that, I'll come back to this later.

Then there's Erlking Heathcliff and Every Catherine, which have fairly simple motivations. They both independently came to the conclusion that they themselves are the reason why the other can never be truly happy, and so decided that the only way to fix that is to kill every Mirror version of themselves. This can be read as many things Sin-wise, primarily Gloom (sinking into the self-destructive hopelessness of being unable to find a World where they can be happy together) and Envy (lacking a sense of self-worth to the point they fully blame themselves for everything going wrong in every World).

However, while these three are the antagonists of Canto 6, they're not really antagonists of Heathcliff's past. It's... a lot harder to say if there is an exact culprit for the suffering Heathcliff went through during his time at Wuthering Heights, but I'll try.

One culprit I'd like to define as more so the environment itself rather than any specific people. Not just the butlers of the manor, but the whole Earnshaw family and the classist system they all live in. All of that in one way or another contributed to the abuse Heathcliff had to endure.

...Could you define all that Sloth? Kind of, maybe, since it's blind acceptance of the system that led to the abuse. But you could also make a strong case for Pride, since a lot of the abuse came from the people around Heathcliff treating him as a lesser being, as someone who isn't worth as much as they themselves are.

So if not any of the Canto 6 antagonists, and if not the Wuthering Heights itself, then who else could be the source of the Sloth?

This is where I'd like to take out that pin from how Nelly described both Heathcliff and Catherine as Slothful. Because, yes, I believe our Heathcliff and Catherine are in a way antagonists to their own pasts as well. Let me explain.

The miscommunication between Heathcliff and Catherine, their inability to share their feelings with each other, them resigning themselves to never be able to do so. Not only is it one of the main sources of a lot of suffering both they and people around them go through, but it's also, just as Nelly commented, very Slothful behavior.

...Which is. What I would like to say. But unfortunately, Nelly can only describe what Heathcliff and Cathy's actions seem like on the surface - in reality, the Sins that are actually on display are not Sloth.

For Heathcliff, it's Envy - he feels like he's not good enough for Cathy, and so feels like he's not worth it to confess his feelings to her.

For Catherine, it's Pride - she feels like she and Heathcliff aren't on the same level, and so feels the need to help Heathcliff become a better person and reach her level before she can even consider confesshing her feelings to him.

I really, really tried to find a way to make this theory work, cause it is a very interesting one that I think could work considering what we've learned about the Golden Boughs in Canto 7. If they feed on people's desires, it would make sense that the Sins they take on as Saplings are of those they fed from. After all, the Bough stabbed into the First Kindred very clearly sapped him of all his Pride, leading him to lose all of his confidence and belief in his dream. Like, it's too perfect for there to not be an in-universe connection!

Unless... we're looking at this all wrong. While narratively, it makes sense for Heathcliff to be the one unlocking Hokma, in-universe it could be a coincidence. After all, there was no Bough able to feed on anyone's desires in Canto 6. One got obliterated, and one got stolen.

So then what other Bough could have fed on Sloth...

...

AH FUCK YI SANG AND DONGBAEK-

IF THERE'S ANYONE WHO COULD HAVE FED A BOUGH WITH SLOTH IT WOULD BE THOSE TWO GOD FUCKING DAMNIT.

[conflictofthemind]

I don’t know how to break this to you guys, but Byler as an official couple is not going to be happening in the first half of the season and it probably won’t even officially be a thing until the finale. Because of Mike’s issues. And it being the 80s.

Will has actually… been a fairly easy character to figure out. And for as much as he does still absolutely repress his sexuality, he is way further on the path to living authentically than Mike is. We all agree on this, right? Will is used to being labelled as a freak regardless of what he does or doesn’t do. He never really tried to feign interest in girls. Most of the town already suspects he might be gay, and while it would get worse for him if the rumours were known to be truthful, he knows he has the support of Jonathan. And I think he knows deep down that he has the support of Mike (and Joyce). Otherwise, why tell him that he makes him feel better for being ‘different’ (gay)?

But Mike? ‘Just trying to be normal’ Michael Wheeler? We know he didn’t mean that as in school; he prides himself as a nerd. Michael Wheeler who seemed like he could have been on the precipice of finally breaking it off with El, and then tried to go back even harder after Will’s push? And for the general audience to make sense of what they will perceive as a sudden shift in Mike’s character when they reveal his feelings for Will, they’ll have to hammer it in that Mike is afraid to his core of being out for them to make sense of his previous actions.

Mike has a different personal life than Will. Reagan supporter conservative parents who don’t like to speak about emotions. He doesn’t have as strong of a relationship with Nancy. We know Hellfire and Eddie’s death will have big consequences on the narrative, and that the town will continue the witch hunt against all of the members of Hellfire. They list sodomy as one of its demonic influences. Will is also going back to high-school, and it’s possible he has a bruise on his face in that Episode 4 farm scene. He’s been bullied before, and I don’t see how they don’t bring that up again, and worse.

If Mike is out, or gets outed, he will fall from a much higher place into a much deeper pit than Will. I honestly foresee them both realizing eachothers’ feelings by the middle of the season, maybe acting on them in private, but Mike suddenly pushes him away in public when Will tries to initiate any contact or closeness - even nothing overtly romantic.

Will is ready to start being more open about their relationship to family and friends as he’s sick of hiding himself and has probably, at this point, come out to Joyce at the least and met Robin. Mike is not so ready. This creates a conflict leading up to the finale where Mike truly has to choose between living in the closet for the rest of his life, and losing Will, versus the bravery to be open (to friends/ family) at the risk of being rejected or further outed and kicked out / assaulted / etc.

[anika-ann]

Cracks in Foundation (S.R.)

Type: one-shot, standalone or part of Love on the Brain series

Pairining: Steve Rogers x reader    Word count: 6000

Summary: Dating Steve Rogers is a curse and a gift. Even as it was always a privilege, right now, it feels like the former. You really want to smack some sense into him so this never happens again, but you know it will – after all, that’s half the reason you love him.

In other words, Steve is stupidly brave on a mission and it has consequences neither of you could foresee. But maybe you should have; because now you’re here alone to pick up the pieces.

Warnings!!: Steve being an absolute dumbass, mentions and images of death, hypothermia, PTSD, flashbacks, probably not an ideal treatment of a flashback, canon typical violence, language

A/N: reader is called “Agent Jones”, works for the Avengers Initiative; you do not need knowledge of Criminal Minds or Love on the Brains series to read this, but it will, of course, make more sense. I imagine this taking place much later - in about a year after the events of Love on the Brain; divider by firefly-graphics

In my body I fight fire With the snow, my hell is cold (SYML – Body)

This shouldn’t have happened. This nevershouldn’t have happened but it had – of course it had. You should have seen it coming, both the action and the reaction. All of you should have known better, but you in particular.

Unfortunately, sometimes, despite your ability to profile people, you still failed.

Sometimes, despite your best knowledge of Steven Grant Rogers, you still managed to underestimate him. His literally unhuman body. His profoundly good heart. His incredible strength in both muscles and psyche. His ability to have you burn for him with a single touch. His ability to touch your heart in ways no one ever could.

His extraordinary dumbassery.

You really should have known so much better.

If you had, you wouldn’t have him here, face ashen, lips turning blue, eyes wide and unfocused; he looked like death itself.

You swallowed your tears and tried to battle the ever-rising panic crawling up your throat, closing your eyes for a moment as if it could erase the terrifying sight.

“Steve? Stevie? You’re going to be okay… I’m here. You’re going to be okay…”

You repeated the mantra so many times you weren’t sure anymore whether you were saying it to him or to yourself.

The craziest thing was, it wasn’t even the worst sight of the day you were offered by your exceptional dumbass of a boyfriend; no, that had been what your own mind had shown you. Now that image was going to haunt you forever and despite knowing yelling solved nothing and it couldn’t change the past, you were going to scream your lungs out when you’d get the chance. Later. Right now, you had more pressing matters to attend to.

Like making sure Steve Rogers, your GG, would come back to you.

You needed to get to work.

It was a routine mission really, if such things as routine existed within the Avengers Initiative. It was rather routine in terms of involvement of the actual Avengers; Steve and Natasha joined missions like these – sweep a base, gather intel, make some arrests if lucky enough – on a regular basis. Tony Stark coming with? Less so. Still, one could call it routine enough, even when located in the death of tundra in Russia around 100 miles from the border with Finland.

Besides the cold and Tony, there was nothing extraordinary. Just another mission.

And it had been; until the agents scattered and you heard several voices in the comms reporting they were in pursuit of the enemies. Until you found out they were chasing them through the tunnels and suddenly found themselves outside of the base. Until you learned that outside meant the landscape of the very frozen lake Natasha had purposely avoided landing the quinjet on for the fear of the heavy aircraft destabilizing the already risky environment.

Until you heard agent Smith was down. And by down, they meant under the ice, because a thinner layer of it cracked and broke under his feet. Until Steve fucking Rogers, two hundred and forty pounds of muscle and zero brain power at the moment had the wonderful idea to rush to Smith’s aid.

You had made it out of the base just in time to see his navy-blue suit disappear and your sleep for the following nights probably with it. You had stood there holding your breath as if you were the one in the icy water, as if subconsciously testing how much oxygen – as if that was the only concern – you had left before you’d have to make it to the surface for another breath.

It was long. It was too long. You had taken at least two breaths in the meantime and you weren’t sure the panic rising in your chest with every frantic beat of your heart, with every second they did not appear above the surface, was to blame.

Your hand flew to your comms and you cursed yourself for not having done it moments ago.

“Tony-“

“I’m onto those idiots, Squirt, don’t worry,” his voice sounded in your ear, not quite easing your worry in fact.

Steve was still under. Still in the water. Even though you were aware that he survived much worse than a few seconds of icy cold water – try decades – you’d rather he was still conscious when Tony would get his stupid ass out. And the second Steve would be able to hear you, were going to yell, very loudly and probably more than a little hysterical, because what the hell had he been doing beside tempting fate to give him another involuntary icy nap. You were going to chew the hell out of him, your fists curling in your thick microfibre gloves, because you felt like punshing him too, anything, just so you could stop holding your breath.

But you needed him to get out first.

“And get to the jet, your bae will need some warming up,” Tony added, causing you to grit your teeth, even as you were grateful; not a second later, the whoosh of Iron Man’s suit flying above your head blew the few stands of hair that escaped your hat in your face.

Completely ignoring Tony’s inappropriate comment and his sound advice, you remained right where you stood, gaze transfixed where you had last seen Steve, slipping under the surface. Your pulse thundered in your temples as you watched the red and gold of Tony’s suit fly like a flare above the flood of white surrounding you all, nearing the break in the ice, no doubt searching the heat signatures you assumed were fading with each passing moment.

And then the Iron Man himself performed an obnoxious superhero-like landing, complete with fist on the ground and your anger, gathering since you saw Steve dive into a fucking ice soup without a second thought, exploded, your vision turning bloody red for a split second. What the fuck was Stark doing that for?! Did he really just feed his ego while on a rescue mission?! You were going to-

And then the fist landed again. And again and again and then it hit you. You didn’t have the capacity to scold yourself for assuming and assuming completely wrong; the realization stunned you, blood freezing in your veins having nothing to do with the snow and harsh wind hitting your face.

The ice had frozen over. Steve jumped in and before he could emerge, the ice had frozen over his head. The image of a him under water, holding Smith, the fucking moron, to his chest and fighting to punch his way through the solid surface, swinging his arm heavily through the icy water stinging every inch of his skin, losing oxygen by the minute, that was an image that would haunt you forever, even as you had never set your eyes on it.

Then again, the arm of Tony’s suit diving into water and pulling out two men as easily as if they were helpless kittens was etched into your brain just as effectively, arriving with overwhelming relief. With a wordless prayer on your lips, you squinted against the snow blowing in your face to search for a lump of beloved and hated navy blue suit contrasting against the endless white of the plain surrounding the incident.

You’d swear you could hear him coughing, hungrily drinking in air in between when he doubled over as soon as Tony dropped him off in a safe distance from the crack. In the back of your mind, you were aware of the red and gold figure carrying the motionless body of Agent Smith, flying it to the quinjet, the medical team having prepared on the ramp with a stroller and equipment, but your eyes were transfixed on the dark mass of a supersoldier good hundred feet away still. You were almost certain, even from the distance, that he also managed to empty his stomach to make him feel even more miserable. Not that you blamed him; it had to be, apart from really fucking cold, extremely terrifying. It definitely was for you. Just the memory made your feel throat as if squeezed in a vice.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry, pick-up number two happening right away,” Tony assured you face-to face, uncharacteristically humourless now that he had set eyes on the momentarily lifeless body of Agent Smith.

You thought you uttered a thank you, but he couldn’t hear it as he was already off to carry your exceptionally idiotic boyfriend along. And so you ran to the jet, boots heavy with snow falling in and biting coldly into your calf and shins, legs stiff from the shock of the experience still.

When Tony finally brought Steve after what felt like a lifetime, you certainly didn’t speak a word of complaint when he also hauled him further into the quinjet into one of the medical cubicles sans a team. You followed, painfully aware of every single muscle in Steve’s body trembling, the tips of his fingers having turned white.

“You can yell at him first,” Tony told you graciously, shooting Steve an ugly look before glancing at you entering just behind them.

“Gee thanks,” you snarked back automatically, tone softening when you met his genuinely worried eyes. “Thank you, Tony, really.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed, but a small smile passed over his lips. “Jarvis, heat up this room for our Capsicle, will you?”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname. Steve wasn’t going to live that down any time soon, probably ever, not after attempting to became an icicle for the second time.

“Certainly, sir. Gradually heating up to 25 degrees Celsius, as recommended in the medical manual,” the AI chimed helpfully, the wave of heat washing over you instantly. The air felt almost tropical after the arctic wind outside, but you were grateful. Steve would need that.

“Thanks, J,” you said, throwing off your gloves, hat and parka as quick as you managed with your fingers freezing, not bothering with more as to help Steve strip his soaking garments as soon a possible.

The silence that settled after rang a sudden alarm bells; it dawned to you at last that during the whole exchange, Steve remained quiet. Way too quiet.

You’d expect the sounds of zippers and Velcro as he was tearing off his uniform, the fabric dripping icy cold water despite the best engineers and designers having worked on the material. You’d expect his teeth to clatter in doing so, colourful curses on his blueish lips, especially when in company of only you and Tony. He had been coughing out water, quite violently, barely just having been dropped in the jet, so you’d think his air-ways would still fight spasm and the biting intrusion of ice, the raspy wet cough not ceasing.

