#writing these two has been… an experience

[ylangelegy]

unknown / nth ⭐ minghao x reader.

your boyfriend gives you a language lesson before bed.

★ minghao x translator/interpreter!reader a.k.a the lost in translation couple ★ word count: 1.9k ★ genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, conversation about mandarin (my reference). takes place post-lost in translation! not entirely necessary to have read the fic prior to this. title is from hozier's song of the same name. not proofread. ★ footnotes: minghao did a brief weibo live and i've been missing lost in translation for quite some time now, so i jammed this out really quick 🚬🦆 may write more for/about this couple in the near future, so take this as the first of many! ♡

“I think Cold Love really represents me well. It’s probably because I’m an INFJ.”

You press your palm to your mouth to stifle your laugh. Minghao doesn’t react visibly, but his hand waves at you off-camera. A wordless reminder of Be nice. 

The two of you are across the room from each other— him, perched on the couch of his hotel room, while you’re already tucked in bed. Minghao had promised his fans a quick Weibo live to discuss his most recent EP, leaving you to your own devices for the next hour or so. 

You didn’t mind. It was one of life’s simple joys, listening to your boyfriend talk. 

He spends the next thirty minutes or so discussing his creative process and answering fans’ questions. You don’t bother him, knowing you’ll have all the time in the world later to tease him for some of his remarks. Like his indignance at growing taller or his jabs at his age. 

As you busy yourself with mindlessly scrolling through your phone, you relish in the familiar sound of Minghao’s Mandarin. It’s probably your favorite version of white noise, really. The mellow tone of his voice contrasts the rapid, sharp way that he speaks. Despite being well-acquainted with the language, there are still some words that elude you. You make a mental note to ask Minghao about them later. 

Less than an hour has passed before you hear Minghao beginning to wind down. “Good luck on all of your exams. To the people working, keep working hard! Make lots of money,” he says hurriedly. “And good luck with love, too. I hope you all find someone who loves you back so you can experience all sorts of feelings.” 

He’s never been the type to drag out his goodbyes, so you’re not surprised when— after a final heart sign and wave to the camera— Minghao is finally clocking out of his live. 

Immediately, he slumps back onto the couch like the whole thing had drained him. Sure, lives weren’t necessarily one-sided, but he did have to hard carry when it came to the talking part of the affair. You flash him a sympathetic smile as you sit up in bed. 

“Done, xīngān?” you call out. 

Minghao doesn’t respond right away. You don’t hold it against him. He sometimes needed a moment, needed a minute or two to pull himself together. 

After staring at the ceiling for what feels like forever, Minghao lets out a shuddering exhale. “Done,” he responds, and he’s moving before you can register it. 

He gets to his feet and crosses the room in a few, quick strides. Once he gets to the bed, he wastes no time in reaching for you. His knees sink in the mattress; his hands dart out. 

You let out a slight squeal when Minghao tugs you into him. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding very sorry at all. This had been a premeditated act. You can tell in the way his arms immediately snake around your waist. 

You let out a defeated sigh against his chest, but make no move to pull away. “Tired?” you ask, your hands resting on the small of his back as you return his embrace. 

He hums a quiet ‘mhm’. “I’m not built for this anymore, xīngān,” he whines. 

The two of you know that’s a bold-faced lie. Still, you indulge your sulking boyfriend lest he begin to pout even harder. “My poor baby,” you coo, running your hands up and down Minghao’s back in a show of comforting him. “Gonna blame it on being an introvert?” 

“Shut up.” 

You let out a small laugh. You can’t see it, but you swear you can feel the curve of Minghao’s smile as he presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head. 

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a moment of comfortable silence. “It means a lot.” 

A part of you wants to insist that it’s nothing. It’s not every day that you can steal away to his hotel room, though. In between your own work of interpreting for the boys and working on subtitles for videos, there’s also the added layer of keeping your relationship on the down low. 

Tonight, Minghao had just tried to asked. Texted a couple of hours ago that he wanted to see you. And you could never really deny him anything, not even on your best days. 

“Anything for you,” you respond as you stroke the short hair at his nape. 

Minghao buries his face in the crook of your neck, his smiling mouth warm as he mumbles against your skin. “Don’t give me that much power,” he warns. “I’ll abuse it.” 

You chuckle. “I don’t doubt that.” 

The two of you lapse into another bout of quiet. This had always been your way, even back when the two of you were friends: Comfortable silences, unspoken agreements. Your new relationship had only given you two the carte blanche to be a little more touchy during your shared moments of peace. 

You’re fairly sure that Minghao has fallen asleep when he speaks up again. “How do you think I did?”

“With the live?” 

“No, with cuddling. Yes, with the live.” 

“Ask nicely.”

“Please?” 

You put Minghao out of his misery by returning his earlier gesture— leaving a quick kiss, this time to the line of his jaw. “Stellar as usual,” you reassure him. “I didn’t pick up on everything, though.” 

“That’s new.” Minghao shifts around on the bed until he can prop himself up on one elbow. He rests his chin in his hand but doesn’t stray too far. He stays hovering over you, his free arm remaining around your waist. 

He goes on to goad, “Your Mandarin must be getting rusty.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “How can it be rusty,” you retort, slipping into the language as if to prove a point. “When you’re always insisting that we use it?” 

No matter how many times that you speak to him in his mother tongue, Minghao always seems momentarily startled. The surprise always fades into affection, evident in the fond way that he gazes down at you. 

He matches your code switch without missing a beat. “I’ve told you, haven’t I? I love it when you speak Mandarin,” he says, punctuating his words with a quick pinch to your side. 

You swat his hand; he giggles down at you.

“Which parts did you miss out on?” he asks. 

It takes you a moment to recall the terms and phrases you’d wanted to question him about. “撒娇?” you ask, the unfamiliar word sounding almost hesitant on your tongue. Sājiāo.

A thoughtful ‘ahhh’ escapes Minghao. “Think of it like aegyo,” he offers delicately. “It’s— often in the setting of a relationship. Acting cute to be endearing.” 

“Like when you gripe about me not responding fast enough.” 

“Examples aren’t necessary,” he says wryly. “But, yes. Like that.” 

You flash Minghao a grin before snuggling a little closer to him, entangling your legs. The added touch makes his expression softens in the way it only ever does when it’s you. 

“Anything else?” he prompts. 

It’s not everyday that Minghao gets to play the ‘teacher’ role in your relationship. In the beginning, you had been his Korean tutor. In the longer run, you had helped him translate and transpose words that he couldn’t reach. Every so often, you would run to him for some Mandarin help, and you could tell that he relished in the shift in dynamic. 

The thought pushes you to keep asking, even though the words are inconsequential. “You used the term 暖男,” you note. “What was that one?” 

“Nuǎnnán,” he echoes, correcting your intonation. You repeat the word as he said it, and he gives a small smile of approval.

“It’s our version of ‘nice guy’,” he explains. “But it’s rooted a lot in culture. A nuǎnnán is a man who can be considered inherently warm-hearted in an otherwise patriarchal society. And no—” Minghao’s tone takes on a more chiding quality when he sees you about to interrupt. “Do not try to call me a nuǎnnán.” 

You jut out your lower lip slightly. “Why not?” 

The arm that Minghao had around your waist rises, just enough so he can tap the tip of your scrunched nose. “Don’t pull out sājiāo on me,” he scolds. 

It’s not necessary for you to act cute. Your boyfriend would be endeared by you either way. 

You chuckle at being caught, and Minghao’s sternness mellows. “One last.” You hold up a finger as you try to nail the phrase that had first caught your attention. “裸婚?” 

There’s a flicker of surprise on Minghao’s expression. “That was from a fan making a joke,” he warns before repeating the word himself. “Luǒhūn translates to— hear me out, okay?— ‘naked marriage’.” 

The sight of your raised eyebrow draws a sharp laugh from Minghao. “It’s another one of those cultural things,” he says. 

When he doesn’t add onto his words, you shoot him an incredulous look. 

“What?” he asks with feigned innocence.

“That’s it?” you prod. “You’re not going to explain what ‘naked marriage’ means?” 

“You have access to the internet, don’t you?” 

“Xīngān.” 

“That’s me.” 

At Minghao’s continued evasion, you merely huff and give up. It’s getting late, anyway, and he has to be up early in the morning for sound check. Come tomorrow, you’ll have to slip away before anyone can come looking for either of you. The boys aren’t privy to your relationship yet, and God forbid any of the other staff find out.

“Fine,” you say, unable to resist the urge to just be a little haughty. “Let’s go to sleep.” 

Minghao is undeterred by your contempt. If anything, it only makes him smile a little wider, gives him an excuse to pull you into his chest. He goes to cradle the back of your head, his fingers playing with the strands of your hair. 

You lean into his touch, burying your face into the front of his shirt. There it is again. Those few, precious moments where the two of you can just bask in each other’s presence. 

The silence stretches on this time. You’re properly drowsy by the time Minghao speaks up, his words quiet as he mumbles them against your shoulder. 

“No house, no car, no fancy ring,” he murmurs, his tone contemplative and sleepy. “Luǒhūn.” 

“A naked marriage,” you respond mid-yawn. 

“Mhm.”

“Nothing but love.” 

“You got it.” 

The conversation feels like it’s teetering on the verge of something consequential, something of value. But with the two of you already halfway asleep in each other's arms, there’s not much you can do besides exchange some light pecks and mumbled words.

“I think I’d want at least a house before getting married,” you say. “Or, like, an apartment.”

“What, you wouldn’t live out on the streets with me?” he teases lowly. 

Your eyes flutter close. “You would have to convince me,” you shoot back. 

Minghao responds with a lingering kiss to your forehead. 

“How long will it take to convince you?” 

It’s a little too early in your relationship for the topic of marriage to be seriously brought up. It’s fun to dream about, though. To talk about in hushed tones, to toy with in Minghao’s mother tongue. 

To imagine a time where this might be your every night— falling asleep in each other’s arms. 

“Might take you years and years,” you answer, a giggle rising from the back of your throat. 

Minghao’s arms shake as he laughs. His lips stay on your head, almost like he can’t bear to peel away from you for a minute too long. 

“I don’t mind,” he says as the two of you begin to succumb to sleep. 

The last thing you hear is his affectionate, soft promise of, “I’ll start working on convincing you, xīngān.” 

[goaskangel]

sukuna's split tongue!

a/n...he does not have a split tongue from what i kno but it's lowk so cannon don't tell me otherwise. been thinking about this for SUCH A LONG TIMMMEEE AAAUGHH let me kno if you guys want more, also it's true form suku which is his best form, i'll always write about his true form

sukuna didn’t realize his split tongue would be such a problem for you. he’s told you about body modifications and their importance for him as a king, but the one thing you couldn’t quite grasp was his snake appearance. 

his inked body and stretched ears were attractive on their own, hell, even his large four arms and mouth-adorned abdomen were no problem. his spying, god-like eyes and a large muscle split in two constantly fidgeting in his mouth sent you to daydream. 

not like he ever asked you what you were into, he enjoyed his experimenting. using this new found weakness to his advantage. feeling and seeing how pliant you get from a little bit of domination. kissing you gently on your soft skin and softer lips, going as far as telling you what you liked. 

“mm you like that.” he gently sneers when his cut tongue slithers into your welcoming mouth. you nod desperately during your high. holding onto his body and digging fingernails into him as two muscles danced and twirled around your own weak one. when you finally pull away, you stare hazily at the long sticky connection of your mixed spit from your lips to his. you moan gently when his tongue comes out to lick and break the bond. pretty pinks snatching the link away. 

it’s no good when it’s just intimate loving. lying comfortably across his lap as he coos at you, his strong, tatted arms helping as a rest for your head. you feel a creeping heat rise to your cheeks as he takes your right arm and kisses pecks on the skin. such a big monster, so soft when he gets to you. his lips are gentle and doting as they get closer to your much smaller fingers. pouted mouth dropping into an ‘o’ when his pecks turn sloppier. his tongue coming out to lick and curl around your fingertips. you squirm at the impact and shut your legs, unable to look away from the tight grip one of his hands now has on the back of your head. and because your eyes just need to see, not just feel how his stupidly large tongue wraps around your finger completely. smearing down hastily to lick at your palm. 

as if it couldn’t get any better. the first time he goes down to kiss your pretty cunt, you almost come from just watching his teasing tongue drool above your achy clit. his arms hold your legs still as he leans in to messily french-kiss the hood of your bud, groaning into your folds. his toothy canines bumping against your slick. you buck your hips up to chase the heat in your lower stomach as his split-heaven gropes your swollen slit. the feeling so different so good, you can’t help but cry out as he starts to fuck your glossy hole. reaching so deep and massaging your own inner heat. your legs shake and tremble from the effect and your orgasm lasts for what seems like forever. “very good.” he says, tonguing soothing circles on your stimulated cunt. slowly sliding up your body with thick saliva being licked down onto you. between your breasts and up your neck. you gasp when he goes down to pucker wet kisses onto your pebbled nipples. through your drunk vision, you watch him unravel his ropes. let’s see how well you do with two tongues and two cocks.!

[transformers-spike]

Helloo, I'm wondering if you can do a sh comfort with any character from tfp plz :3

From the ☣️ annon

Went for Starscream because I know his brand of comfort is... questionable but entertaining to write - also (sfw)

You’re in trouble. Big fucking trouble. You can stay in your little lab all you want, fiddling with genetic samples with the grace of a high schooler dissecting a frog, lacking your usual precision. Yes, you got yourself into it. No, your past self refuses to apologize to the current you. And while you may understand what pushed the old you to make this decision a week ago, personal growth isn’t going to do shit after the stunt you’ve pulled. Starscream is your abductor, yes, but he’s also your “guardian” so to speak; the Decepticon responsible for your continued wellbeing. This has not stopped him from threatening your life back when you were being “rescued” from your old job, but there’s no use dwelling on it. The point is, there’s a degree of mutual trust between the two of you. In exchange for a wide variety of resources and access to actual alien technology, you’ve been hard at work handling projects he’s tossed your way. You pride yourself in it, because who wouldn’t after spending decades perfecting their craft? Or getting into a ludicrous amount of student debt… Your stint with the government was, admittedly, your lowest point; MK-Ultra 2.0 type experiments you only agreed to as a morally and financially bankrupt newcomer with a grudge against society as a whole after working half a decade in retail. To say you regret it is to put it lightly. At the very least the Decepticons are honest about their intentions, no “protecting the people” rhetoric; if they’re going to cyberform the Earth then you’ll be there with your bucket of popcorn watching it all unfold. Although, past you wasn’t quite as eager. Guilt racked your brain, tormented you well into the night, reminded you every waking moment you could only be an instrument in someone else’s plan, a pawn that would unquestionably follow its master even if it meant digging its own grave. Yes, you’re doing better now (you think), and you were concealing the secret just fine until you misjudged the boiling point of an experimental concoction and got a face-full of glass. It could have been worse, you had shielded yourself with your arms, earning only a couple scars on your face (and a frightening amount on your arms). That’s when Knock Out came in. Oh Knock Out. You cunt . Of course he was being too kind; it wasn’t from the chunks of glass he was removing with a pair of forceps, nor the tears of pain running down your face (you honestly expected him to go “Ew” and toss a blanket over your head so he wouldn’t have to look). It’s because he had seen the week-old cut along your arm. He didn’t make a fuss, didn’t point it out, didn’t so much as pause while treating you. Oh no – he sent you a message first thing in the morning informing you he relayed the extra detail to Starscream and sent you the Cybertronian equivalent of a shrug emoji. Your first reaction was to threaten his life through text, which he responded to with an eyeroll.