But Steve was doing neither of that, tripling your worry for him in the process.

You moved to round him to get a look at him with an urgent whisper of his name, stomach flipping in fear when he didn’t answer.

The lack of any action or sound was incredibly disconcerting, because it could mean two things: either, he was absolutely stunned, the weight of what could have happened finally falling on him, or he had been already struck by hypothermia severe enough to be acutely in danger despite being a far cry from what Smith had looked like when Tony dropped him off.

When you finally laid your eyes on Steve’s face, your heart nearly stopped. His skin was scarily pale, his lips turning alarming blue, but that, while worrying, wasn’t surprising at all. What shocked you was his eyes; his pupils were blown wide, unfocused, misted over to the point that had he been lying on the ground, you’d swear he was--

Do not even think it. You can’t. He was going to be fine, he was alright, he just needed to warm up, he was not—He was very much alive, you were sure of it, he had to be. But the fact was, Steve couldn’t see you. He wasn’t seeing anything.

With horror, your gaze fell to his chest and in a split second, you realized that his whole body was still. Way too still. He wasn’t moving at all; he wasn’t even breathing. And yet, he was standing upright, almost as if his feet simply froze to the ground and that was the only reason why he hadn’t collapsed yet- But you knew, you knew that wasn’t possible, and despite the panic clawing at your throat, you were hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t be standing upright had his heart stopped, so how was he still standing?

It would be baffling if it wasn’t absolutely terrifying. Why was he so still? It literally looked as if he was frozen, as if-

He was frozen.

When it finally clicked, a choked noise erupted from lips, your heart shattering into thousand pieces; but your mind snapped into action, already working on solutions.

“Tony, get us as many of towels, blankets and those small heat packs, as you can manage  and give me full access to J. Make sure we have complete privacy. No one needs to see this.” Your throat was too tight for you to be able to speak on normal volume, but that was the least of your concerns, truly. You were sure Tony heard you just fine.

At least someone did.

“Kinky-?” Tony uttered, confused by your sudden escalated panic and the look you shot him – if looks could kill, he’d already be lying in a pool of his blood.

“Tony, get your ass fucking moving or I’ll swear to god I’ll strangle you in a way that will make Sam McDowell look like an amateur.”

Whether he knew the name of the prolific serial strangler or simply understood the urgency in your tone, he had enough wit to take his leave without further protest and with relative hurry, leaving you focus fully on Steve. Oh Steve. The absent brilliant blue of his irises had your stomach make another unpleasant somersault, your eyes filling with tears, nose tingling in anticipation of a full sobfest.

You so couldn’t afford that now. You couldn’t afford screaming either, but good god, did you want to – you wanted to stand in front of a mirror and scream your lungs out because how could it have not punched you straight in the face right away? How could you have not seen it coming?! You only had years of experience in profiling, with dealing individuals struggling with PTSD among other things. You only known Steve for years, knew what he had endured. You only learned about the sacrifice of Captain America in high school, several years ago.

God, the icy water. Could there be any more obvious and deadly trigger?

Of course Steve’s gaze was absent, his whole mind was. He wasn’t here with you, not in time and not in space; he was in the water. In a water so icy it was turning solid, trapping him for decades to come. People couldn’t breathe under water. People couldn’t breathe when frozen in a mass of ice.

Now you understood the reason for the absolute stillness of his whole body including his chest. Steve’s mind was locked so firmly into the memory that it either shut his body – because logically, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, let alone move in the prison he found himself in – or it latched onto his survival instinct, screaming at him not to breathe to prevent the water flooding into his lungs.

You fought your instinct to gag when the iron fist that realization hit you square in the stomach and sent bile up your throat.

So not the time. You needed him to snap out of it. And you needed it fast before you’d lose any more precious seconds.

“Steve?” you called out lowly, giving zero shit about the crack in your voice. “Stevie? You’re going to be okay, but I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?” you pleaded.

Grimacing, you released an involuntarily whimper when you got zero reaction. You pushed through the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to repeat the words in normal volume. The only response you got was the ever-present unnatural stillness; and Steve’s lips gradually turning bluer.

Your thoughts whirled in your head, mind desperately trying to latch onto any knowledge and experience you had with dealing with PTSD. You had never encountered someone with similar problem, never dealt with a flashback of this magnitude; Gideon had once taken the lead with a soldier trapped in his mind, murdering civilians for he believed them to be enemy soldiers, but that was Gideon. Jason Gideon, with his mind of steel and twenty-five years of experience. Jason Gideon, one of the founding fathers of the Behaviour Analysis Unit himself.

On your own, you were at loss with someone so far gone; but what you knew had to be enough. What you knew was that the only way of breaking Steve out of the prison his mind had created was to anchor him in reality, to appeal to all his senses.

The problem was that the majority of stimuli Steve was receiving from his senses matched the very environment of his flashback. The reality you would try to ground him in was his clothes soaking wet in freezing water and him being on a planewith a voice of a woman in his ears, trying to sooth his suffering. In other words, the reality was how he ended up buried in the ice in the first place.

Aware that you were shaking like a leaf yourself, jaw set so tight it was beginning to hurt, you were also painfully aware you couldn’t just stand there doing nothing with cheeks wet with tears and stare at the strongest person you had ever knew involuntarily depriving himself of oxygen. You had to do something.

Touching him was, frankly, a terrible idea; touching anyone with a flashback would be, because you’d be risking triggering a fight or flight response instead. Touching Steve and triggering the fight part in a supersoldier however, get him run on pure instinct? Now that could result in your broken neck or crushed windpipe really quickly. That idea truly didn’t sound appealing to you; and Steve would never forgive himself. You’d rather avoid that.

You took a deep breath, releasing the air shakily as your mind raced. Alright. Time. If you couldn’t ground him in space, you needed to ground him in time.

“Steve, GG, look at me. I’m Agent Jones – I’m Sparkles,” you said urgently, taking care to voice every syllable, daring to step an inch closer to him, hoping to fill his field of vision completely. “And I’m right here with you. There’s no water. Nothing’s stopping me or you from breathing.” You exaggerated an inhale and exhale, the warm air washing over his face, but without any effect. “There’s plenty of air, GG, for both you and me. Please.”

You dug your nails into your palms when nothing happened but your love staring back blankly, unnaturally stiff.

Steve could hold his breath for a long time – much more than an average human, his lung capacity unmatched – but he had also been drowning, so you really couldn’t count on that. You were running out of time. He was going to pass out. Sure, his breathing would kick in then and hell, maybe losing consciousness would be a blessing compared to this, but that sleep would not be peaceful and there was no telling what the wake-up call would look like other than really fucking unpleasant. The idea of him escaping one nightmare only to be find himself in another and then another until he woke up to the reality just as harsh, as if freshly having lost the whole world he knew all over again, chased fresh tears into your eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Tony’s voice snapped you from your focus, your heart nearly bursting through your chest.

Jesus, how long had he been standing there?

Not important; and you didn’t have time to explain. Without thinking, you spilled the truth in as few words as possible, in the very same breath you tried to appeal to Steve again, your gaze never shifting from his pale face.

“He’s having a flashback, please leave, thank you for the blankets-- GG, please. Breathe with me, there’s nothing to be afraid of, I promise. I’m right here. Trust me. I can breathe just fine…”

You could not. You felt as if someone smashed your ribs with a crowbar for laughs and hit and hit until you couldn’t breathe in without blinding pain, but you knew, you knew it had to be nothing compared to what Steve was facing and you needed to get a grip, you couldn’t wallow in it and you couldn’t let the biting fear consume you. Not with Steve like this.

You were out of other options. Gulping, you oh so slowly lifted your trembling hand, settling it against Steve’s ashen cold cheek. You only got as far as your skin brushing his when a vice-like grip on your wrist stopped you, tearing your touch away and completely immobilizing your hand in the process.

He didn’t look at you as you hissed in pain; he was still far, far away, not moving an inch more than strictly necessary to stop you. But the jolt of pain into your wrist was accompanied by a loud gasp for air, his ribcage expanding right in front of your eyes.

A wet laugh escaped you. “Oh thank god.”

His fingers might as well be made of ice, just as freezing and just as rigid, clutching at you with all the might his body was probably capable off and it hurt. But at least it wasn’t your throat in his grip; you could both breathe. That was a tremendous win.

You still needed to anchor him further and actually bring him back, but the door to his mind were unlocked at least. Now you needed to appeal to all his senses, talk him through it, so he could open the door himself.

“Agent Jones? Do you require assistance?” Jarvis asked warily, no doubt reacting to your physical distress.

Rightfully so, because it was growing – if it was possible, Steve’s fingers dug further into your flesh, already making for a bruise, you were sure. Your fingertips begun to tingle, strange numbness spreading through your hand, but you were far too gone to give up now. You could handle this. You’d get Steve release you on his own.

“Not for now, J, thank you. We’re good—actually, Jarvis?” you called out lowly, the artificial intelligence instantly letting you know he listened. “Can you play me a song? I need to get Steve in the modern times.”

“Certainly. What would you like me to play, Agent Jones? Something contemporary?”

“Yeah. Contemporary and irritatingly ear-worming,” you muttered, mind racing.

A song Steve would hundred percent know, one his mind would without a single doubt identify as something modern. It was the biggest assholery of your mind to push the melody of Let It Go into the forefront of your overstressed brain before anything else, but a hysterical chuckle escaped you anyway, forcing you to lick off tears from your lips. It was the stupidest thing and the worst irony ever – because yeah, the cold really fucking bothered you now and it sure bothered Steve.

“Something way too overplayed on a radio, preferably without the words cold, snow, ice and such in it, J.”

It was only half a second later, when Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off came out the speakers.

Despite yourself, you snorted, fresh tears springing out. This time, you appreciated the irony. That was what Steve needed, right? He just needed to shake it off. He’d be fine.

Taking a deep breath, smiling through your tears and the growing pains in your wrist, you got to work.

You told him what he was hearing. The engines, the song, the heating running, your voice. You told him what he could see, your hair, the colour of your eyes, the Avengers logo etched onto your uniform and not an SSR one, the high-tech equipment you knew he could have never seen in his original time. You told him about the heat washing over his face and hair, your hand in his.

The owlish, painfully slow blink you elicited was a victory, bringing a smile to your face, drying your tears, bringing a softer and softer tone to your voice as you continued speaking.

“Steve? GG? I know it’s cold and I want to help you,” you said gently, trying to meet his gaze as it began to slowly roam to room; still absent, but not misted over anymore. “I could help you by taking off that wet suit, taking away the cold. But for that, I need you to let go of my hand so I can-“

You gritted your teeth and squeezed your eyes shut when the response you got was the exact opposite, as if he was mad at you for even suggesting it; you stifled the whimper at the prickling his grip sent through your arm. It was hard to tell whose hand was paler now; he definitely cut off your circulation and it was not a pretty sight. But you only had yourself to blame and you promised yourself you’d never do otherwise.

It was only when the numbness replaced the pain that it dawned to you where the problem might be.

“GG, please? I promise I won’t leave. I’ll stay right here with you. But I need you to release my hand so I can take that cold away. Only the cold, I swear.”

You nearly cried when the pressure on your wrist gradually eased, a shaky exhale sounding a lot like a whine escaping you. That was most definitely more than a bruise; you allowed yourself a few seconds of deep breaths, fighting off the dark edge in your vision.

Then, you grabbed after one of the small heating pads, snapping the thin metal plate inside to initiate a chemical reaction; in an instant, the thick liquid began to solidify and warm up. You placed in into Steve’s still open palm, hanging loosely by his side, enclosing his icy fingers around it despite the gloves getting in the way. You winced at the sharp pain shooting through your arm. Definitely more than a bruise. You repeated the process to warm up his other hand, finally going for the Velcros and zippers on the front of his suit.

Thankfully, the temperature Jarvis had set melted the microcrystals of ice around the metal, allowing you to undo it relatively easy. You felt Steve’s eyes on your now, his body slowly, oh so slowly getting on with the programme, fists unclenching when you needed to pull the sleeves over his hands without dropping the pads.

“You’re doing so good, Stevie, so good,” you praised him softly, loud enough to speak over the second playing of the song in the background. You were going to hear it for days, you were certain. And you’d hate it forever, too. “You’re a great help, GG, thank you.”

When he dropped the pads, you made a quick work of undoing his gloves too, before pushing new pads into his hands. His thick pants followed; the boots though, those were trickier.

Fuck this. You swiftly searched the transparent cabinets for scalpel, slicing the material through as carefully as you could with your still trembling hands. The water was still brutally cold against your fingers; and your wrist was beginning to throb. Almost there, you soothed yourself, wondering whether you’d manage to make Steve sit down so you could take off those boots and the pants… and underpants. You’d rather have him keep his dignity, but his boxer shorts were soaked through as well and way too close to his core… maybe if you placed enough heating pads around…

The truth was that despite your instincts screaming at you, you knew you didn’t have to worry that much about the physical effects of the low temperature on him. As awful as it sounded, you knew he could take the icy cold – that was part of the problem. It was the numbing memory constructing the perfect trap for his mind, the dissociation, that took precedence, as unusual as it was. And if you weighted the pros and cons…

Well. It wasn’t like his dick was going to freeze right off.

You stood to your full height, licking your lips as you faced Steve again. He was watching you now with surprising intent; you tried to give him a reassuring smile, raising your unharmed hand slowly enough for him to register and placed it on his ribs, almost under the armpit, ready to support him in case his muscles didn’t quite respond to his command as expected when you’d ask him to sit down.

What you didn’t expect was for him to crumble under your touch.

Over two hundred pounds of muscle was too much for your body to carry. When he leaned onto you without a single warning, his knees giving way, dropping his whole weight on your shoulders, you tumbled to the ground as you were without a real chance to slow down the fall. Your hands instinctively attempted too, but you knew you could add bruised backbone and your other wrist to the list on your injuries.

And while pain briefly shot through you very bones, you soon didn’t give a damn.

Not when Steve buried his face in the crook of your neck, arms gripping onto your body like as if it was a lifeline, harsh breaths and heartbreaking sobs escaping his lips, shaking his usually strong frame; but maybe that was just shivers from the cold. His skin was still almost icy to touch, his nose like an icicle as he pressed to your collarbone over your thermals, wet hair tickling your chin; his pants at his ankles, his boots, barely keeping together, still as his feet. You let them be as they were. Instead of stripping him further, you managed to reach for at least one of the pads and throw it into his lap, the blankets and towels too far away.