This leaves you here, waiting at your post, counting down the seconds to doomsday, hands shaking cursing yourself for spilling the (thankfully non-corrosive) substance down the beaker. You try to seem casual when the door opens up. You try to steady your breathing when you feel his footsteps. You try to put down the beaker and greet him – which drops and shatters. Staring down at your work, mouth agape, you don’t have the strength to look him in the optic after three major blunders in under 24 hours. Although it’s hard to avoid his gaze when he commands your attention with his presence alone. “Hey,” you say, sweating profusely. “Nice day we’re having. Out here in space, I mean.” His expression is one of exasperated frustration. “Oh don’t patronize me.” He scoops you up like a naughty kitten, glaring daggers at you. “Show me,” he orders. You cradle your arm to your chest. “But, Knock Out bandaged it yesterday-” “Are you trying to waste my time?” You hang your head low and undo the wrappings at a snail’s pace, desperately stalling, praying for anything to intervene and pull Starscream away so you can scramble under your desk and hyperventilate in peace. But your boss doesn’t have time to waste. He groans dramatically before plucking your arm and tearing through the bandages in one clean cut of his talon. “I swear it’s not that bad,” you say, the antithesis of convincing, cringing inside as he observes the scars in eerie silence. The expression he wears is unreadable. His optics drag from your arm to your face. You swallow. “It’s just a scratch-” “No,” he cuts you off, voice bursting with anger. “Do you take me for a fool?” “Wait I didn’t mean it that way-” “Shut up.” He glowers down at you, claws tightening around your arm. “I will remind you, human, that you are an investment . And I won’t have my investments break of their own volition. So tell me,” he drags you closer, sending a sudden burst of pain which you dare not show, “ why would you do it?”

“I… I don’t… I don’t know how to explain,” you whisper. He scoffs and rolls his optics. “Is it so difficult to collaborate? If you won’t tell me, then I can’t help you.” The words ring in your ears. You go weak in the knees. “Help me?” you echo, incredulity heavy on your tongue. He flashes you a look of utter confusion. “What? Did you think I would punish you? Oh, please , it’s not my modus operandi. I have a more refined manner of supervising my subordinates compared to… I’m sure you can guess whom. Now stop wasting my time, and tell me why .”

“Uh… it’s a long story,” you babble, still reeling from his words. “Then shorten it, I don’t have all cycle.”

“I’ve been plagued with some… pretty horrendous thoughts at night, among,” you vaguely gesture at your makeshift lab, “the stress of deadlines.” He contemplates you, arching an optical ridge. It feels… strangely human compared to the apathetic stares of your old bosses. You’re a number here just the same, except it will be significantly more difficult to replace you. “I can’t change the deadlines,” he starts in an oddly soft tone, scrutinizing your reaction. “However, I can procure the proper medication to avoid another incident. .” You flash him a bewildered look. “Antidepressants?” you ask incredulously. “I was referring to something along the lines of ambien or adderall.” He releases your arm and taps his chin. “Perhaps both considering your current state.”

“Oh…” You blink. “I didn’t expect you to know this much about human pharmaceuticals.”

He scoffs again, putting an offended servo to his chassis. “Unlike us, you humans are exceptionally fragile, mentally and physiologically. I had anticipated some manner of a breakdown, although not this severe.” “So am I forgiven?” you ask, a mild attempt at sarcasm to clear the ambiance. It earns you a glare. “No,” he declares unsurprisingly. “I will be confiscating the hazardous materials.” You cock an eyebrow and point at the glass vials behind you, two of which are very obviously missing from the rack (and one whose pieces are mostly dislodged from your arm). He ex-vents loudly, slapping a servo to his face. “I was referring to the sharp instruments in your possession.” His voice is muffled. “Fair enough,” you say. “And B09F will be dispensing your medication.” “A bit excessive. But sure.” He scowls at you between his digits. He seems… terribly overworked. Cybertronians don’t have eyebags, but you swear there are dark lines under his optics. You clear your throat and avoid eye contact. “Thank you. I appreciate it quite a bit. You’re much better than my previous employer.” Said previous employer orchestrate your kidnapping and made you work towards humanity’s downfall with a blaster to your head. This, you leave out completely. He freezes for a split second. Slowly, he removes his servo to contemplate you better. “Odd,” he remarks. “I thought humanity would treat you better as one of their own.” A smile spreads across his face. “No matter. At least someone can appreciate the effort I put into running a tight ship.” You return his smile in spades. “I’m sure I’m not the only one.” “Flattery won’t work on me,” he scoffs. A moment passes by. He opens up an optic like a dog waiting to be pet. “Well?” he urges. “Uh… I’m sure others admire you just as much as I? You’re… the best commander on the ship? You’re the most competent person I know?... You’re a better father than my dad ever was?” His optics snap open. “Are you comparing me to your genetic progenitor?” “To an extent? In the sense that you’re a better mentor and guardian than mine ever was.”

He squints at you. “You humans are terrible towards your own kind. Although I suppose I should accept your compliment.” His wings flick in a show of… begrudging content. “Now, take the rest of the day off.” You beam up at him. “With the condition you’re bound to your quarters.” You look down in disappointment. “Fine, you can roam around the perimeter as long as B09F chaperons you.” “Sure thing dad,” you say in an attempt at humor. He furrows his optical ridge. “If you start calling me "daddy" I'm tossing you out the airlock.”

[majestyeverlasting]

𝐬𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐬 | 𝐣𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

Pairing Joel Miller x Daughter Reader

Summary For years, you’ve survived tethered to Joel’s side, haunted by the loss of your sister and scared to step outside of his shadow. So when he bonds with the girl he’s tasked to smuggle, it strains your complicated relationship—until the threat of losing him forces you to confront just how much he means to you [angst, fluff, 5.4k].

A/N This is some of my favorite prose I've written recently. Daughter!reader is a new dynamic for me, but it was such a rewarding writing experience. Thank you to the anon who sent this request in. I hope you all enjoy.

∘°∘♡∘°∘

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆

It’s cold outside today. If the draft sneaking in through the windows isn’t enough to let on, the sky itself is an undeniable sign. There’s no blue, no clouds that can be distinguished from the next. The entire expanse is a pale white sheet. As if the heavens have decided to shield earth from its view because of how far it’s fallen. 

Nevertheless, life in the Boston Quarantine Zone labors on. Day after soulless day, rain or shine. Like a well-oiled machine who’s battered parts of flesh and blood refuse to lay down and die. 

The glass of the living room window is cool against your forehead as you gaze outside. Everything is dull. Brick, metal, concrete, and endless earthtones constitute the expanse of buildings that seemingly stretch for miles. However, after having explored every corner of this walled city, you know it’s finite. A mere portion of a much larger world trying to find its footing again. 

The people walking on the sidewalks below look small from the height of your apartment. All seeming to move on a droning autopilot, clad in worn clothes that likely belonged to ten other people before them. 

With a sigh, you step away from the window and plop back down on the couch. The coffee table is cluttered with stained, old papers and trinkets, but you reach for the stack of Polaroids you’d previously been flipping through. Each photo and caption transports you back to a past moment in time...

tea for two ♡ March 13, 2003 

A day that seems closer than it actually is, now confined to a single, glossy frame. The white border has faded to beige and the picture itself no longer bears its original saturation. In it, you and Sarah are wrapped in each other’s arms, dressed like princesses for the tea party you invited her to. 

You were her three-year-old shadow, and even though you got on her nerves half the time, she found it hard to say no to you. Everybody in the Miller household did. 

lake day!!! July 4, 2003 

A sunny day. You, Sarah, and Joel are squinting into the light but smiling, your backs to the lake. Later that night, according to Joel’s retelling, you cried because of the colorful, celebratory explosions bursting amid the night sky. 

dad’s getting old (jk ily dad) September 26, 2003

Joel’s smile is shy as he sits at the kitchen table with a cone birthday hat on his head. Sarah was the one behind the lens while you clung to her leg, both you and Tommy making goofy faces in hopes of making Joel smile wider. 

He turned thirty-six that day. By that evening, everything had changed. Not just because of the outbreak, but because Sarah, who had been a light in so many of the photos, was gone too. A few months after her fourteenth birthday, no less. 

It feels strange being twenty-three now. An age she never got to see—

The faint metallic clinking of a belt being fastened prompts you to curiously stand to your feet. After setting down the photos, you saunter to the hallway, where there’s a straight view to Joel’s bedroom. The door is cracked, and warm lamplight pours out to light the end of the hall. With each step closer you take, the old, wooden floorboards creak. 

When you make it to the door, you rap your knuckles against it a few soft times. There’s shuffling on the other side. 

You knock again when there’s no response. “Dad?” 

“What’s up?” he doesn’t say it in a clipped, annoyed way so you know he hadn’t heard your previous knocking. 

“Can I come?” 

He’s quiet for a beat. “I’m finishing up getting dressed. But yeah.”

Inside, the bed still isn’t made. He’s standing in front of the full body mirror leaning against the wall. The paint of the gold trim around it is peeling, revealing the dark aluminum beneath. The glass itself is a bit foggy with stubborn grime that refuses to be scrubbed away. And right in the middle, at the same height that Joel stands, is a sizable spiderweb crack that makes his face look fragmented unless he bends down or shifts to either the left or right. 

Right now, he doesn’t seem to mind the distortion of his face, more interested in assessing his clothes. When you step up behind him, a little to the right, your entire body looks whole. Face and all. 

His eyes briefly flick to you as he continues to button the rest of his olive colored shirt. When he’s finished, he sucks in his stomach and pulls up the waistband of his dark jeans to rest at a more comfortable place on his hips. 

It isn’t until then that you notice a small portion of the back of his shirt is flipped up, the fabric thick enough to hold its place. You reach out to smooth it down. Joel hums in realization. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles. 

“Yep,” you murmur. “I thought you were off today.” 

Turning around and brushing past you, he sits in the accent chair to put on his boots. A grunt escapes him with the effort of leaning down. You watch as his thick, battered fingers fumble with the laces until they produce two neat bows. He sits back with a sigh when he’s done, running a hand through his fluffy, silvering hair. 

“I’m meeting with Marlene,” he says. The way you frown tells him that’s not a good thing, or nearly enough information. “Tess will be there too. It’s looking like we might be able to get that car battery we need to set out for Tommy.” 

You process that information with a slow nod. The idea of finding him feels elusive these days. 

A few weeks ago, Marlene told Joel she knew a couple guys who could provide resources. At various points in the months prior, she claimed the very same thing. Every promise she made fell flat because those said contacts either died or backed out of the negotiation. Yet, Joel held out hope every time. 

It used to be you who accompanied him whenever he went to meet with Marlene, but it’d gotten to the point where you couldn’t bring yourself to believe her or stand seeing her face. 

But Joel still did. For the sake of his own conscience. For Tommy. 

After standing from the chair, he fishes into his back pocket for a red cardstock meal card. When you reach out to take it from him, he doesn’t let go, instead opting to look directly into your eyes. 

“Want you to meet us for lunch at the northern dining commons at noon. We should be done by then,” he says, waiting for you to nod so he knows you’re tracking. 

“Don’t leave before then, alright? It’s getting crazier out there. Don’t know if it’s ‘cause summer’s coming or what.” 

“I won’t,” you insist. 

When you try to take the card again, he holds onto it just for the sake of coaxing a smile out of you. It doesn’t quite meet your eyes, but it’s enough to tie him over for now. He lets go of it just as you’re in the middle of pulling, and the lack of resistance makes you stumble backwards. The sound of amusement he huffs out earns him a light punch to the shoulder. 

“I mean it, though.” He points a finger. “Don’t leave till it’s time, alright? We’ll fill you in on everything then.” 

Rolling your eyes, you follow him back out into the living room. “I already said I wouldn’t.” 

“Well, reiterating is my job.” 

Those are the words he leaves you with before heading out the door.  

A few hours later, when the clock strikes twelve, you’re eating at the dining commons alone. Anxiousness prickles beneath your skin. You soothe yourself as chatter and the clinking of silverware float up all around you…

Everything’s fine. Joel’s alright. Tess is alright. Just finish eating and go home. 

•••

Sunset paints the sky that evening. The clouds that lingered all day have finally made way for an expressionist ombre of blue, pink, and orange. It's beautiful in a way that would’ve been worth photographing once upon a time. 

All you can think about is the fact that Joel hasn’t returned. 

A little past seven, voices arise in the hallway. They’re hushed and somewhat frustrated, one of them undeniably belonging to Joel. By the time keys hastily begin jingling in the door, you’re popping to your feet from the couch. A second later, it swings open with enough force that it hits the neighboring wall. 

“Get inside,” Joel orders. You can’t see him from where you’re standing. 

You can’t see anybody. 

“I don’t have to keep listening to you,” quips a tight, youthful voice. “Whatever happened to stranger danger?”  

“Move, Ellie,” Joel says. “Before I make you.” 

A young girl wearing a backpack trudges into the apartment with a scowl. After looking around the bleak accommodation, her eyes settle on you. The air falls silent. You note the wispy flyaways escaping her short ponytail, the slight redness to her eyes like she’s been either crying or rubbing them. 

Ellie sizes you up in return. You can see it in the calculated rove of her dark gaze, the way she squares her shoulder to match your guardedness. 

She eventually whips her attention back to Joel. “Who the hell is she?” 

“Told you I didn’t live alone.” That’s all he gives her before redirecting his attention to you. He seldom reveals the entirety of what he’s feeling in a given moment, but you can see the guilt weighing down on his shoulders. “I—” 

“You missed lunch.” 

He runs a heavy hand down his face. “I know.” 

The girl looks between the two of you with owl-like attentiveness that borders on amusement. At least she wasn’t the only one having a shitty day. Outside, shouting voices arise in the distance. Glass bottles break. 

“Dad. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Ellie’s eyes widen at the revelation. 

Joel doesn’t say anything because you’re staring daggers straight into his very being.  

“I’m immune to the virus,” she speaks up. There’s a hint of pride in her tone, like she’s looking past the present to some undefined future in which she saves the world.  

“He’s gonna take me to the people who can find the cure. Then you guys are gonna go find Timmy or whatever—Tommy.”  

It’s an oversimplification, but Joel doesn’t have the energy to expound right now. Not when you look like you would lunge for him if it wasn’t for the girl.

••• 

Later that night, he sees the first shove coming. Your eyes darken until you’re no longer able to constrain your frustration to a mere look. It frustrates you all the more when he doesn’t budge. So you do it again, pushing both your hands straight into his chest. 

All he does is take a single step backwards to create distance, hands raised in surrender. The fact that he isn’t reacting makes more heat consume your face. 

Until, finally, he grabs your wrists. 

“Are you done acting like a child?” he asks.

“As soon as you quit treating me like one,” you bark. “All you do is give orders and break promises, and I’m supposed to keep following you around like a dog.” 

“I don’t see any shackles.”

“Because it’s you,” you retort, attempting to pull away from his light hold. “You’re the shackles, the prison guard, and the key.” 

Those words make him drop your wrists as if you’ve stung him with poison. He takes a seat on the edge of his bed and drops his head into his hands with a heavy sigh. The mattress creaks under his weight. In the new silence, you stand and stare at him as your breaths even out. 

Neither of you are aware that Ellie has her ear pressed to the other side of the bedroom door, listening. 

When he lifts his head, only then are you aware of how tired and worn down he looks. His hair is more disheveled than it was this morning. The same hair you used to playfully run your fingers through and litter with sparkly hair clips. Except now, his face is void of a smile. 

“I’m sorry about lunch, alright?” His dark eyes search yours for any inkling of forgiveness. He knows he scared you. That’s what’s beneath your anger. “I didn’t know I was gonna get held up like that.” 

Joel Miller was a lot of things, but a pushover wasn’t one of them. 

If he really wanted to, he could’ve at least come to the dining commons to explain. Or ignore Marlene’s request entirely, and force her to find someone else to smuggle the girl. Even Tess had refused to involve herself in the escape plan because she feared it would be all risk and no reward.

“What happens if these guys turn out to be dead too?” You ask Joel, voice softer than before. “What if this is yet another exchange that falls through?” 

He knows you have a point. He also knows he has a brother out there miles away who recently sent him a signal. 