You enclosed Steve in a hug, achy hand carefully resting in his hair, the other running soothing circles on his back in a poor attempt to console him. His tears seeped into your shoulder and you never cared less for anything in your life; yours in return disappeared into his hair. Sweet nonsenses were spilling from your lips, drowned in his ragged sobs; you whispered his name over and over, his name and all endearments that came to mind and even remotely fit him. I’ve got you, love. Sweetheart, I’m here, sweet, I’m here… oh GG, my gentle giant, giant heart, I’ve got you, this will pass, I’ll help, I’ll help, I’ll help you stand up again. You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you, baby, so proud…

The song, thank god, stopped playing as soon as Steve broke.

You could feel his body weighting a ton, every muscle weary, strung and feeble at once, and yet, it was his mind making for most of the weight he couldn’t bear. Feelings he normally hid behind a wall as tall as Tower of Babel so he could lead others into battle with a brave face now oozed off him and soaked your skin and mind. You could only imagine the onslaught of emotions and memories, reminders of all he lost, the ghost of having woken up in the new millennium for the first time looming over him.  

The way his fingers dug into your forearm, clutched at the flesh of your waist, it would hurt later; but at the moment, those long agonizing minutes that felt like an eternity, you barely felt it, instead consumed by overwhelming grief for the kindest and strongest soul you had ever met. The best man, breaking in front of your eyes and in your arms.

It took long minutes before you dared to move, just enough to reach for the blanket and strip him off the pants and shoes at least. You never went too far. The volume of your voice decreased along with Steve’s, along with the tremble of his exhausted body. He melted into your frame, falling asleep right there, held in your considerably weaker arms and you were grateful.

In a low voice, you asked Jarvis to notify Steve’s therapist – and yours, even if with less urgency. The worst of it was over, but you weren’t naïve as to think that just because the storm was over, there would be no damage and no need for restoration.

For now, you held Steve and tried to keep him warm, not blind to the fact his body combined with Jarvis’ service was already drying off the last piece of clothing he wore. You ran the fingers of your unharmed hand through the golden damp strands of his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead every now and then, hoping his sleep was dreamless.

Minutes or hours later, Natasha was the one to find you still curled one into other, gently telling you that everyone had already left the jet and that she’d send medics over in a few. You gave her a brave smile even as you were feeling everything but, your adrenalin wearing off and leaving you on the brink of breaking yourself.

When two medics rolled Steve away and you followed, refusing to move an inch farther from Steve than necessary just in case he’d unexpectedly wake up, a third one forced you to take an x-ray as your hand was already swelling.

As it turned out, there was a crack in both your ulna and radius, the mass, however strong, having been unable to withstand Steve’s strength. The swelling was bothering your nerves and your veins, hence the painful tingles and numbness; but in the end, they were just cracks. They’d heal.

Cracks actually usually hurt more than complete breaks, Doctor Jackson told you. You thought it was quite fitting. What Steve had experienced was not a break, for he was never broken; you weren’t certain he could be. It was but a crack; the foundation of who he was had so far been strong enough to withstand horrors unimaginable. And even though the cracks hurt like a bitch, you’d be there for him to help him through the pain.

The cracks in your bones could be solved by a few pills and rest; his would be a little more complicated.

But you’d help build him up again. You’d help him stand tall. Not for the sake of Captain America, the shining beacon of hope, the façade that could be speedpaint with shines of red, blue and white with ease. No, you’d help repair the real cracks for Steve, the gentlest of giants you knew, even if it would take more time and effort than an icon.

He was worth the trouble; even as you suspected that once he’d wake, he might have a thing or two to say about that. You’d convince him otherwise; you wouldn’t be alone.

And neither would he.

With a splint all over your forearm and wrist and a promise you would do a session in Doctor Cho’s cradle to speed the healing, you settled on the bed by Steve’s bedside, the surprisingly serene expression on his face and the gentle beeps of the heart monitor making for a warm hum of satisfaction in your chest.

You’d heal together. Of that, you were sure.

I was hearing words in black and white Twisted up inside my broken mind Outstretched dirty hands just like a child Hungry little fool, but you were mine (SYML – Body)

Steve Rogers masterlist // Love on The Brain masterlist

Notes (because the first aid trainer in me screams and severe hypothermia is a bitch): normally, first concern would most definitely be the cold, hypothermia and the impending arrhythmia (can be caused by the cold), but a) it was established Steve’s body can take it (proved the hard way) and b) his suit probably kept the absolutely worst away… PSA over.

ANYWAY. I hope you – well – liked it ("enjoyed" feels like a little too strong of a word for Steve’s suffering) 🥰 Thank you for reading! Feedback is life.

P.S. – this will likely be followed by a second part called Restoration, but I make no promises.

P.P.S. - if you wish to read a fluff about "Steve fell through frozen lake" situation, I recommend Frozen by @tilltheendwilliwrite 🥰

P.P.P.S. -  if you are a CM fan, know that the title is a loose reference to Emily's issues in the second half of season seven when she tries to re-settle down with the team and at Quantico.

[vickyvicarious]

"[Dracula] certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee. For a man who was never in the country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful."

More evidence that Dracula's later actions are results of planning!

Indeed! Dracula's preparations for this trip are very thorough. I think that it would probably be correct to assume that he has a whole long-term strategy that, luckily, never gets put into play. I get the feeling a lot of his plan is banking heavily on people not knowing him. Not just what he is, but also who he is. This is what makes Jonathan's survival and Mina's willingness to reach out to Van Helsing so crucial, actually. Because without Jonathan recognizing Dracula in the street, the most Van Helsing and the suitors would have ever been able to do is stop vampire!Lucy. They had no idea where to look for the one who did that to her. It was a total dead end. Jack had clues, yes, but he really hadn't put them together at all - even after he was convinced on vampires, he was surprised to hear Jonathan say Renfield's behavior was linked to Dracula's. Even if people knew what Dracula was, without knowing who he is and where to find him, they couldn't do anything to stop him.

Similarly, Jonathan (and thus Mina) knew who Dracula was, but it took that outside confirmation that Jonathan's experience of what he was, really happened and was trustworthy. In this case, they may have sought confirmation of their own eventually even without linking up with the others (I can't picture Mina outright dismissing Jonathan's experiences, either by denying them altogether or by putting him in an asylum or what-have-you; I could see her trying to look into it on her own without telling him until she had some kind of proof/confirmation to offer one way or the other) - but it would have been way more cautious and gradual, and thus Dracula would have had time to get his boxes scattered more. They also lacked the knowledge of how to fight him off, and so even if they became convinced very quickly, without the others they would have to start the research from the beginning which would slow them down. And even then, they lacked the resources and manpower that the suitor squad gave them. It would all take a lot more time. And if Dracula had more time to establish himself... He'd have multiple houses which no one person knew the location of, he'd have his dirt boxes in each one. He'd have, eventually, other vampires risen as well, who could potentially create more vampires in turn. He might have the time/inclination to infiltrate society more once his boltholes were established, creating social pressure not to go after him or consequences for doing so.

Going after him in such a rush was necessary, because he'd get exponentially harder to defeat or even drive off as more time passed. And if people weren't already prepared to do so with appropriate knowledge and resources... it might be too late. And that's exactly what was supposed to happen. Jonathan was supposed to be left in the Castle, either dead or undead, and all his knowledge with him. Mr. Hawkins may have been a target as well, possibly even his other lawyers. Lucy, and his other eventual victims (pretty girl in Piccadilly, etc.), were supposed to succumb to what seemed like a mysterious illness without anyone being the wiser about the true cause of death. And it probably would have worked, without the coincidence of Jack knowing Van Helsing who was willing to explore all avenues, and Jonathan's incredible survival leading to Mina acquiring his knowledge and putting it to use. No one else knew what was threatening them. No one else knew who was threatening them. And Dracula, as we see in this quote, took plenty of additional precautions to ensure that he wouldn't raise any red flags without that prior knowledge (or at least not any actionable ones).

[abbofff]

I try anger management

masterlist

  I was almost reaching the cabin area when I ran into Luke.

  — There you are. Annabeth was afraid you might have been eaten by spiders. — He laughed softly.

  — Nah, I just went to feed her mom's pets dinner. — I smiled back to him.

  — Sorry I didn't came back to our cabin sooner. This first day has been kicking my ass, literally. Twice. —

  I must have poorly hidden my sarcastic tone because he really cracked a laugh.

  — Let me guess. Clarisse? — He looked at me with an knowing eyes.

  — Yes! I thought that I just caught her in a really bad day but everyone is so unimpressed about her being an asshole to me, who's done nothing to her but just exist too near to her that I'm thinking that she's just born a hater. —

  Luke smiled to himself, amused by my anger. He even rolled his eyes, like if he had heard this before.

  — Clarisse has fire in her. — He stated.

  — She's an arsonist then. —

  Surely with his age and experience he will think of her as a chihuahua instead of the idiot she is. 

  — Come on, let's get those things back before you break them with some exaggerated gesture or something. Dinner will be in half an hour. — He said.

  — You guys use a lot of dishes? Chiron said that Clarisse and I have to wash them tonight. — I asked once we were walking.

  — Oh so more quality time with your new friend, huh? Yeah, we are a lot of people, so expect a tiny mountain of them. —

  His smile never faltered. When Luke grows up and becomes an adult, he will have a lot of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. That's for sure.

  Before I could continue complaining, we arrived at cabin 6. The door was open, revealing Annabeth in the frame of it and a burly black-skinned boy fixing the lock in just seconds. 

  The counselor from cabin 6 thanked him and the boy gathered his things. As he left, he passed by Luke's side and gave us a nod as a quick greet.

  — You lived. — Annabeth stated with her arms crossed and a harsh look.

  I came closer to her to give her the pencil holders, which she took still wary.

  — Unfortunately for us both, yes. — I let out a nervous laugh.

  Annabeth had a strange look in her face, I couldn't pinpoint an emotion, but I knew she was uncomfortable.

  — Sorry. — I said.

  Annabeth looked at her feet. I hope she understood all of the things I was sorry for.

  Luke put a hand on my shoulder and gave us both a warm smile.

  — I think we're all a little too tired for today. Come on, Ada, let's stop by our cabin before it's time for dinner. —  He said.

  Without further ado, we left. Inside the cabin, Luke gave me a couple of camp t-shirts to change into.

The dinner horn sounded and all the campers left their cabins to go to the dining hall.

  — You know, anger is seen as an obstacle and a burden, but if you use it well, it can be a stepping stone and a reason for something better. You can do good with it. — Luke said.

 

  I didn't know how to respond. I doubt that Annabeth told him what happened but he comprehended that something bad happened between us. He knew I had hurted Annabeth, his little sister, and he was trying to help me. I couldn't make excuses anymore, I needed to change.

  — But... how? I've tried a thousand times before and it hasn't worked. Hurting people doesn't make me feel better but I just can't help it. —

  — When you feel powerless, you try to bring others down with you to regain power. It is best to breathe deeply before acting to be able to think with a cool mind because this makes you foresee the consequences of your actions and put them in your favor. The thing is, power is something that comes from within, you are never helpless until you surrender. —  

  — That's... not such a terrible peptalk. — I said.

  — Right? I'm a master. —

  We giggled together as we finally reached the Hermes table.

  The dinner was kinda fun although I almost die of a heartattack when the girl on my side dropped unconscious, but Luke said she's a Hypnos kid with narcolepsy so she's ok I think. We even sang happy birthday to an unclaimed boy who was turning 16. And yes, the children of Apollo are the people who hit high notes in the happy birthday song. Gotta admit they are very good tho.

   — Did you ask for some luck for your journey tomorrow, Aaron? — Chris asked him once the birthday boy burned a big piece of cake in the bonfire. 

  The boy had straight black hair and very pale skin, he was very shy but super nice.

  — Can't say or else Tyche won't accompany me. — Aaron responded.

  — What kind of journey are you going to do? — I dared to ask.

  — A movie theater in town will play a rerun of The Incredibles, my favorite movie. So I plan to see it and get to know the city a little more. — He explained with a little smile.

  — That sounds fun, best wishes for you. Tyche and you are going to have a blast. — I smiled kindly to him, and he nodded in response.

  Maybe Annabeth was right after all, life was good around here. Aaron seemed very optimistic about his little adventure, so maybe if I train extra hard this summer I'll get to protect Percy and myself around the school year at the city.

  The rest of dinner passed quickly and everyone started to go to the communal campfire. When I got up from the table I heard a voice calling me.

  — Hi Will, what's up?— I asked him as he approached.

  — I forgot to give you this, it's ambrosia. Everyone needs to carry some around if something breaks out. — He said, handing me a little bag.

  Oh God, I forgot to give Argus the bag of coins. I'm kinda afraid of what he was going to do if he thought I won't ever pay him. He won't cuss me out but he could kick my butt.

  — Thank you Will. You are a great doctor. — I smiled and saved the bag into my pocket.

  — It's nothing, have a good night. —

  After he left, Luke walked me to the door of the small cabin where all the dishes teleported after they had been used.

  — Best wishes with your bestie, Ada. — He joked as he opened the door for me.

  — What do you think I prayed for? — I responded as I entered.

  It was half the truth. I prayed for Percy and Grovee coming here safely and for me to get out of here alive.

  I was greeted by at least ten stacks of plates taller than me. And I'm 1.60 m.

  I heard the door open again and turned to see it was Clarisse. I inspected if there was any trace left of our little disagreement. Her nose is healed but her knuckles are still hurt.

  — Hi. — I greeted awkwardly.

  She frowned and crossed her arms at my poor friendhood attempt.

  — Tell me one reason not to kill you right now. —

  — Well, I believe that "because it's illegal" is off the table. I would love to make a list of how unfavorable my assassination would be for you, but right now the most important one is that you'll finish this up faster and that Luke set me up my first real spar lessons for tomorrow so you will be able to beat me up while not breaking the rules. — I smiled with my lips pursed as I taped my fingers in the counter.

  — Bitch. — She responded oh so gracefully.

  — I'll wash them and you can dry them. — I said while I grabbed the first plate and she stood on my right to grab the rag.

  After a while, we were half way down the first pile of plate but boredom and the almost imperceptible way Clarisse's breath hitches every time she moves her hands brought me out of my dissociation.

  — So Will ran out of ambrosia or something? — I asked looking at her.

  — A broken nose is uncomfortable, but knuckles like this are a trophy. Scars makes the warrior. You wouldn't understand, pretty girl. — She said, with that signature killer look oh her.