“If there’s a chance, I gotta take it,” he says. “And if we get out there and nobody’s waiting for us, we’re heading to Wyoming anyway.” He meets your gaze. 

You swallow and blink in surprise. “Really?” 

“I’m done waiting around for the right time,” he says, voice low but firm. “It’s never gonna come. Gotta forge it ourselves.” 

He sounds sure. Right now, you could use something to believe in. And if nothing else, a change of scenery from the city walls you’ve been confined within for far too long. 

•••

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑

𝐈.

The Capitol Building is empty when you arrive, no sight of the men who were supposed to take Ellie and give you and Joel the supplies you need to carry on. For a while, the three of you linger hopefully on the inside, where grass grows through the chipped marble floors. The only people who eventually arrive are ridden with the virus, their rotting bodies infested with fungus from the inside out. 

You promptly flee the scene after swallowing disappointment like a pill. 

𝐈𝐈.

The front door of Bill and Frank’s house is unlocked when you arrive in the desolate suburbia. Dead grass and tall weeds constitute the yard. The flower beds out front have long wilted. That’s enough for you to know that they’re either dead or gone. Joel pushes into the house anyway, with you and Ellie trailing behind. Bill left a note behind. They’re dead. Ellie asks questions about them that Joel thoughtfully answers.

The three of you take turns showering, then leave.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

By early August, the trio feels more like a unit, having been bound together by shared letdowns and long nights under the stars. Some days, you don’t know where you are until coming across specific landmarks or recognizable cliffs. You and Joel teach Ellie how to shoot because she wouldn’t stop begging. Most days, as you’re making progress towards Wyoming, it’s the two of you trailing behind Joel, who often shoots unreadable glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re keeping up. 

Sometimes he lets down his walls to offer a small smile. 

•••

𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋

All around, tall trees stretch towards the sky, bearing vibrant leaves beginning to change colors. Every so often, a breeze rolls through and ruffles them. The same mourning dove has been calling out into the wind with no response in return. It’s a tune that filled the mornings of your childhood back when you were on the road to Boston with Joel. You hadn’t heard it much since. 

Twigs and leaves crunch beneath your boots as you squat to lower your fingertips into the creek. The water is cool against your skin, and clear enough to see the rocks at the bottom. When you stand up, you startle at the sight of Ellie standing a few yards away. She takes a few apologetic steps back, almost tripping over herself. 

Further away, Joel sits with his back propped against a tree as he reorganizes the contents of his backpack. 

“Jesus, El,” you sigh, pressing a hand to your chest over your heart. 

Ellie no longer seems sure of her reason for approaching you. There were times when she didn’t look her age—whether it be her stare or the way she carried herself—but this wasn’t one. Now, an air of self-consciousness surrounds her, like she’s caught between knowing nothing and everything all at once. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me,” she rushes out. There’s a pang of guilt when you realize she thinks you’re angry. 

“No, it’s fine,” you insist, softening your tone. “I’ve just been in my head.” 

She nods and feels more comfortable to step up alongside you. 

“I’ve seen those pictures you’ve been looking at.” She continues when you don’t say anything, “Was that your sister?” 

Neither you or Joel have brought her up, but your silence is an answer. 

“What was she like?” 

“I don’t remember much.” 

Only bits and pieces. The larger gaps have been filled in by Joel over the years. He never talks about Sarah at length, but sometimes he’ll see something or you’ll make an expression that reminds him of her. That usually prompted him to tell a short story. Oftentimes, without meeting your eyes because he was too busy trying to busy his restless hands. Talking about her always makes him fidget. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.” 

Ignoring her, you ask, “Did Joel say when we were gonna start back hiking?” 

Embarrassed, Ellie clears her throat and shakes her head no. “Why do you use his first name like that?” You almost hadn’t realized. 

“Force of habit.” Her brows have furrowed in confusion, so you explain, “Half the time, people in the QZ only listened to me when I threw his name in the mix. It holds a lot of weight among certain groups these days.” 

“Like he’s the boogeyman or something?”

You allow a small chuckle to escape at her words. She feels like it earns her a place back in your good graces. Pride glimmers in the grin that stretches across her face. 

“Something like that,” you agree. 

The familiar crunch of leaves rises as Joel makes the short venture over to the two of you. When he sees the fleeting smiles on your faces, he clears his throat and waits to see if he’ll be invited into whatever small moment of amusement had arisen. He seems to have just missed it. 

“Speaking of the devil,” Ellie says, 

Joel frowns, remaining quiet as he walks up to the edge of the creek. He stares into the bottom for a few thoughtful seconds. Both of you watch as he squats down to splash his face with water, humming with refreshment. 

Ellie no sooner moves to copy him. She laughs, a bubbly surprised sound, as she stands with her face dripping and eyes squeezed shut.

“Wait, how do I—” 

“Use your shirt,” Joel quips lightly. 

“Oh, yeah!” She uses her shirt to dry her eyes just as he had.

The chuckle that rumbles through Joel’s chest is a sound you haven’t heard in a while. It makes you stand up straighter, unconsciously shifting his way as if the sound has the power to heal that part of you that misses him even when he’s within reach. Misses how things were before he grew hard and consumed with the need to survive. 

You didn’t fault him for it, though. 

What’s become increasingly clear, however, is that need was born as much out of spite as it was out of the pure, unadulterated will to live. The end of the world took Sarah, and to Joel, ensuring the two of you endured no matter what was his fuck you to the universe. His proof that everything he cared about couldn’t be ripped from his hands. It was a muddled labor of love. 

But right here, right now, he’s laughing. Not urging silence or trying to instill a survival lesson. He’s letting the moment wash over him for what it is. There you stand watching the two of them like a mere onlooker frozen in place. The entire scene is reminiscent of a different time. A different Joel. 

Something heavy and bitter settles in your stomach at the sight of their twin smiles. 

“Are you gonna try it?” Ellie asks like she’s referring to some grand experience.

“It’s just water,” you say flatly. 

Face falling, Ellie looks to the ground as if the bridge connecting you two had been burned yet again. Something protective flares in Joel’s chest. 

He gives you a pointed look. “You feelin’ alright?” 

“I’m great. Grand even.” 

The air shifts, levity disappearing like a vapor. All three of you can feel it.

“Let’s keep moving then.”

For weeks, you keep it moving. Through rain, shine, and snow. The closer you get to Wyoming, the further away you drift from Ellie and Joel. Like you’re the corner piece of an island that’s been chipped away from the larger landmass. 

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑

Arriving at the Jackson commune does little to mend things back to the way they were. Some days pass by with more conversation and laughter between the three of you than others. Coming here had been the very thing you longed for, right alongside Joel. But tonight, as you fold clothes at the secondhand store where you volunteer, you wonder what there is to dream about now. 

You don’t know what you like or want. You were so young when the outbreak began that Joel’s practices and motivations became your own. You don’t know where he ends and you begin, and the inability to distinguish makes a part of you resent him. 

The bells above the door jingle as Ellie enters with her backpack slung over her shoulder. Half of her hair is pulled into a ponytail, while the other falls in loose waves just past her shoulders. For once, it looks like she brushed it properly. 

You see more of her than Joel these days. 

“Hey, I’m gonna go over to Dina’s,” she says as she pads over to you. “Joel’s not home yet so I figured I’d come tell you.” She absentmindedly runs her hand over the cashmere sweater you’d folded minutes prior to her arrival. 

You set down the pair of jeans you just finished folding. “He’s not?” 

“No,” she says, unphased. “Probably went straight to the dining hall.” 

A dull, gnawing sense of worry arises in your chest. Ellie can’t see it or feel it herself, still tending to believe Joel was somehow invincible. That every time he went out for patrol, he was bound to return because that’s what he’d proven to her so far. 

“Be safe, okay?” you tell her. “Thanks for letting me know.” 

When she leaves, you head to the store owner in the back room. He’s rummaging through a huge box of donated items. 

“Hey, Stewart?”

There’s a click as two glasses knock into one another. “Goddammit—what?” He straightens up to turn around and face you. 

He has a head full of wiry gray hair and his glasses are crooked on his nose. There’s a light sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. 

“You alright back here?” you tease lightly. He grumbles and waves you off. “Would it be okay if I clocked out early? Natalie and Craig are out there, so you’ll still have help until closing.” It’s been pretty slow this evening anyways. No chance a random rush would occur. 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you want, kid.” He huffs and looks back down at the box. “I’ll see you on Thursday.” 

“You’re the best, Stew.” You flash him a playful smile. 

Outside, you shiver at how cold it’s grown. Crossing your arms over your chest does little to alleviate the creeping chill. The first snow of the season has yet to fall, but you can feel it lingering in the crisp air. Nevertheless, Jackson Hole is buzzing. People of all ages flit in and out of shops and gathering spaces. Everywhere you look, there’s a friendly face, if not an actual friend. 

This time of year, the entire commune is reminiscent of those cute Christmas village displays. Plush wreaths with red bows hang on wooden posts, and colorful fairy lights shine all around. The most activity buzzes over at the dining hall. Families talk and laugh on the benches outside, and you can see people walking around inside through the windows. 

As you head that way, the two men standing on the patrol office porch capture your attention. It was probable that Joel was inside either logging or assessing his hours. 

When you make it to the building, you recognize the taller man as Cameron, someone who often partnered with Joel because they had the same, collected, no-nonsense way about them. They automatically nod to you in greeting, but their lips are set in firm lines like they have news you don’t. 

You offer a shaky smile back as a lump forms in your throat, “Evening.” 

Your heart rate speeds up as Cameron opens the door for you. Inside, six men stand circled around Tommy, who’s tone is firm as he talks with his hands. Some have rifles slung over their shoulders, and others have pistols on their hips. Standing among the group is Lyle, a younger guy who was scheduled to be Joel’s partner today. 

The only person missing is Joel. 

You allow your eyes to rove over the plaques, portraits, and retired weaponry decorating the walls as you await the end of Tommy’s lecture.  

“Let what happened out there today be a lesson—” Tommy stops talking when his eyes fall on you, and other heads turn to look your way. A few throats are cleared, necks are scratched. 

“Hold on a second, fellas.” He breaks out of the circle and heads towards you, cowboy boots clunking against the wood floorboards. There’s a rifle draped across his body like he’s ready for action. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to gather what this meeting is all about. Everybody has discretely turned to look at the two of you. 

“Tommy…” 

“Why don’t we step outside for a second, yeah?” He places a gentle hand at the small of your back to guide you back out into the cold. Cameron and his buddy slip inside out of respect for your privacy. 

“What’s going on, Tommy?” 

He wrestles with how to answer. You see it in his dark eyes, the way he shifts his stance. His cheeks are a bit flushed. 

“Joel hasn’t made it back,” he breathes. “Lyle made it in without him around an hour ago. Said they ran into some disgruntled nomads and got split up,” he says. “Got a few people out looking for him now, and I’m about to go out myself.” 

How foolish you’ve been acting these past several weeks hits you all at once. Everything from purposely distancing yourself from Joel, to occasionally ignoring him whenever he tried to ask how you’ve been—you’d made a point to be away from the house as much as possible. Most of all, it’d been foolish to pretend he wasn’t one of the only people in the world you wouldn’t be able to live without.

A stinging sensation pricks in your eyes, but no tears form. You don’t have it in you to cry. Helplessness crashes down on you in the form of frustration. 

“What do you mean came back without him?” you ask. “What good are patrol partners if they’re just gonna leave you behind—” 

“Hey. Hey.” Tommy looks at you intently. His eyes are so much like Joel’s that you look away. “This ain’t the time to be pointing fingers, alright? When you’re out there like that and shit hits the fan, you don’t know how you’ll react.” 

“Definitely not by leaving my partner behind.” 

Joel had never left you behind. Things had gone sideways time after time again, but you managed to remain by each other’s side. 

Worry radiates off of you in waves. 

“I’m worried out my ass too,” Tommy admits, trying to assure you. “But judging other people ain’t gonna bring him back any faster,” he says. 

When release a heavy exhale and slink your head down, Tommy steps forwards to wrap his arms around you. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he promises. “You eaten dinner yet?” 

“I’ll probably throw up if I do.” 

He pulls away to look at you under the soft glow of the porchlight. “Let’s at least try to get a little something in your system, okay? I’ll walk you over to the dining hall.” Tommy guides you that way, and everything around you seems to fade in and out as you walk. 

Tommy’s words manage to break through to you, “I know my brother. He’ll make it back one way or another,” 

He always did. Maybe a bite to eat didn’t sound so bad. 

•••

The unyielding weight of your nerves forces sleep to find you when you make it home. Not in your bed, but on the couch as you sit and wait for Joel’s return. Worrying has taken a lot out of you. 

Creaky footsteps arise out on the porch. Then the lock clicks. Neither of which you register. By the time Joel is walking in through the front door, your eyes flutter open. There’s a slight sway to his stride like he’s favoring one leg. Other than that, he’s still in one piece. You’re on your feet in an instant, ignoring the crick in your neck. 

“Oh my god, Dad—thank god.” 

Joel stops in his tracks as you hurry over to him. He lets you look him over as if he’s a child who just fell off a bike. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” there’s a rasp to his voice.  

Relief is written all over your face. It’s the most interest you’ve shown in him in weeks, but he’s grateful for it anyways. He’s grateful for any mind you’re willing to pay him. 

There’s so much you want to say—I thought I lost you, don’t scare me like that again, I love you—but none of it comes out. Instead, it’s all packed into the way you step forward to throw your arms around him. 

But even hugging him brings you close enough. 

Luckily, he’s so tall and broad that you settle for the feeling of being safe, cocooned in his arms. He squeezes you, not in the playful way that used to be a means of making you smile, but in a way that solidifies his presence. Assures you that he’s never going to let go. That you don’t have to worry about living without him.

As your tears wet his shirt, he doesn’t ease up or pull away. He remains constant like he’s been throughout your entire life, even on the days you thought you wanted him to disappear. 

He presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head and you’re overcome with warmth.  

“I love you to pieces,” his voice is low and thick with sincerity. “So much it hurts.” 

It’s you who reluctantly pulls away to look up into his eyes. 

“I love you too,” you murmur, cheeks glistening with tears. 

The tears gathered in his eyes finally spill over. He doesn't turn away or tilt his head back in an attempt to fend them off. They simply roll down his cheeks at your words. You can’t recall seeing him cry since Sarah passed away. Guilt, sympathy, and gratitude swell in your chest. For the years he’s been strong for the both of you, for everyone who’s ever leaned on him in a time of need. He never made it look hard. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” 

“As long as you’re safe, I can handle being ignored.” He manages a small, sad smile. “It ain’t easy growing up during the end of the world.” Few things ever were. 

“It’s a little easier with you.” 

“Just a little?” He asks lightly. 

Both your smiles grow, and as you step back into his arms, every gripe and the the chaotic events of the evening fade away.

- 

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. I promise I see them all. 

MORE

[ohtobeleah]

Was It Over? // Jake Seresin

-> Chapter Thirteen: [Panic Room]

Summary: Jakes darkest fears come to fruition when surgery doesn’t go as planned and the months to come bring a new reality he never saw coming.

Warnings: MAIN CHARACTER DEATH Sick!reader. Breast cancer diagnosis. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Angst, hospital & medical inaccuracies. SLOW BURN ROMANCE/ Inaccurate medical information. Relationship turmoil. Mentions of religion.

Word Count: 5.5k

Author Note: A big show of appreciation and love to @a-reader-and-a-writer (Vee) for constantly being ready and willing to help me with my writing. You have been the backbone I needed to get this done!

You guys will never know how much this series means to me. And in the same breath, you guys will never know how much your support truly means. Merry Christmas Eve Eve 2024 ya filthy animals.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Researchers say the average length of a dream is two to three minutes long. But many people experience their dreams as hours, days, or even years if they can remember them at all. 

The science of dreaming has been questioned for hundreds of years. Some hypothesise that dreams are our way of processing real events that occur when we’re awake. They also serve as an outlet for repressed hopes and desires. Neuroscientists introduce a new theory every few years. But honestly, no one knows why we dream. 