  — Did you forgot already? You are "pretty girl", I'm "tough girl". — I smirked at her.

  — You deserve to be killed. — She said.

  I giggled. She really is a chihuahua.

  — What? It's iconic now, so no take backs. — She rolled her eyes at me and placed the dry plate on the clean pile.

  I admit that she reminds me a little of Nancy with all that fury that she carries inside her. The difference was that Clarisse's anger wasn't just a consequence of a hard life, it was an eternal flame that linked her to her divine heritage. I can't even imagine the great person that she would be if she managed to control it.

  I placed the bag Will gave me in the counter, but I didn't looked at her in the eyes.

  — You should heal them, they are going to get infected. — I said as I started washing a another plate.

I saw her hesitate a little before she looked away.

  — I don't need your pity. — she said in an irritated tone.

 

  — You don't have it. You think I didn't see the way everyone in your table, all great warriors, act around you? They look up to you, even your older siblings. Open knucles dont achive that. —

  — No, they don't, years of training do it. I'm the best of the best cabin of warriors in the entire camp, and I don't need a rookie to tell me what I should do. Your opinion doesn't matter to me, you are nobody. — She growled, towering over me.

  — Really? And here I thought you considered me special. —

  — If Chiron wouldn't have come to help you out, I would've have destroyed you, tough girl. You are no warrior. — She said.

  — I don't wanna be one! — I weakly screamed.

  I realized that I won't be able to put out fire with fire so I just took a deep breath and covered my face with my wet hands to cool down and dropped them after.

  — You are already a perfect warrior, you don't need to be hurting to prove it. — I stated, looking her deeply in her brown eyes.

  Her gaze softened and her mouth slightly parted, but didn't mutter a word. I let out a sigh in dissapointment and started to wash another plate.

  We didn't speak again until we finished all the tableware. I put the dishes in the cupboard while Clarisse was organizing the cutlery behind me. After I made sure they wouldn't fall when someone opens the door I turned around to look at Clarisse.

  — I believe that we are done. Bye, Clarisse. — I said as I reached for the door.

  — You are forgetting something.—

  I turned around again to see what she was talking about and she trew my ambrosia bag at me. I clumsily caught it  because I was distracted by the way Clarisse was standing, she had her arms crossed with her hands cupping her elbows, leaving on sight her healed knuckles. Her face didn't hold her stoic expression, it was softer.

  — You are going to swallow a fly, dumbass. — 

  I hadn't realized that I had opened my mouth a little in surprise but I quickly closed it in embarrasment.

  — Don't think much about it. I'll need my fists in shape if I wanna go for your other eye. — She explained.

  —  Yeah well, you were going nowhere with those knuckles, pretty girl. —

  — Well, I wanna see what kind of warrior you are tomorrow, tough girl. — She said with a smirk in her face as she walked past me and bumped my shoulder slightly on her way out.

 

  I saved the ambrosia in my front pocket with a smirk as I left the cabin.

  Everything was quiet now, only the far sounds of crickets and owls could be heard, so I didn't expect to see a little girl sitting in one of the logs close to the bonfire.

  — Hey, lass. It's a little bit cold around here. You sure you don't wanna be in your warm and comfy bed? — I asked in a kind tone.

  She lifted her sight from the fire to me and smiled. I'm almost entirely sure that she doesn't have glasses on but the fire it's reflecting in her eyeballs somehow.

  She said "he finally made a good one" or something like that, I didn't heard a thing with how soft she spoke but I don't have the chance to ask her now because she and the fire were gone after I blinked.

  My face dropped and I ran to the Hermes cabin. There was no fucking way I was about to deal with a ghost on my first day.

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

Hello. Okay, so I'm going to start this off with 'this might be an crazy thing to ask'.

I just saw your post from January about Nana Shimura, and I feel like I'm insane.

I'm legitimately not trying to be belligerent here, but can you please explain to me, in your opinion, why you think that it is Nana's fault for anything that has happened in relation to her? I'm just trying to understand, because I don't see how anything could necessarily be her fault solely. Specifically when talking about the 'creation' of Tomura.

If AFO had wanted to get his hands on someone from that bloodline, if only to be a bastard or whether it was for an actual reason, he would have done it regardless of what Nana's choices would have been.

And I can't help but notice the fact that all of this skips an entire generation. Everyone is so quick to blame Nana for doing what humans do, I.E. having a husband and a child, and I feel I'm not really qualified to speak on that front because I never have wanted children and I don't foresee that changing at this ripe old age I'm at, so I'm not even going to go into whether or not I think it was wrong of her to have a family.

I just find it very interesting that people are blaming Nana for something that happened literal years after her own physical death. Things that happened at the hands of her own son. Things that would have never happened had it not been for her son, that she had no part in.

It's just that the way I see it, that man had years upon years to come to terms with what his mother had done in order to protect him, but in the end he failed anyway. Whether he knew it or not he failed more than his own mother did. He failed and he gave his fucking own child over to this horrible person, and he couldn't have been completely ignorant of that, let's be honest. Whether or not what she did was the right choice, Nana gave him up for a reason, and the fact that he couldbut possibly put himself in his mother's shoes, after how many years? Is more telling of him than it is of her.

Even if what Nana did wasn't the right choice, then what WAS the right choice? How was there a wrong or a right choice when you could never possibly predict the outcomes of whatever you chose to do? In my opinion, people are trying to pin everything on Nana when all she was doing was doing the best she could with what she was given, and I think that's unfair and stupid.

I haven't been following you for long, but I've seen your posts for quite a while, so I actually do respect your opinion, which is why I am asking you.

I really don't like the way Horikoshi writes women as a whole in this particular story, and I don't know if that's a track record of his or if this is his only work or whatever, I don't really pay attention to that sort of thing. And that's a whole other post for another time. But I just find it really weird that everyone seems to be coming after Nana while simultaneously defending her son, when her own son is the one who is committing these atrocities long after she is dead?I find it very weird indeed.

Sorry for the long post, I have far too many feelings about MHA.

First of all, sorry for taking so long to answer and thank you for taking the time to write this ask 💜

Nana Shimura is one of my favorite bnha female characters because of how complex and flawed she is!!!

Here's the short answer:

Regardless of the actions of the people around her, Nana Shimura had a responsibility with her son as a mother and with the world as a hero.

We all have to make decisions without knowing the outcomes. That's life. It doesn't absolve us from the consequences of our actions. It also doesn't mean we are evil, but simply human. It is in our nature to make mistakes and make bad decisions sometimes.

It seems extremely harsh to judge a woman for doing her best against an enemy that was so much stronger than her, but that's the whole point of writing a character like Nana. There are no easy answers.

What was the correct thing to do instead of abandoning Kotaro? How could she have won against AFO? How could one (1) woman do both and do it well?

Nana isn't responsible for what Kotaro did so many years after she left him, but she did leave him. She had a son and then left him because she needed to be a hero. We don't know the exact circumstances of how she had Kotaro, but many fans ask why she had him if she knew her hero job would put him at such risk. Or why she chose to be a hero over being his mother.

Logically, we know it was to save the world. It's just that her choice isn't black and white. She caused a lot of pain in doing what she did, even if she contributed to a lot of joy.

AFO defeating her was inevitable. Like her OFA predecessors, they were alone on their journey. See, it took Deku an army to fight AFO and his influence.

There's also the fact that Nana took Toshinori in after she left Kotaro. Of course she only did it because the kid meant to sacrifice himself for the cause just like her, but it doesn't erase the parallel between Toshinori and Kotaro. One got to enjoy her company until she died because he had the right conditions to be her heir while the other lost her forever because she loved him.

Sadly, her love didn't save Kotaro and didn't make All Might's life easier.

Any person with responsibilities is a person with failures. That rings true for every single bnha hero and villain.

The way I see it, people either have a reason to hate her or not.

Some dislike her 'cause she left Kotaro. Some are unreadable in their judgment and hate her just because she is a woman. Some just dislike her general writing or don't enjoy her type of character.

At the end of the day, Nana Shimura is still a tremendous female character. She inspired All Might himself (he who is hailed as the best hero of all times). She faced AFO alone and she died mocking him with a smile. She sacrificed her happiness and all the things dear to her in order to save the world. Nana passed down OFA and kept hope alive in a time full of violence and chaos. She is one of the best female pro-heroes to have existed and the only female OFA user. He was freaking jacked with muscle because her quirk was float.

Her flaws depict her greatness and the weight on her shoulders. Nana Shimura, everyone.

[resolutepath]

I don't know if you've talked about this before, but the thought in regards to Elio and romance fell into my head. How does he perceive romance? Does he pros and cons with it? Has Elio ever been through heartbreak?

Elio and romance is a fascinating thing, because it is one of the most human of concepts to him and he oft does not permit himself such frivolities of life. They are beyond him, part of a world that is not his to reach and the intricacies involved astound him. In truth Elio perceives romance to be something born of hope, a defiant flickering flame in the face of a yawning chasm of darkness and he rejoices in the instances he has seen, in that he touches. But he is not allowed it, there are very few instances in which he will break these rules.

After all, how does one fall in love when they can see all that is to come? He would know with just the slightest temptation when their time is to end and how it is to come about, he will know who is to blame, what were the choices made, whether it was the best case scenario or not. There is no spontenaity for one who has the ability to foresee, there is no freedom to act for one who knows the consequences of said actions. And in other ways, Elio cannot allow himself the freedom to get so attached because by the time he is he is already grieving. His life is inexplicably tied to Nanook's own. How many goodbyes must he face? How many partings must he endure? There are already enough with the Stellaron Hunters, a necessary risk for the sake of the universe.

And what right has he to put his want to love before the whole universe?

Therein lies the tragedy of Elio, the one caught between mortal and aeon, a foot in both worlds but belonging to neither. The abilities he has prevent him from being part of the human world, living it as they do and his higher purpose prevents him from allowing himself the selfishness he would need to pursue love. But his immense care for the world that he observes leaves him quite connected because he cannot harden his heart less he forget why he pursues this path, the lives he desires to save, the ruination he wishes to prevent.

That being said Elio has had a single instance, so far, in which I have explored him allowing himself to be in love and that you can find here. In this he allows himself a fleeting thing, but a night and a morning beyond, something that was over before it began but while it was there it burned so true. I do not know yet if Elio could fall truly in love, but I know that would be dangerous because the caveats that come with it are immense. How do you love someone you know will never choose you over their greater purpose? How do you reconcile the fact that he probably knows your major milestones in life before they happened?

I think in his vessels, those it is plausible with, Elio would be interested in exploring the concept of romance, because in those characters there is a story and when the story is over the curtains close and that character is gone, but a memory known only to he and they. And perhaps he would be cruel and destroy it before the time it ends because it is too close and the line between character and Elio gets too thin and perhaps it breaks him a little but in the end it is over and the chance is gone.

The idea of Elio finding the potential for love really does fascinate me because it truly does depend on if the correct circumstances arise and if there is someone selfless enough to love him despite. Who knows if that will happen but it would be interesting to see. It's not off the table, not at all.

[abbzworld]

Devotion

This was written for a Secret Santa event over on Tumblr. I hope you enjoy your present, @snorpy-fizzlebean! Sorry that it’s late. ^^;

Also, a minor disclaimer; I’ve never seen Twin Peaks and know basically nothing about it. So I was just making some things up at some parts of the story. Lol

Anyways, please enjoy!

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

Grump Peaks was a show that could be very confusing for Chandlo.

It wasn’t necessarily that he didn’t enjoy it. The special effects were usually quite good, especially in the later seasons, and in his opinion, the characters with their struggles and relationships with each other were the best and most interesting part of the show.

He just had some trouble following along with some of the story.

For example, he didn’t understand why the bad guy was planning on unleashing a bunch of supernatural horrors onto Grump Peaks. Sure, he’d had a terrible childhood when he lived there with his alcoholic father and this was his twisted idea of getting revenge. But why didn’t he realize that his plan would also put the entire world in danger? He was supposed to be an intelligent grumpus, after all!

When he asked about it, Snorpy explained to him, “Grizby’s problem isn’t that he’s unintelligent. His problem is that he winds up getting hyper-focused on his goals to the neglect of everything else, including any common sense. Or rather, his lack thereof.”

Chandlo could understand what Snorpy was telling him, but he was still confused as to why the bad guy let things get this bad.

“Unfortunately, that happens sometimes. Take Floofty, for example. They’re trying to help grumpus kind so their goals are obviously much different from Grizby’s, but in a way, Floofty also struggles with seeing whether what they’re doing is a good idea or not. That’s why they take so many risks and don’t always foresee the consequences of their actions. I mean, just look at what happened on Snaktooth! They almost decapitated themselves just to see if their head would come back like their leg did!”

Chandlo gently wrapped an arm around his shoulders to silently comfort him as Snorpy sighed. “I am glad that they’re getting better, however. They still have a long way to go, though.”

Chandlo nodded and said, “Yeah, but that’s probably true of all of us.”

Snorpy silently nodded before he glanced at the television and got excited. “Ooh, I love this part! It’s when Aless and Ozwin join together to stop him!”

Chandlo softly chuckled, keeping his arm around Snorpy’s shoulders as they both continued to watch what was going on in the show.

In all honesty, this was the real reason he watches it despite it not entirely being his thing. He enjoys seeing how invested Snorpy always gets despite having already seen this show dozens of times.

Ever since they were kids, he’s loved Grump Peaks. He meticulously analyzes every frame and shot of the show, has very little he actively criticizes, and even though the show got an abrupt ending because of the Grumpinati, as he believes, it’s still his favorite show of all time.

Chandlo might not fully understand it sometimes, but hey, if it makes Snorpy happy then he’s happy.

Besides, Snorpy was always so adorable the more interested he gets in something. His eyes go wide with excitement, he gets a little smile on his face and Chandlo can tell that he’s committing everything to memory.

Even though he already knows what’s going to happen.

Eventually, the credits of the final episode started to roll and Chandlo yawned as Snorpy began to rant, “I still cannot believe that this show got cancelled! I mean, we never really got a conclusive answer about Aless’ and Ozwin’s relationship, and the overall conclusion was incredibly rushed! They needed at least another season to properly conclude the story but the Grumpinati wouldn’t allow that, would they?!”

Chandlo chuckled as he rubbed his boyfriend’s back. “Easy there, Snorpy-dawg. You don’t want to get too worked up, right?”