Or why we have nightmares. We just hope that after the dream, we wake up. 

“We’ve gone over all the risks, weighed up all the possible outcomes, dotted I’s and crossed T’s. Today is the day, Mrs. Seresin.” Doctor Morrison was hopeful in his consultation. The white coat-wearing man reassured you as he placed your chart back where it belonged. “How are you feeling?” 

The question went unanswered for a moment or two. You felt like you were in a state of shock. Unable to truly express how you felt just hours before going into what could be life-changing surgery. You were giving everyone in the room a thousand-yard stare. Mentally and physically, you had checked out. Like you’d been stuck in a nightmare that wouldn’t stop torturing you. 

“We had some bad news last night. A close friend passed away unexpectedly,” Jake answered on your behalf. “Is there any way–” 

“We need to do this now, Mr. Seresin, or we won’t be able to revisit this for a few months,” Dr. Morrison explained with an emphasis on the matter of now or never. “I understand personal circumstances may have changed. However, knowing everything you know about risk and recovery and survival rates after double mastectomies, I recommend we stick to the organised care plan.” 

“Can we have a moment alone?” Jake asked cautiously as his hand came to rest gently on your shoulder. You hadn’t moved from what could only be described as a catatonic-like state for the entire duration of the conversation. 

“Of course,” Dr. Morrison nodded. “I’ll come back after I’ve checked in on a few patients.” 

It didn’t take long at all for the oncology crew to exit the room. But the second they did, you felt like you could breathe again. 

“I can’t go through with this surgery Jake,” you begged. Fear of the unknown had taken over your entire being. “I can’t do this,” 

“You are the strongest person I know, honey, the kids and I really need you to do this.” Jake tried his best to comfort you as well as remind you why this surgery was so important. “We need you, yeah? We need you to stick around and this fucking cancer, this disease, is trying to cut that time short.” 

“But Jensen–” 

At the height of the Great Depression, Harvard scientists started tracking students in hopes of discovering the key to a long and happy life. They looked at participants’ mental and physical health over seventy-five years. It’s the longest study of happiness to date. Seventy-five years and all they did was confirm what we’ve known since the beginning of time. 

The most powerful predictor of health and happiness is the quality of our relationships. 

Strong relationships protect us. Loneliness on the other hand…can be deadly. 

“Would want you to keep fighting and have this surgery.” Jake could have said he thought Jensen was a coward. He could have said how angry he was at that fucker for leaving you alone in this world with no one to confide in who knew the struggle, who knew the feeling of being told you’re sick and need to get sicker in order to get better. 

Jake could have told you how he wished Jensen had survived so he could kill him himself. Jake could have responded with the fact Jensen was terminal and there was nothing on this earth that could have saved him from his illness. 

Jake could have told you that Jensen thought you hung the stars and the moon in the night sky every night just for him…but then Jake would also have to admit to himself and you that maybe, just maybe, you should have moved on. 

“What would he say right now if he was here?” Jake settled on that question just to keep himself sane. He didn’t want to open yet another can of worms right before your surgery. This was all one big giant nightmare already, he didn’t want to make it worse. If anything, Jake kept pinching himself in secret just hoping that maybe he’d wake up on the couch and this cancer saga would all be some sadistic subconscious dream of his. 

He’d always been deathly afraid of not being good enough for you. 

“He’d tell me to do it,” you sighed as you let your head rest against the upright bed. “He’d tell me to be strategic about the battle, the war is the endgame.” 

“Exactly, one battle at a time, step by step,” Jake agreed with a cheeky smile. That signature Seresin smile you so effortlessly loved. “You’re not gonna hand in the white flag before the battles even really begins, are you?” 

“Kinda want to if I’m being completely honest with you,” you responded knowing Jake would appreciate the honesty. “But I guess you and the kids really need me to stick around, huh?” 

“Oh, I can’t even begin to explain how much we need you to stick around, honeybee.” it was as honest and as sincere as Jake could be. He wore his heart on his sleeve for you. He exposed every nerve he had just so you could dance your feather-like fingers across the tender strings that made Jake, Jake. 

“I’m so scared of being alone in the operating room,” you admitted as Jake leaned in to leave a gentle kiss on your forehead. “I’m so scared they won’t see me as a person,” It was an explanation that broke Jake’s heart even though he believed his heart couldn’t be broken any more. “That they won’t remember I’m me, that I have a life and a family and people who will miss me.” 

Over the course of our lives, our relationships ebb and flow. We get together, break up, move away, or fall out of touch. It’s prolonged periods of loneliness and toxicity that wreak havoc on our health, our brain function, and our longevity. 

“You’re never alone,” Jake replied softly as tears threatened to spill over his waterline. “I’m always with you, the kids are always with you, Jensen, your mum, everyone will be with you during that surgery, we’re gonna be waiting on the other side.” 

“I love you so much, Jake Seresin,” you smiled brightly through a tight-lipped smile Jake wished he could save in his mind’s eye forever. “Let’s win this battle.” 

“And the war too,” Jake replied as he reached for your hand, gave it a soft squeeze, and brought your palm to his lips. “Let’s fucking do this, Y/n.” 

*************************************

Jake sat waiting by the vending machine as he picked at the small single service-sized packet of original Lays he’d nearly had to beg the machine to drop. His watch told him it was almost nearing the end of your surgery. He wasn't stressed, not when your surgeon had been so hopeful and calming. Jake had spent far too much of his time recently worrying about the what-ifs. He wanted to focus on the now. And that now was the fact you would have been nearing the end of your surgery. Which meant soon enough he’d get to see you again. 

The only thing that kept Jake on his toes was the ever-looming doubt that perhaps the treatment plan wouldn't be enough. He hoped that you had enough fight in you to make it through the journey. He needed you to have enough strength to fight. 

“She should be coming out of surgery soon–” Jake explained as he held his phone up to his ear and tried not to chew so loud. “The kids know that Rooster is picking them up to bring them home to Grandma Maz’s house?” 

“Yeah, Mum’s not too happy about it but she won't keal over about it,” Jasmine replied as she watched her brother's kids play with hers in the backyard she and Jake used to make mud pies in. “Rooster messaged about an hour ago saying he was close, he shouldn't be too far away now.” Jas continued in her own little world. Jake was used to not being able to get a word in with his youngest sister. “I can't believe Y/n has fucking cancer–does her side of the family have a history or…?” 

“Not that we know of, it's just really bad luck, Jas,” Jake sighed as he let his head fall back against the wall his chair was pressed up against. “But hopefully with this surgery and the chemo, she’ll be able to beat it.” 

“Well, you tell her that I’m pissed she gets a boob job before I do,” Jasmine tried her best to keep the situation as light-hearted as possible. “Make sure she gets a good rack, not too small or too big, like a good handful that's just right.” 

“I'll be sure to let her know,” Jake smiled, he really could count on his sister for that. “Oh, I gotta go, I see Y/n’s surgeon.” Jake sat up in anticipation as anxiety flooded his nervous system. “Tell the kids we love them for me.” 

“Have been every day,” Jasmine replied quickly knowing her brother probably had his phone down from his ear by now. “Bye.” 

Jake was quick to pocket his phone and wipe the crumbs from his shirt as he stood to greet your surgeon. However, something seemed off about the man who had seemed so confident before your surgery. 

“Mr. Seresin–” 

“How is she?” Jake asked. He didn't mean to interrupt, but he needed to know first and foremost before any medical mumbo jumbo. “My wife, how’d the surgery go?” 

There was a very telling pause that accompanied the sober look that Doctor Morrison wore, but Jake tried not to read into it all that much. He knew you would be fine. 

Right? 

“Mr Seresin, your wife's heart was weakened by the stress of her recent stroke,” Doctor Morrison began to explain as Jake stood there expecting good news. “She, unfortunately, went into a cardiac arrest–” the air around Jake disappeared. Almost instantly, he felt as if he were floating in space. “We tried to revive her for the better half of twenty minutes while she was on the table,” There was a pause. A telling moment where reality and fantasy were trying to battle it out. Who’s version of events would win? When Doctor Morrison saw Jake’s mind short-circling with an inability to process the magnitude of information, he felt as if he needed to continue explaining the severity of the situation. 