Snorpy sighed. “No… I’m sorry Chandlo. I don’t mean to get so emotional; it just really bothers me that Grump Peaks wasn’t given the finale that it truly deserved.”

Chandlo smiled at him. “No need to apologize, bro. I know how much this show means to you. It might not be my thing like it is yours but I can understand your frustration.”

Snorpy sighed again and smiled at him. “Thank you Chandlo. Truly.”

“Aw anytime, Snorpy!”

Snorpy then yawned himself before stretching a bit. “Ugh, what time is it?”

Chandlo looked at a nearby clock. “It’s almost 10 pm.”

“My word, I didn’t realize it was getting so late. We should probably head to bed then!”

Chandlo nodded. “Yeah, I agree. We both have to go to the gym in the morning so we can’t afford to be too tired.”

Snorpy agreed and so they stood up, yawning again, before they shuffled over to their shared bed.

Once they were settled in, they cuddled together and said their good nights.

About five hours later, however, Chandlo awoke to Snorpy softly whimpering.

Groggily, Chando quietly asked, “Snorpy? Hey, are you alright?”

Snorpy didn’t answer and now the whimpers were getting louder.

“No… No! Don’t eat them!”

And then it dawned on Chandlo that he was having a nightmare.

Unfortunately, they both got them frequently ever since they escaped from Snaktooth. The knowledge that the bugsnax they were eating were actually parasites that could’ve – and would’ve – killed them was quite traumatic for them.

Chandlo had no idea what would’ve happened if he’d lost Snorpy. And he was sure that Snorpy had those same thoughts about him. And considering he was already anxious even before he went to Snaktooth, said trauma and anxiety often manifested in the form of nightmares.

And unfortunately, despite how much he wished it, Shellsy was unable to concoct an herbal solution to make the nightmares go away because such a thing didn’t exist. She only knew how to allow someone to go to sleep easier, not actually banish dreams altogether.

So both Chandlo and Snorpy, as well as presumably the rest of the Krew, just had to wait and hope that the dreams would eventually fade on their own.

But regardless of that, Chandlo wasn’t going to just lie there and let Snorpy suffer on his own. He would never do that.

And so, he gently wrapped an arm around Snorpy’s waist, pulling him close.

“Shhh… It’s alright, Snorpy. I’m here.” He gently murmured into his ear, kissing his forehead. It took a few minutes of gently caressing his back, but eventually the whimpers stopped and Snorpy began to breathe easily again.

Still, Chandlo didn’t let go as he once again drifted off to sleep.

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

The next morning, they were at the breakfast table, debating on what to eat that wouldn’t remind them too much of the bugsnax. Apples and bananas were off the table, as well as anything like a cinnamon bun. They eventually settled on cereal.

As they ate, Snorpy said, “Thank you, Chandlo.”

“Hm?”

“Well…” He sighed. “I was having a nightmare last night. But I soon felt a warm and comforting presence enter my subconscious. And the nightmare left me afterwards.” He then smiled. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

Chandlo smiled and chuckled. “Guilty as charged.” He then sighed. “I know how intense those nightmares can get, so I didn’t want you suffering through one alone.”

Snorpy nodded. “Well, thank you. It’s been tough, but I’m glad that you’re here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Same here, Snorp-dawg.”

After they’d finished their breakfast, they settled down on the couch as they had half an hour before they had to leave.

They didn’t watch anything, though. They simply cuddled against each other and talked about their plans for the day.

“…and I’m learning how to do pull-up’s better. It’s killer on the arms and abs, but I’m slowly but surely getting there.”

Chandlo smiled as he hugged Snorpy. “I’m proud of you, Snorpy. You’re doing such a good job.”

Snorpy blushed. “Ah, heh heh… Thank you.”

“And I’m really impressed with how fit and healthy you’ve gotten as a result of working out more!” Chandlo continued, finding it adorable how flustered Snorpy was getting. “I’m really proud of you, bro!”

Snorpy giggled, blushing even harder. “Awww, stop. You’re making me blush…”

Chandlo smirked at him. “I know. And I think it’s adorable.”

Snorpy made a bunch of flustered noises as Chandlo chuckled and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you.”

Snorpy giggled again before saying, “Ah, yes. I love you too.”

They both smiled at each other before Snorpy cleared his throat and asked him, “So erm… what do you plan on doing at the gym?”

“Well, I plan on shooting some hoops. It’s fun competing against the other grumps there.”

Snorpy chuckled. “That’s nice to hear. I hope that they don’t get too competitive, though.”

“No, they don’t.” Chandlo reassured him. “It’s all in good fun.”

Snorpy nodded. “Good. I’d hate for someone to get mad at you over a basketball competition. I’ve heard how defensive grumpuses can get over sports and related events…”

“I understand what you mean, but that hasn’t happened.” Chandlo smiled at him, giving him a reassuring squeeze. “And besides, I was taught to always have good sportsmanship. My mother always made sure to teach me that as a kid.”

Snorpy nodded. “Yes, I remember that.”

“Also, it’s important to know your limits. I was always pushing myself too hard and I still struggle with that now. But rest is just as important as how many push-ups you can do in one sitting. Eggabell taught me that!”

Snorpy smiled. “I’m sure she did. She is a doctor after all!”

Chandlo grinned. “Yeah, bro! I owe a lot of my know-how to her! And to you, of course. You’ve always been there for me and your inventions are really helpful!”

Snorpy giggled again. “Heh, thank you.”

For the new few minutes, they simply sat there, cuddling each other as Snorpy listened to Chandlo’s heartbeat.

Eventually, however, they had to get up to go to the gym.

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

“Let’s see… water bottles?”

“Check.”

“Towels?”

“Check.”

“First aid kit?”

“Check.”

“And we’re both dressed in our workout gear… Awesome dawg! We’re ready to go!”

“Right behind you, love.”

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

The End

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

I hope you enjoyed this story. If you did, feel free to tell me! And if you have any constructive criticism for me, you can tell me that, as well. Thank you!

[boonsmoon]

Hey I wanted to ask if you could write character x reader with Crimson from Ragna Crimson? I don't have any request regarding the setting or anything else in that matter. You have a free hand on that part :3 And sorry if I sound stiff but english isn't my first language

i love you /platonic Crimson is my favorite character like <3 thanking Miku that Ragna Crimson simps exist on this site LMAO spoilers/references to chapter 50+

Request Chungus ML Ragna Crimson ML Series ML Crimson x f!reader Genres: Oneshot|Fluff|Romantic

Traitors Love

You two were close. Not close as in being linked through Crimson's powers. It was more of a mutual liking you took towards each other. Of course, it's not hard when you both are considered traitors to your kin.

Despite sharing the status of traitor, you both differed in various ways. While both superior dragons, neither of you came from the same bloodline. You are one of the rare Claw Brethren. There is also the act of betrayal. You've never held a monarch role like Crimson, so you simply left your previous ways of genocide on humans.

However, you both share a common goal, to take down the Dragon God. Except you didn't foresee that after working together for years, you would start to fall for the heartless mastermind.

But he wasn't truly heartless, you know this. No one got close to Crimson like you. In fact, you are the only living dragon other than Borgius to have seen Crimson in his monarch days. And you must say, it was quite the look.

All that being said, you have finally wiped out a bloodline, the Winged one at that! And you couldn't be happier to have done that, especially with Crimson at your side. Though you suppose the human deserves some credit.

"What we'll do is stay with the Sun Cult and follow their plans. Of course, this is subject to change, as you can't blindly follow homicidal cultists," Crimson was setting up the team's new plan since y'all don't really have one beyond killing dragons.

The team, of course, listened to the brains. Plus, you can't really put your trust in an organization willing to sacrifice their own people... With the end of the talk, each member dispersed to do as they pleased with their new free time. That left you to spend your time with Crimson...

"Tell me, do you really believe that boy will follow any plans the cult gives him?" You personally thought this human would ignore the Sun Cult as a whole, which ya know, makes a lot of sense.

Crimson smirked, but you could feel a mix of disappointment and anger coming off him, "I expect him to, but of course an ignorant brat who only cares about getting rid of bloodlines as soon as possible could derail my entire plan..."

You stared off into nothing, knowing there's not much comfort you can provide. You both sat on the loveseat, planning to have some productive conversation. Or at least you thought so.

Crimson broke the silence, surprisingly getting a bit emotional. Obviously, you couldn't tell from a glance at his face though. "Why are you so stupid as to stay around and follow my plans?"

You were stunned, Crimson is always so proud of his plans, shouldn't he be glad you follow without question?

"You have the strength to destroy a superior dragon, to fight one until daylight and watch it burn. So why don't you?" Crimson is praising you; something isn't right here.

You, getting caught in your feelings after so many centuries, thought saying the first thing that came to mind was absolutely genius, "have you ever considered it's because I love you?" NO- GO BACK GO BACK GO BACK.

No, you cannot go back. Now deal with the consequences of your actions. The consequences aren't that bad actually, it's just a reply, "wow, you're dumber than I thought."

Are you dumb? Sorta. You did fall for quite possibly the biggest asshole to walk this earth.

Now it'd be smart to shut up, yes? No, you will continue, but this time make it cringe, "I'm an idiot, but I can be your idiot."

With a look of shock to a sly smirk, Crimson says, "always have been." You are hiding in your hands, you foolish fool, how did you not see it?

Crimson moves your hands and slowly kisses you. Yeah, you definitely wanna kill the entire dragon species with this person. <3

i wrote this listening to International Love 👍

kinda cringe but gotta embrace it

[sheltershock]

Being sick is the worst. I can’t imagine how hard it would be for a psychic…or can I? 

Sasha already has a canon aversion to germs. I wouldn’t say he’s a hypochondriac, but he’d probably consider getting sick one of the worst things that can happen to him. The most dreadful part is the removal of his bodily autonomy. He's fine with smoking cigarettes, and is aware that they’re bad, but that’s a choice he’s making about his body. He did not choose for someone to come into his shared space sick, spread their germs around, and now he has the suffer the painful consequences of their actions. Absolutely not. Since he can’t really police sick people though he’s really conscious about germs and sanitation. He probably casually has boxes of disposable face masks just in case he has to encounter a sick person, and his aesthetic lets him get away with it for the most part without anyone suspecting anything offensive. But when he does get sick it’s him drifting in and out of consciousness trying to work from home, failing, and then succumbing to exhaustion. Lots of loss of productivity guilt.  

Sasha never thought he’d have to take care of anyone while they’re sick, after all that’s what hospitals are for, and he chose to not work in a hospital. But then at some point after they moved in together, Milla eventually got sick. Honestly his first thought was to leave and stay in a hotel until she got better. She said she’d be fine and that she can take care of herself anyway. But they’re together, and seeing Milla upset/unwell makes him…uncomfortable. Plus, he’s probably already been exposed anyway so…he chose to stay. He moved into the living space  for the foreseeable future, keeping everything as disinfected as possible and left the bedroom to serve as a quarantine. Milla was initially surprised to wake up to see Sasha still there, knowing what he’s like, but was ultimately happy by it. 

As a caretaker, Milla is used to germs. She’s pretty much ready to be a nurse to whoever for however long it takes for them to recover from their sickness. She keeps track of medicine and administration times, food and drinks, cleanliness, even just being nearby and available for emotional needs. She’s got everything under control, so there’s nothing to worry about. She applies the same philosophy as herself being sick: you just need to slow down and rest up, darling.

Milla, however, was not expecting that she wouldn’t really receive the same level of care from Sasha she gives to everyone else when they’re sick. He’d almost never be in the room with her, no matter how many times she’d try to convince him. He’d happily talk to her through telepathy but it wasn’t really the same to her. She had the romantic idea of her feverishly speaking her mind as her lover grasped her hand from her bedside, like in romantic comedies. And even if they both ended up catching the same illness at least they could stay with each other in painful solidarity. Sasha did not find this fantasy funny nor romantic. Whenever he was in the room with her, he always had a medical mask and disposable gloves on. But that was a rare sight after she kept trying to grasp his wrist to convince him to stay with her. She completely understands why he wouldn’t, but it still hurt. 

Instead of bringing out food or drinks, Milla would wake up to bowls on the bedside table and glasses of water. It initially took her a few hours and several micro naps to realize the glass hadn’t actually become empty despite how much she’d drink. Medicine would be laid out nicely with handwritten notes with instructions and timecards which listed out the previous times she’d woken up to take them. The washcloths on her forehead, around her neck and wrapped around her wrists hadn’t dried out yet.

Milla considers getting sick as a sign from the universe or just her body that she needs to slow down and take care of herself. Her body is looking for her! And since she’s pretty active and generally healthy, Milla doesn’t get sick very often, which only serves to prove her own mindset. She doesn’t have any problems with taking those sick days off, sleeping most of the day, watching TV, having soup and warm drinks…she just wishes she felt like doing any of those things. The aches and pains just make her really clingy to anyone willing to give her the time of day, willing to talk their ear off. She doesn't enjoy being alone for long periods of time when she’s well, and she especially doesn't like it when she’s sick. And in the delirium that comes with a fever, her control over her own mind slips.

Fever dreams mock her pain as the Nightmares twist and tangle her past and present emotions into a living hell. While technically someone could go in there and defeat all her Nightmares, they’d just reform quicker than it’s worth to get rid of them. Her fatigue from the illness has her subconscious mostly taking the reins rather than her waking mind. And as a result,  the regeneration time is insane as her memories fire off in jumbled slideshows some people would refer to as dreams. As much as she’d like to spend all her time sick staying up with the hypnotic static of a TV screen, the stable pages of a book or the allure of a new conversation, she has to return to that world eventually. There are few things that can alleviate her Nightmares on good days, and even less on her worst ones. But sometimes, despite her illness, Sasha will climb in with Milla and hold her while she sleeps. 

She’d stir amongst feverish dreams where party guests shrink and don the distorted screaming faces of people long lost. Beside frigid, hissing flames she’d feel sheets and blankets she’s under shift, and hear mumbles about how sticky the linen is with lukewarm sweat. And as she opens her eyes she’d see her upper body and head be moved so a pair of arms securely wrap themselves around her shoulders and waist. Another shiver would slide down her spine. Boiling parts of her body that were locked away under the blankets would be exposed to the cruel air conditioned exterior. 

But she’d feel the warmth wrapped around her upper body from the new embrace and yawn. Tears would well in her eyes from the pulsating rhythm down her neck, and her lover would shudder, being all too knowledgeable about the germs being released as she opened her mouth. A shaky hand would find its way to the side of her head. She coughed, quickly grasping onto the much cleaner fabric of her lover’s clothes. But as she eased her breathing she’d feel a slow, soothing stroking sensation ever so lightly on the surface of her scalp, through her hair, and to the bare skin of her neck. 

Her eyelids would grow heavy again. But unwilling to return the fiery hellscape currently commandeering her own party, she’d forcibly grasp them open again. She’d yawn again, and feel the hand combing through her hair twitch– just for a second. But Sasha is here. She allows her vision to fall to black, and just focuses on feeling the rise and fall of his chest and the slightly faster heart rate. Like the lull of a moving train, she’d drift off and her dreams would be a little less worse. Faces become transparent. Frostbitten, charred wallpaper is more vibrant. The vocals of the music fall to murmurs. The real world still calls. Still hearing the hum of the air conditioner, feeling the rise and fall akin to warm ocean waves and the scent of something she can’t quite put her finger on through her stuffy nose, but she knows smells good. 

She hums lightly, about to say something, but the vibrations only make the soreness worse. She opens her mouth, before closing it and burying her face farther into his chest. She swallows and her throat burns. A weight from the back of her head tilts towards her face and everything starts to feel more distant. She clutches the fabric harder. It twists in her grimy fingers. 

The arm around her waist shifts as a hand reaches up to cusp the side of her jawline. With one arm around her back and the other resting over her breast, she sighs into another yawn. Exhaling softly, her grip loosens as her fingers relax and rests into the mild heat of a warm body. And her mind does too. 

For a brief moment she looks through her eyes again. The blankets bear different patterns. Her arms are wrapped around a pillow, but it’s just as soft. Light pours into the hallway from a widening door frame. The mirror inside the hallway bathroom is completely fogged up. An arm stretches into view as the light disappears with a click. Milla’s eyes close and she can hear the kettle hiss as she drifts off again. 

[aajjks]

we’re a team okay? i’ll piggyback off of you. just write what comes to mind 😊

mommy issues!JK

“i’m so sorry jungkook. i just…i can’t take it anymore!” you pant.

“OK calm down she deserved it. I’m so proud of you”

jungkook takes the metal baseball bat from your hand and does his best to calm you down. he slowly caresses your face before bringing you in for a hug; God, he’s so proud of you. never in a million years would he foresee something like this and despite him being a little shaken up (including eunwoo) he’s jumping for joy right now. nara has met her match and it’s you.

“i’m pretty sure nara is going to sue you, y/n but don’t worry. i’ve got a good lawyer for you”

“thanks eunwoo”

it’s so good to know that despite your impulsive and illegal actions, there are still people rooting for you. pedestrians walking the streets and even jungkook’s coworkers gather to watch nara lose her mind over the damages you’ve dealt to her car and when she sees you and jungkook together, that’s the final straw.

“HOW DARE YOU HUG THIS BITCH AFTER SHE DESTROYED MY PRECIOUS ROSY!!!” you roll your eyes. she even named the stupid the car?

“you know what? you’re FIRED!!!!!!! YOU, EUNWOO, AND ALINA ARE FIRED!!!! and you? you’re dead. you’re soooo fucking dead. i’d watch my back if i were you, bitch”

after that, nara angrily storms off leaving the three of you to reap the consequences of your actions. “i’m-i’m so sorry you guys. i shouldn’t have done that. what was i thinking? i should’ve just—,” you don’t even want to look at jungkook’s or eunwoo’s face because you’re sure they’re angry at you.

“hey, don’t cry. it’s okay, y/n” says eunwoo but you just shake your head. your hands are covering your face and you can’t help but feel awful for what you’ve done.

“alina is gonna kill me. i’m so sorry, guys”

“y/n it’s okay! we were already thinking about quitting anyways. remember that job in incheon? welllllllll alina works there. that’s why she hasn’t been here. i can get her to put in a good word for us and BAM!”

“but it’s not close to busan—,”

“it’s a teleworking job. she only goes to incheon like once or twice a month”

you wonder if eunwoo had this planned the whole time. he’s always looking out for jungkook and he knew this nara situation would blow out of proportion one day. there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his little brother and after seeing you stand up for jungkook the way you did he can’t help but like you a lot more.

“so quit crying, alright? i got it handled. our main focus is your protection. she threatened to kill you and knowing her family, they can easily arrange that”

~🫧

“if she even touches a hair on your body, I will actually murder her.” Something inside him snaps when eunwoo mentions the possibility of the Jang family hurting you for hurting their precious princess.

And he’s not too worried about losing his job because a few tears in front of his mother and he will become the CEO of the JH INDUSTRIES. His Mother is from a very rich background herself.

She fell in love with his dad and they got married, of course his father is quite rich too, but he’s just so greedy always wanting more… but they’re old and he’s their only child… and he’s got an heir.

He knows that his mother misses him because she’s always texting him, calling him longing to see her only grandchild, but jungkook did not allow it because she did not protect him when he needed her protection and support.

“Yn how about you quit your job at the school? I mean you’ve got quite a qualification if you want I could get you a job at my mothers company.” Jungkook suggests.

“I know teaching is what you love to do but seriously I don’t think it’s worth it… she has tarnished your reputation and you deserve better… and honestly it’s a huge problem because you cannot date me and I really want you to date me without any shame or guilt.”

This is a golden opportunity and he’s taking it

You have no idea about his background and it’s gonna be a hassle to explain that he’s actually from a rich background.., are you gonna think of him of him less?

“And eunwoo is right. I’ve got the incheon job too…” he winks. He cannot stand to see you so stressed out and so guilty because this is not your fault you only took your revenge.

And as for him killing… he killed his father’s mistress. She deserved to die. And the mistress was Nara’s auntie.

How could his father even think of betraying his mother who loves him more than her life? Nobody knows how she died because it was disguised as a suicide.

He’s not a killer and he didn’t want to become one, but.. he just cannot stand it when someone tries to hurt the ones he loves.

“Come yn- and eunwoo. We will have lunch together somewhere. I guess I am starving.”

“DUDE I am completely famished and I guess I will eat you if I don’t get to eat something right now.”

You both laugh at eunwoo.

And God knows you have the most gorgeous laugh.

[noa-ciharu]

Sin gonna be sin--- FuuKam with no.137♥ please♥♥

Not me finally writing a seven months old prompt :D alright so I've come up with 2.3k of shameless porn. Little bit of sadism, delay/denial, Fuuma's idea of unsafe bdsm practice and Kamui being a masochist - in other words, nothing new for those two horny kinky hormonal messes. Set in X universe ofc 😈

I wrote this sin while listening to this. Thank you NIN for your horny songs, they suit horny messed up X ships to the T. NSFW so entire fic is under cut

137 - "You're so beautiful spreed out like this, just for me"

Just how did he get into this mess?

Kamui kept on asking himself just that as pain and pleasure blended into one. Fingers curled inside him, stretched open for who knows which time. Sparks ignited again, as well as ache. He tossed head to side, grinded teeth and hissed. Sweat rolled down temple, shivers down spine. Fingers eased out a bit, skimmed over rim. Ecstasy made him tremble and groan; but also grind back into ounce of bliss he was given, like pain and obscenity didn’t deteriorate in slightest. Kamui squirmed around but couldn’t break free; hands tied above head, he couldn’t move them an inch. He snapped eyes shut and prayed for his captor to show mercy and finally give him what he wished for. Kamui knew he was aware of just what he desperately craved for but purposely ignored it.

Friction sickened and overwhelmed in same breath. He wished for ecstasy to tone down and never end.

Even behind closed eyelids he could see Fuuma’s ardent stare; could feel those amber eyes piercing into very soul. Fear spread through veins but so did the fire. Kamui couldn’t negate duality residing within. Truly, they were cut from the same cloth, at this point he was no less depraved than one introducing him to this salacious pain-pleasure was.

It all started about an hour ago. Another earthquake struck. No Seals were nearby so Kamui had no option but to try deal with Dragons of Earth on his own. He rushed to the epicenter and was met with no other than Fuuma; or at least his new cruel self. After brief fighting, one-sided yelling and pleading for answers he’ll never get and destruction of surrounding buildings (courtesy of his inability to raise a Kekkai) Kamui defeated once more got slammed against the wall. Bruised and covered in numerous cuts he had no strength to push Fuuma away. In next to no time he was cornered and subdued.

This is the end – or so Kamui thought back then. However instead of being injured further he was touched in very… libertine way. Aside being clearly amorous it’s not to say touch wasn’t ruthless; certainly did hurt, especially given previous injuries. There wasn’t a thing about Fuuma that didn’t ache in some way, that’s cruel reality Kamui was forced to get accustomed to. Fuuma fetched rope from somewhere and tied his hands to a broken pipe; then ripped all his clothes. Why he laid there passively and allowed to be stripped to bare skin, Kamui couldn’t fathom. Perhaps it all happened all too fast for him to comprehend consequences of his actions; or inactions in this case. Or so Kamui wanted to believe, anything else would mark beginning of his end.

Perhaps he was too naive or just caught in the moment – but not for a second did it cross Kamui’s mind what Fuuma would do to him; what he’ll allow to be done. He was laid on stone slab and teased relentlessly; from sensual licks to brutal bites, not for a moment did Fuuma slow down. Kisses and caresses slid lower and lower; in process Kamui’s traitorous body began reacting. He was covered in bite-marks, bruises and hickeys; as well as blood from previous fight. In retrospect what was he expecting? Given how Fuuma has been treating him in past few months, not so subtle sexual edge to every touch, every word and gaze nothing less was foreseeable.

Alas, instead of jerking him off or even fucking brutally like Kamui assumed Fuuma would he settled on merciless endless teasing. And that’s how Kamui ended up with spreed legs, achingly hard untouched cock and two fingers inside ass. Oh if only pace was just as swift and ferocious as Fuuma’s previous touches were, Kamui would have reached peak long ago. But no, instead it was sweet torture that got halted whenever he neared close to orgasm. Really, it’ll be no surprise if he came over himself like an animal, completely untouched.

Fingers spreed into v-shape, abruptly pulled out and thrust inside. Heat ignited within veins, rushed towards groin. Just as he started hoping he’ll finally cum Fuuma halted all movements yet once more. Kamui let out a desperate whimper, no longer bothering to hold back tears; they mixed with all the sweat covering his body. At this point he had no doubt he’ll be begging very very soon.

“Let me go Fuuma!” - instead he yelled. Even before Fuuma smirked at him Kamui knew he chose wrong course of action. Protesting he only whetted this sadist’s appetite.

Fuuma raised above him; at first just caressed cheek and softly gazed into his eyes. Nothing short of deception, Kamui knew deep down he was being tricked into false sense of security; yet still couldn’t help craving those affections.

Fingertips dug into open wound on chest. Kamui sealed lips shut and groaned; didn’t want to allow Fuuma satisfaction of seeing him crumble. Knuckles glided against cheek, smeared collected blood over face; then Fuuma leaned in and licked tears streaming down over bruised and bloodied skin. Fingertips glided over rim of his hole; it contracted in return, implicitly invited. Kamui mewled and trembled at that utter ecstasy; odd how such intangible touch could electrify to the core.

“Is that really what you want?”, Fuuma hushed above him, eyes never leaving his. Kamui shivered at depth of his voice. He’s never been looked at so… ardently before; like Fuuma wanted to devour him whole, tear apart like a starved animal. Needless to say such hungry stare threw him off loop; yet enkindles flame within at same breath.

Strangely but undeniably: he wished for more. And that’s precisely what he got.

Touch slid lower. Fuuma pinched his left nipple and at same time finally thrust fingers inside him. Oh gosh, the ache, the pure bliss. Kamui closed eyes and moaned; his erection twitched repetitively, more precome rushed out; embarrassing how hard and wet he became at this sweet torture. Fuuma took note of all that as he chuckled one more. Brutal press over right nipple, then he lowered hand down his body.

Knuckles glided over swollen cock, touch so insubstantial it tantalized. Disregarding all dignity Kamui frantically grinded hips up; desperate attempt to ride what little pleasure he was given. He knew that friction will vanish very soon.

“Somehow I doubt that”, Fuuma commented further, sadistic grin ever-present on lips. He rotated wrist and began rapidly thrusting fingers inside; with other hand finally gripped his erection and pressed thumb over tip. Kamui screamed.

To hell with restrain, he didn’t care at this point! Pleasure drove him insane! Fuuma kept on ramming inside for few more seconds. Without any care Kamui grinded down on his fingers like his life depended on it. Because it just might. Ecstasy obtained was brief. The exact moment Fuuma detected he was nearing orgasm he pulled away; leaned over him and reveled in Kamui’s desperation. Fucking sadist.

“Why are you doing this?”, Kamui managed to murmur in between choking on tears and saliva. He was so aroused it hurt! When will this all come to an end? All blood in body rushed to face and swollen erection; his arms went numb long ago, breaking free now is nothing but pipe dream.

Apparently wasn’t the only one affected. Fuuma gripped his hips and grinded clothed erection against his ass. Kamui moaned in turn; desperate attempt to get Fuuma to finally bring whatever this thing between them was to forgone conclusion. Yet all in vain for Fuuma simply kept on leering down at him and ignored bother their desires. For a moment Kamui wondered if he could throw Fuuma’s game back into his face and seduce him into point of breaking; opted out of it as tempting the devil could backfire catastrophically.

“I thought that was obvious Kamui”, Fuuma hushed and traveled hands up his waist; brutally pinched and pulled at nipples; rolled them between fingers before pressing over them again.

In turn Kamui could just trembled and moan. He kept on grinding hips up but couldn’t obtain any friction. Fuuma glided thumb over trail of blood sliding from cut on shoulder; raised it to Kamui’s mouth and pushed finger pass lips. Ugh, what unsavory taste. Nonetheless he licked the finger clean, all in dire need to please and be rewarded.

“Because I can”, Fuuma added and wrapped hands around his neck.

So much for begin rewarded. Kamui’s breath hitched in throat, eyes widened. This was anything but safe; danger spelled in italic and bold. Fuuma could snap his neck in half in a blink of an eye. And all Kamui could do is lay there and let Fuuma dominate him; allegorically and quite literally hold Kamui’s life in his hands. His arms were bond, legs trembling due to throbbing arousal and mind mushy – he couldn’t break free even if he wanted to. Pressure on neck intensified; electrified. What a depraved mess he’s been reduced to; nothing normal about being turned on by such eminent danger. He closed eyes, tried to calm down arousal within blood and waited for the inevitable.

Except brutality never came. Fuuma removed hands from his neck and gripped waist instead. Kamui let out a relieved sigh; opened eyes and was instantly met with sardonic grin.

“And more importantly: because you let me” – Fuuma gloated. In turn rage enkindled inside Kamui; true, but there was no need for rubbing salt into wound.

“I didn’t – ahhh!”

Whatever he plan on saying got cut off when Fuuma encircled fist around his cock and finally started pumping. Deep down Kamui knew this was just another round of teasing yet couldn’t stop himself from grinding back into touch; writhing and moaning to that utter painful ecstasy. Heat pooled in groin at alarming rate, his erection twitched uncontrollably. Just a few seconds more and he’ll finally get to cum. Oh gosh! Oh how sweet will release kept at bay for so long be, he could almost feel it! Just a bit more and -

Iron grip over base got him screaming. Whether it was pain or pleasure or both, Kamui had no clue. But what he did know for certain was that he couldn’t control himself any longer. Tears streamed down cheeks, drool down chin; he lost count how many orgasms were denied by now. He was aroused to the point where no matter how feathery touch was it hurt. Hurt so goddamn much. But also ignited fire within veins. He needed that sweet ache more than oxygen at this point.

For a moment all stimulation was put on hold. Fuuma knelt between his legs and stared. Stared very openly. Oh gosh. So embarrassing. Yet Kamui couldn’t deny each place his gaze wandered over scorched. He felt so objectified, so desired; wanted this torture to stop and never end.

“You’re so beautiful”, Fuuma whispered and caressed his cheek. Touch tender, look in eyes anything but.

“Spreed out like this”, he added, eyes roaming over Kamui’s naked body Then starved gaze wandered down to his groin. Fuuma leered and licked lips. Kamui blushed bright red and tried to snap legs shut; could not when Fuuma was kneeling between them.

Of course he wasn’t having it. Fuuma gripped his legs and spreed them further. Glided knuckles over inner thighs and teased huskily - “Just for me”

Heat got to Kamui’s face; he was blushing so hard he though he might passed out. Kamui wished he could hide but knew that not only his body was bared for Fuuma’s eyes but soul as well. It was all too much; and yet nowhere near enough. Tongue flickered over thigh down to groin; then over shaft. Oh the mind-blowing ecstasy! Inhuman how much he craved it. Kamui trembled and screamed; he desperately grinded into Fuuma’s tongue in hope he’ll finally achieve long-denied orgasm. His toes curled, vision blurred at edges; spine arched and lips quivered. All nerves set aflame, just a second longer and -

“Not so fast Kamui”

- another iron grip over base of his cock stopped him from cumming at last second. More tears slid down cheeks. Frustration ate him alive! Kamui wanted to scream but didn’t want to give Fuuma that satisfaction; so he bit lips to the point of bleeding. He was throbbing at this point, never in his life he’s been so hard or waited so much for an orgasm.

Sadistic chuckle from Fuuma, he raised up and licked fresh trail of blood sliding down chin; this is closest to a kiss they’ve ever gotten, Kamui’s lust-hazed mind supplied. Kisses and licks slid down sweaty skin; of course area where Kamui wanted friction the most was ignored. Fucking perfect.

Eventually Fuuma made it back to his thighs. He traced bites and kisses over still unmarred skin. No doubt it’ll be covered in hickeys and bite-marks by tomorrow morning – that is if he lives to see it. At this point Kamui had no other option but to lay back and let Fuuma do whatever he wants to do to him. Still, he’d be lying if he claimed he didn’t take perverse pleasure in this tantalizing game of denial.

“Let me play with you a bit more” - Fuuma glanced up and smirked; in turn all heat in Kamui’s body rushed south. He had no business looking so attractive while being so sadistic. Disheveled hair, playful glint in amber eyes and flushed cheeks – understatement to say Kamui was delighted at seeing Fuuma affected as well; at that moment he wished he could touch Fuuma too but knew any demands for being unbound will go ignored.

With one hand Fuuma held his left leg upwards and sucked inside thigh; fingers on other skimmed over rim of his entrance, pushed in just enough to enkindle sweetest bliss but not deep enough to truly pleasure. Kamui’s back arched from slab below, moan after moan slipping from bruised lips. Another round of teasing - Kamui hoped it will be the last as he had no clue how further he could go. He prayed to heaven above Fuuma will eventually show mercy.

[centrally-unplanned]

To maybe add a little bit to that Iraq post, here is a late 2002 interview with French President Jacques Chirac, the European lead of opposition to the Iraq War. He goes through his fears of the war:

A: I'll be very frank with you. As I've already told President Bush, I have great reservations about this doctrine. As soon as one nation claims the right to take preventive action, other countries will naturally do the same. And what would you say in the entirely hypothetical event that China wanted to take preemptive action against Taiwan, saying that Taiwan was a threat to it? How would the Americans, the Europeans and others react? Or what if India decided to take preventive action against Pakistan, or vice versa? Or Russia against Chechnya or somewhere else? What would we say?

I think this is an extraordinarily dangerous doctrine that could have tragic consequences. Preventive action can be undertaken if it appears necessary, but it must be taken by the international community, which today is represented by the United Nations Security Council.

His concerns are overwhelmingly with Empire, precedent, and legalism, of legitimizing war as a tool of policy. And the UN looms over it all, though as a nation with veto in the UNC I won't blame him for that focus.

He never mentions quagmire, or failure, or Vietnam. He is concerned with rising anti-westernism; this is definitely the closest he gets, when talking about a bubbling American idea of Iraq precipitating "mass middle eastern regime change"

A. If we want to intervene in order to change countries' political systems, then we're in another civilization. Or in any case, we're not in a civilization organized like today's. I think such speculation is very dangerous, very dangerous indeed. You get started and you have no idea where you will end up. And think of the reaction on the street, among the people. If, for example, you want to change the monarchy in Morocco or Jordan, you'll have a lot of trouble with the people of those countries.

Chirac of course is an extremely accomplished statesman, he is aware of the possibilty space, if you asked him the question "could there be a quagmire in Iraq" he would say "oh yeah that could happen". But its not his priority, its not what anyone is focusing on at the time. Its just one interview but I think this captures what people were discussing in 2002-2003; WMD's, precedent, American Empire, legality. I don't think not foreseeing the failure is a uniquely American issue.

[lothiriel84]

God Has Given Your Soul to Keep

He was beginning to despair of whatever power of persuasion he might have over his wife, when it became apparent there were far more pressing reasons for her to relinquish any plan of travel for the foreseeable future.

A Pride and Prejudice ficlet. Darcy/Elizabeth. Sequel to The Way I Feel When I’m in Your Hands.

As could be expected, the gossip surrounding the expeditiousness of Mr and Mrs Darcy’s marriage only intensified following the birth of their daughter. People began counting on their fingers, and taking guesses as to the scandalous circumstances of her conception that were often not very far off the mark; even Mr Darcy’s position in society could not entirely prevent speculation from circulating among his closest acquaintances, and it soon became apparent that it could not be hoped for Miss Darcy to remain entirely ignorant of those rumours, such as they were.  

As one of her guardians as well as Darcy’s cousin and intimate friend, it was Colonel Fitzwilliam who took it upon himself to broach the difficult subject with Georgiana. It was far from pleasant a task, but he was never one to shrink back from an unpleasant duty, and he was determined to do everything within his power to soften the blow for his young cousin. All in all, it went better than he had dared to hope for, though it hardly escaped everyone’s notice how she could not bring herself to look her brother in the eye, afterwards.  

In a futile attempt to conceal his hurt at finding himself the object of his sister’s contempt, Mr Darcy took up to spending most of his free time in the nursery, watching over his sleeping daughter and wondering whether she too would come to despise him one day. Unable to bear the strain caused by so painful a rift between brother and sister, Elizabeth soon made up her mind to seek a resolution by whatever means open to her. As uneasy as she felt at the prospect of confessing the shocking details of her secret shame to someone as guileless as her new sister was, her husband’s continued happiness mattered more to her than any thought of her own respectability in the eyes of the world. She was so determined to shift upon herself as huge a part of the blame as could be contrived that she was not in the least prepared for Georgiana to break into sudden tears and beg her forgiveness for her brother’s unpardonable conduct.  

“I do not know how it was possible for him to comport himself in such a manner after everything that transpired between myself and Mr Wickham,” her sister-in-law lamented, growing more distressed by the moment. “He has always been everything that is good and amiable, and I am ashamed to think he could forget his honour to such an extent as to disregard the consequences of his actions entirely.” 

“Oh, but that he did not, Georgiana,” Elizabeth hastened to correct her. “He had offered for me already, and he was fully prepared to do what was expected of him to restore my reputation, if only I would let him. It was entirely my fault that I refused him a second time, even after he urged me to consider the precariousness of my position as well as that of my family.” 

“A true gentleman would never dream of imposing upon a lady, that is what he has always taught me,” Georgiana shook her head, disappointment written plain as day upon her features. “And to think that I have been looking up to him for as long as I can remember, only to find that he is no better than the Wickhams of this world.” 

“You are being unjust now,” Elizabeth told her gently, reaching to cover her hand with her own. “Your brother may have been mistaken in his conduct, but he never intended to cause me any harm, and I was as willing a participant in the events of that day as he himself was. And for all that I would never wish to set a bad example for you or any other young lady of our acquaintance, I cannot bring myself to fully regret the impropriety of my own conduct, not when it has brought me the blessing of a beloved husband and daughter, and a new sister I have come to regard as my own.” 

Georgiana let herself be swept into her sister-in-law’s embrace then, and tearfully assured her that she too loved her as a sister, and could not bear the thought of a world without her precious little niece in it. Much later, when Elizabeth walked into the nursery to check upon Anne, she found Georgiana fast asleep with her head nestled on her brother’s shoulder, and there was such unbidden tenderness in Mr Darcy’s entire demeanour as he gazed upon his sister and daughter alike that it very nearly melted her heart.  

.

As conscious as Mr Darcy was of the deep affection between the two sisters, he had nevertheless spent the better part of the past month attempting to discourage Elizabeth from subjecting their young daughter to the perils and discomforts of a long journey by carriage, even under so pressing an inducement as her natural desire to lend her assistance during her sister’s first confinement. He was beginning to despair of whatever power of persuasion he might have over his wife, when it became apparent there were far more pressing reasons for her to relinquish any plan of travel for the foreseeable future.  

“Mama had sworn it would not happen, so long as I was still nursing our daughter,” Elizabeth complained in much weaker a manner than was her wont, as he dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a damp cloth before escorting her back to the bed. “How am I supposed to go through it all again so soon after Anne?” 

Once more, they had not intended for this to happen, though they had scarcely been apart since Elizabeth had expressed her wish to partake in the sort of intimacies that were expected between husband and wife. In all truth, the risks inherent to entering a confinement so soon after the first where not lost on either of them, but there was very little that could be done now, except pray for her continued health and that of the babe she felt sure she was carrying.  

Jane had to be informed, of course, though under strict instructions not to reveal their suspicions to a living soul, save for her loving husband, whose mind was so entirely occupied with his impending fatherhood there was very little risk for him to accidentally reveal their secret. As for Georgiana, she was entirely delighted at the prospect of a new nephew or niece, and promptly offered her services to take upon herself as much of Anne’s care as could be spared from her ailing mother.  

Much sooner than anticipated, news came from Netherfield that Mrs Bingley had been safely delivered of a healthy boy, whom they had chosen to name William, in honour of both his uncle and his grandfather.  

“I see my sister has done well in her duty of providing her husband with an heir,” Elizabeth commented as she put down the letter and turned her full attention to her fussing daughter. “Let us hope I shall manage to follow her example, this time.” 

Reaching for the letter, Mr Darcy shook his head, turning a very earnest gaze upon his wife and child. “As I believe I have assured you many times before, my dear, were you to provide me with nothing but daughters, I shall still be content.” 

“Think of the dowries you will be called to provide, Sir,” she jested, even as the babe latched onto her breast. “What will become of your estate, were I to follow my mother’s example?” 

“You need not concern yourself, Mrs Darcy,” he raised his eyebrow in mock haughtiness. “After all, a gentleman of ten thousand a year can more than support as many daughters as the Almighty sees fit to bless him with, and a wife besides.” 

“Not if they keep coming each of them so soon after the other,” Elizabeth sighed, though he could tell it she aimed at teasing him more than anything else. 

.

Since it was out of the question for Jane to travel to Pemberley for her sister’s confinement, and Mrs Bennet was reluctant to relinquish the care of her first grandson in favour of what she felt sure was to be yet another failed attempt on Elizabeth’s part to provide her husband with the heir that was naturally expected of her, Mr and Mrs Gardiner set out for Derbyshire in their stead, much to the Darcys’ delight.  

Mrs Gardiner was a very sensible woman, and as such, saw fit to provide her niece with a thorough explanation pertaining the ways of marital intimacies, and how a gentlewoman might go about ensuring she would not find herself in an increasing state just as often, provided that her husband was considerate enough to lend his own assistance in the matter. Such conversation proved to be uncomfortable and illuminating in equal parts, and Elizabeth gained considerable amusement in relaying the gist of it to her prim and proper husband, who could not help but blush several times over before she was done.  

“For someone who once forgot himself enough to join with a woman out of wedlock, you are entirely too easily shocked, Sir,” she teased him mercilessly, only relenting when she saw the familiar glimpse of shame spread across his features. “But I still hope you shall be willing to assist me, when the time comes for us to lie together once more.” 

“Do not speak of that, I beg of you, Elizabeth,” he all but pleaded, fingers running through his hair in an agitated manner. “I am very conscious of the trials you are about to face, believe me, but at the present moment, I have a hard enough time already in keeping myself under good regulation.” 

Elizabeth huffed impatiently, and gestured for him to resume his former place beside her on the great bed. “Did we not have this exact same conversation, barely a year ago? You need not suffer for my sake, and you must know by now how glad it makes me to be able to give you relief.” 

Mr Darcy cleared his throat, yet complied with her wishes with uncommon alacrity; it was all Elizabeth could do to keep her excessive smugness from showing on her face as she promptly reached for her husband.  

.

Charles Edward Darcy entered the world two years to the day of his sister’s conception, and with such haste as to very nearly cause a relapse of his father’s old injury to the knee. Elizabeth was left utterly exhausted by her ordeal, much more so than she had the first time around, and quickly succumbed to a fever that had the doctor and the midwife most worried about her continued survival. Mr Darcy spent three long days at his wife’s bedside, praying that her life might be spared and offering his own in exchange, a sacrifice he was most willing to make for the woman he had come to love even more dearly than he had once thought possible in all the ardency of his passion.  

On the fourth day, her fever broke, and he could no longer contain his tears of relief as she asked for their son to be brought to her. For a while, it did not look as if she would be able to nurse the child herself, much to her secret sorrow; in the end though, as her health improved, and under the kind direction of the wet nurse that had been summoned for just such an eventuality, she found that she could, after all, and her joy was complete. 

“You may write to Lady Catherine, let her know that I have not been remiss in my duties as a wife after all,” Elizabeth declared one evening as she sat with her son upon her breast, after Georgiana had come in to take Anne to bed.  

Mr Darcy all but raised a disdainful eyebrow at the mention of his aunt. “You know very well I shall not acknowledge her for as long as she persists in refusing the courtesy that is due to you as my wife. And even if I were to choose to disregard her conduct in your regards, I fear she still worries too much about the damage any association with the scandal created by our union might cause to her daughter’s prospects of marriage.” 

“Poor Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth replied with feeling, and he knew precisely how she meant it. 

As unconcerned about the loss of his aunt’s good opinion as Mr Darcy ostensibly was, the same could not be said about his father-in-law’s, who took it upon himself to descend upon Pemberley unannounced not a week later. Mr Bennet, he felt sure, had never quite forgiven him for his unpardonable offence against one whom he undoubtedly considered his favourite daughter still, despite any other reservations he might choose to harbour.  

In his great relief for his wife’s full recovery as well as the joy of being so soon granted the son and heir that was expected of a man in his position, he welcomed the older gentleman with considerably more warmth than he was wont to display before those outside his immediate circle; Elizabeth, for her part, made no secret of her present happiness, and while neither of them had any notion of it, the mutual devotion between herself and her husband could scarcely escape her father’s notion.  

A fortnight later, most of which agreeably spent within the confines of Mr Darcy’s library, Mr Bennet declared himself satisfied as to Elizabeth’s wellbeing, complimented her on producing so fine specimens of grandchildren as a man of his age could hope for, and parted with his son-in-law on much better terms than either of them had previously had reason to expect. As the carriage finally drew away Mr Darcy heaved a sigh of relief, and reaching for the walking stick he had resigned himself to make use of on occasion, took himself back upstairs to the wife and children he doted upon most fiercely. 

[jesterbenedicte]

The Last Whisper of Time

Genre: Dark Fantasy with elements of Sci-Fi and Psychological Horror Main Characters:

Elara: A time-traveling scientist driven by guilt and a quest for redemption.

Maddox: A mysterious figure who appears in different timelines, guiding and misleading in equal measure.

The Clockmaker: A reclusive old man who claims to have built the first time machine.

Eris: A young girl with an uncanny ability to foresee the consequences of altering timelines.

Chapter 1: The Echoes of Guilt

Elara stood before the time machine, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the dials. The room was dimly lit, a single, flickering bulb casting long shadows that danced on the cracked walls. It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, but today, something was different. The machine hummed, a low, almost ominous vibration that resonated deep within her bones. She had to do it. She had to go back. She had to save him.

The memory of her brother’s face, twisted in pain as the fire consumed him, was etched into her mind. She could still smell the acrid smoke, feel the heat on her skin. It was her fault. If only she hadn’t left him alone that night. If only she hadn’t been so obsessed with her research.

The machine clicked into place, and the world around her warped, colors bleeding into each other as time unraveled. She closed her eyes, clutching the small locket he had given her. This time, she thought, I’ll make it right.

Chapter 2: The Clockmaker’s Lament

The smell of oil and rust filled the air as Elara stepped into the Clockmaker’s workshop. Ancient timepieces lined the walls, each one ticking in perfect harmony, a symphony of inevitability. The old man sat at a workbench, hunched over a delicate mechanism, his gnarled fingers deftly manipulating the tiny gears.

“You’re meddling with forces you don’t understand, girl,” he muttered without looking up. “Time isn’t a straight line. It’s a web, and every thread you pull has consequences.”

Elara swallowed, her mouth dry. “I need to save him. I need to undo my mistake.”

The Clockmaker finally looked up, his eyes piercing through the gloom. “And what makes you think you have the right? What makes you think you can play God without paying the price?”

She hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. But the image of her brother, the one person who had ever truly understood her, was too strong. “I have to try.”

The Clockmaker sighed, returning to his work. “Just remember, the best compass isn’t your clock. It’s your conscience. Lose that, and you’ll be lost forever.”

Chapter 3: Maddox's Smile

The streets were empty, shrouded in a mist that clung to Elara’s skin like a second layer. She walked with purpose, the locket clutched tightly in her hand. Maddox had told her this was the way. He had appeared out of nowhere, a charming smile on his lips, promising her a way to fix everything.

But now, as she wandered through the fog, doubt began to creep in. The buildings seemed to shift, warping into grotesque shapes as if mocking her. The air grew heavy, each breath a struggle.

And then she saw him, standing at the end of the street, his figure barely visible through the haze. Maddox, with his easy grin and unsettling calmness. “You’re close now,” he called out, his voice echoing strangely. “Just a little further.”

Elara quickened her pace, desperation gnawing at her. But as she drew nearer, something in his eyes made her stop. There was something wrong about him, something that hadn’t been there before. His smile was too wide, too sharp.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Maddox tilted his head, his smile never faltering. “Does it matter? The end is the same, no matter the path.”

A chill ran down her spine. “What are you talking about?”

He stepped closer, his eyes boring into hers. “Time doesn’t care about your guilt, Elara. It only cares about balance. And every action has a cost.”

Chapter 4: Eris's Warning

Eris was waiting for her when she finally broke through the fog. The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve, yet her eyes held a depth that unnerved Elara. She sat on the steps of a crumbling building, her gaze distant, as if she were seeing something far beyond this moment.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Eris said, her voice soft, yet carrying a weight that belied her age.

Elara knelt before her, gripping her shoulders. “Please, I need to know. Can I save him? Can I fix this?”

Eris blinked, her expression unreadable. “You can change things, yes. But you won’t like what comes after.”

“What do you mean?”

The girl looked at her, truly looked at her, and for a moment, Elara saw something terrifying in those young eyes. “Time is a mirror, Elara. When you break it, you may find that what reflects back is not what you expected. Or worse, you might see something you can never unsee.”

Elara’s heart pounded in her chest. “But if I don’t do this, he’ll die!”

Eris sighed, a sound far too weary for someone so young. “Sometimes, the dead are luckier than the living.”

Chapter 5: The Final Choice

The time machine stood before her once more, its gears turning with an almost mocking slowness. Elara hesitated, her hand hovering over the controls. She could do it. She could go back, stop the fire, save her brother. But Maddox’s words, Eris’s warning, and the Clockmaker’s lament all echoed in her mind.

Time is a mirror. Every action has a cost. The best compass is your conscience.

She closed her eyes, letting the words sink in. She had been so consumed by her guilt, so determined to undo her mistake, that she had forgotten the one thing that mattered most—why she had wanted to save her brother in the first place. It wasn’t just to erase her guilt; it was because she loved him. But love wasn’t about control or perfection. It was about acceptance.

Her hand fell to her side, the locket still warm in her grasp. She knew what she had to do.

Elara stepped back from the machine, her heart heavy, but her mind clear. She wouldn’t change the past. She couldn’t. But she could honor her brother’s memory by living the life he would have wanted for her—a life not bound by regret, but guided by love.

As she turned away from the machine, the room seemed to brighten, the shadows retreating. She walked towards the door, ready to face the future, not as a prisoner of time, but as its steward.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt free.

Translation in Russian: Главные персонажи:

Элара: Путешествующая во времени ученая, движимая чувством вины и стремлением к искуплению.

Мэддокс: Таинственный персонаж, появляющийся в разных временных линиях, направляющий и сбивающий с пути в равной мере.

Часовщик: Затворник, утверждающий, что создал первую машину времени.

Эрис: Молодая девушка с необычным даром предвидеть последствия изменения временных линий.

Глава 1: Отзвуки вины

Элара стояла перед машиной времени, её пальцы дрожали, когда она настраивала циферблат. Комната была тускло освещена, единственная, мигающая лампочка отбрасывала длинные тени, танцующие на треснувших стенах. Это было не в первый раз, когда она это делала, но сегодня что-то было иначе. Машина гудела, низкий, почти зловещий вибрации отдавались глубоко внутри её костей. Она должна была это сделать. Она должна вернуться. Она должна спасти его.

Память о лице её брата, искажённом от боли, когда огонь поглощал его, была запечатлена в её сознании. Она всё ещё чувствовала запах едкого дыма, ощущала жар на коже. Это была её вина. Если бы она только не оставила его одного той ночью. Если бы она не была так одержима своими исследованиями.

Машина щёлкнула, и мир вокруг неё изменился, цвета смешались, когда время начало распутываться. Она закрыла глаза, крепко сжимая маленький медальон, который он ей подарил. На этот раз, подумала она, я всё исправлю.

Глава 2: Плач часовщика

Запах масла и ржавчины наполнял воздух, когда Элара вошла в мастерскую часовщика. Древние часы висели на стенах, каждый тикал в идеальной гармонии, создавая симфонию неизбежности. Старик сидел за верстаком, сгорбившись над деликатным механизмом, его искривленные пальцы ловко манипулировали крошечными шестернями.

«Ты играешь с силами, которые не понимаешь, девочка,» пробормотал он, не поднимая взгляда. «Время не прямая линия. Это паутина, и каждая нить, которую ты дёргаешь, имеет последствия.»

Элара сглотнула, её рот пересох. «Я должна спасти его. Я должна исправить свою ошибку.»

Часовщик наконец поднял взгляд, его глаза пронзительно смотрели из полумрака. «И что заставляет тебя думать, что у тебя есть на это право? Что заставляет тебя думать, что ты можешь играть роль Бога, не заплатив цену?»

Она колебалась, вес его слов оседал на неё. Но образ её брата, единственного человека, который когда-либо по-настоящему понимал её, был слишком силен. «Я должна попытаться.»

Часовщик вздохнул, возвращаясь к своей работе. «Просто помни, лучший компас — это не твои часы. Это твоя совесть. Потеряешь её — и ты потеряешься навсегда.»

Глава 3: Улыбка Мэддокса

Улицы были пусты, окутаны туманом, который прилипал к коже Элары, словно вторичная кожа. Она шла целеустремленно, сжимая медальон в руке. Мэддокс сказал ей, что это путь. Он появился из ниоткуда, с обаятельной улыбкой на губах, пообещав ей способ всё исправить.

Но теперь, когда она блуждала сквозь туман, сомнения начали закрадываться. Здания, казалось, меняли форму, превращаясь в гротескные фигуры, как будто насмехались над ней. Воздух стал тяжёлым, каждое дыхание давалось с трудом.

И вот она увидела его, стоящего в конце улицы, его фигура едва виднелась сквозь дымку. Мэддокс, с его лёгкой ухмылкой и тревожной спокойностью. «Ты близка теперь,» прокричал он, его голос эхом разносился странно. «Ещё чуть-чуть.»

Элара ускорила шаг, отчаяние грызло её. Но когда она подошла ближе, что-то в его глазах заставило её остановиться. В нём появилось что-то неправильное, чего раньше не было. Его улыбка была слишком широкой, слишком острой.

«Ты уверен, что это правильный путь?» спросила она, её голос дрожал.

Мэддокс склонил голову, его улыбка не угасала. «Имеет ли это значение? Конец одинаков, какой бы путь ты ни выбрала.»

Холодок пробежал по её спине. «О чём ты говоришь?»

Он шагнул ближе, его глаза впились в её. «Время не заботится о твоей вине, Элара. Оно заботится только о равновесии. И каждое действие имеет свою цену.»

Глава 4: Предупреждение Эрис

Эрис ждала её, когда она наконец прорвалась сквозь туман. Девочка не могла быть старше двенадцати, но её глаза скрывали глубину, которая тревожила Элару. Она сидела на ступеньках разрушающегося здания, её взгляд был устремлён вдаль, как будто она видела что-то гораздо дальше этого момента.

«Тебе не следовало приходить,» сказала Эрис, её голос был мягким, но в нём чувствовалась тяжесть, не соответствующая её возрасту.

Элара опустилась перед ней на колени, сжимая её плечи. «Пожалуйста, я должна знать. Могу ли я его спасти? Могу ли я всё исправить?»

Эрис моргнула, её выражение было неразгаданным. «Ты можешь изменить вещи, да. Но тебе не понравится то, что последует за этим.»

«Что ты имеешь в виду?»

Девочка посмотрела на неё, действительно посмотрела, и на мгновение Элара увидела в этих юных глазах что-то ужасающее. «Время — это зеркало, Элара. Когда ты его разбиваешь, ты можешь увидеть, что отражается назад, и это не всегда то, чего ты ожидаешь. Или хуже, ты можешь увидеть что-то, что никогда не сможешь забыть.»

Сердце Элары забилось сильнее. «Но если я этого не сделаю, он умрёт!»

Эрис вздохнула, звук слишком уставший для такой молодой. «Иногда мёртвые счастливее живых.»

Глава 5: Последний выбор

Машина времени стояла перед ней вновь, её шестерни вращались с почти насмешливой медлительностью. Элара колебалась, её рука зависла над управлением. Она могла это сделать. Она могла вернуться, остановить пожар, спасти своего брата. Но слова Мэддокса, предупреждение Эрис и ворчание часовщика все эхом звучали в её голове.

Время — это зеркало. Каждое действие имеет свою цену. Лучший компас — твоя совесть.

Она закрыла глаза, позволяя словам осесть в её сознании. Она была так поглощена своей виной, так решительно настроена исправить свою ошибку, что забыла самое главное — почему она хотела спасти своего брата в первую очередь. Дело было не только в том, чтобы стереть свою вину; она делала это из-за любви. Но любовь — это не контроль и не стремление к совершенству. Это принятие.

Её рука упала к боку, медальон всё ещё был тёплым в её руке. Она знала, что должна сделать.

Элара отошла от машины, её сердце было тяжёлым, но сознание ясным. Она не будет менять прошлое. Она не может. Но она может почтить память своего брата, живя ту жизнь, которую он бы хотел для неё — жизнь, не скованную сожалениями, а направляемую любовью.

Когда она отвернулась от машины, комната, казалось, осветилась, тени отступили. Она пошла к двери, готовая встретить будущее, не как пленница времени, но как его хранитель.

И впервые за долгое время она почувствовала себя свободной.