“It was catastrophic, and I'm afraid we've lost her.” Doctor Morrison had told far too many loved ones over the years that they had lost family members, but never in all his years had he ever seen such immediate denial written in the lines on someone's face. “Mr. Seresin, your wife has died.” The words Doctor Morrison was saying were not sinking in as Jake stood there completely blind to the reality happening around him. “I’m so sorry for your loss–” 

“Uh–” Jake frowned as the confusion kicked in. “I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. My wife was fine before she went in for surgery, she was fine.” 

“Yes, yes, your wife was fine, yes–” Doctor Morrison tried to keep his composure, but even after all these years the losses still hurt. It made him feel human to experience the emotions alongside the family members, but in the first few seconds of watching Jake Seresin spiral into a hole of denial that you were, in fact, gone, Doctor Morrison, knew this particular loss would haunt him for the rest of his career. 

Speaking slowly, Doctor Morisson tried once more to explain what had happened in a way that Jake would understand. “The stress of the surgery along with her recent stroke…her body just couldn't handle the stress. Her heart experienced a cardiac episode and we unfortunately couldn’t revive her.” 

The immediate silence between the two men was all-consuming as it was telling. Jake’s heart was breaking in two. 

“Is there someone I can call for you?” Doctor Morrison tried to be as empathetic as he could be, this part of the job was never easy. The part where he was tasked with telling loved ones that the people they loved had passed on his table. They were few and far between, but the people he did lose would forever haunt him. He could name every single one and their family’s name too. Jake Seresin would be a name Doctor Morrison would remember for the rest of his life and into the next. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Jake pushed back almost immediately as he tried to wrap his head around what he was being told. This didn’t make any sense, you were just here. You were fine. 

“No, Mr. Seresin I–” Doctor Morrison tried to explain again, but it was to no avail.

“I–Okay, I think you must be mistaken,” Jake wiped his hand on his jeans as he stepped back. “I just need to ge–”

“Mr. Seresin, please.” Doctor Morrison tried to stop Jake from leaving the waiting area, but Jake just stepped further back with a frown of disgust and grief. He was still holding his packet of Lays. 

“No, no can you just, can you back up?” Jake nearly growled. “Can you leave me alone?” Jake looked around as he tried to remember how to breathe. People were staring at him like he was in a zoo. A caged and cornered animal begging to be left alone. “Can somebody get this person to just give me some space please?” It was as heartbreaking as it was cruel to watch Jake walk down the hall towards where he knew your hospital room was. 

“Y/n?” He called out hoping you'd be back by now. “You won’t believe this guy, honey. He just–” The moment Jake rounded the corner and saw your hospital room empty with no sign of you, he stood still. All the air had been sucked right from his lungs as his eyes scanned the room. Your Christmas lights weren’t flashing, your bed wasn't made, and your laptop sat open with a black screen, but just where you’d left it. You weren't back. 

“Y/n?” Jake whispered under his breath as his eyes continued to scan the empty hospital room just waiting for you to appear from out of the bathroom or sneak up behind him. But Jake knew you weren't about to appear even though he wished for nothing more. 

“Oh–” One step, two steps, three steps, four. Jake didn't know where he was but he was on the move. He couldn't stay here looking at an empty room. He had to find where you were. “Oh god, no, no no no no no, please no don’t take her away from me.” 

“Jake!” The woman's voice Jake had come to know over the last few days broke through the fog that was clouding Jake's mind. He continued to stumble blindly down the ward. “I just heard,” Lydia explained as she rushed up to the man who she had come to know as your husband. “I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting this to happen. I thought–” Lydia quickly reacted when Jake's knees buckled underneath him. 

“Woah! I need a little help over here!” Doctor Morrison was quick on the draw as he made his way over to where Jake now kneeled on the floor unable to breathe. 

“My wife–” Jake tried to talk as he hyperventilated. “Y/n!” he cried out for all to hear. “Y/N!” 

“She's gone.” Doctor Morrison had to make sure the fact was sinking in. 

“Oh Jake, I’m so sorry–” Lydia tried to console the six-foot-something man who had crumbled to his knees. “Your wife was an amazing woman.” 

Jake still couldn't believe it, he didn't believe it, and he wouldn't. The pain he felt inside his chest, the burning hot sensation was excruciating. He’d never felt such a feeling of grief mixed with denial and so much love. You couldn’t be gone. He was having a nightmare, wasn’t he? This wasn't real. He was dreaming. This was all one big dream. It had to be. It had to be a nightmare his subconscious had concocted. A nightmare where Jake lost it all. His biggest fears were realised. 

“I need my wife, I need Y/n,” Jake sobbed as Lydia kneeled on the ground in front of him just assessing his current state of shock. “I can't, she can't–no no no she's fine, please tell me she's fine.” 

“I'm so sorry, Jake,” Lydia confirmed what Jake wished so desperately wasn’t true. “She’s gone,” Lydia’s voice became distorted as she held the broken man in her arms. “You need to wake up before it's too late.” 

************************

Bradley Bradshaw was accustomed to losing the people he loved the most in this world. He’d lost his father, his mother, and his grandparents. For a while there he’d lost the only man who had ever slightly filled the shoes his dad left behind. But the loss of someone who was still there was something he’d never had to handle before. 

“Nat, he hasn’t gotten out of bed in days,” Bradley groaned as he cleaned up the kitchen. “The kids already lost their mother,” Bradley tried his best to keep his voice down, but the way little Lennox clocked Bradley from where he was sitting at the dining table made him realise he wasn’t one to talk on the quiet side. “They don’t need to lose their dad too.”

Jake stood just outside of Bradley’s eyeline, but he could hear everything the giant overgrown bird was saying. He couldn’t hear what Phoenix was saying but there was enough back and forth on Bradley’s behalf to easily fill in the gaps. 

“No. No, he hasn’t been down since the funeral.” Jake forgot how to exhale at the mere mention of your funeral as he hid in the hall. He couldn’t remember ever getting ready or speaking at your wake. He couldn’t remember who drove them or if the kids cried. He couldn’t remember hugging your mother or shaking your brother’s hand. Jake couldn’t remember any details about the flowers he’d organised or the people who were there. 

The anti-depressants weren’t helping. Nothing was. Nothing would. 

Until today, Jake couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. Without you, there was no point. He was begrudgingly okay with living a life in a world where you were still in it. But living in a world where you were no longer present wasn’t something Jake was willing to do. The kids would be fine with their grandparents. They’d be fine with Uncle Rooster. Lennox and Lucy and little Sammy didn’t need him. How was he supposed to look into their eyes and know he could never see the twinkle in yours ever again? 

“I’m really worried about him, Nat,” Rooster sighed as he held his phone up to his ear with his shoulder. He was working on making little Samy some banana pancakes. “As much as I want to, I can’t stay here forever, but he needs someone.” 

“No one is asking you to babysit me, Bradshaw,” Jake replied to the statement Bradley wasn’t expecting an answer to. “You can leave, trust me, I can drop the kids off with my mum.” 

Bradley stood stunned into silence as he watched Jake round the corner and into vision. He reluctantly reached for his phone and hung up as Phoenix questioned what was going on. 

“Hey man,” Rooster finally broke the silence as he watched Jake walk closer and closer to where Sammy sat in his high chair. “How you feeling today?” 

“Well, my wife’s still dead, so that’s something,” Jake replied with a sigh as he picked up Sammy and placed him on his lap. Lennox could see the look of pure admiration in his younger brother’s eyes as Jake hugged the smallest of the Seresin kids. “Seriously, you’ve done enough for us, I got it from here.” It was the biggest lie Jake had ever tried to tell not only himself but his best friend. 

“Uh,” Bradley wasn’t convinced. “Are you sure? I mean–I wanna stay as long as you need man,” Bradley tried to plead his case as Jake went about his business with Sammy. The business being nothing. Jake stood somewhat dazed and lost in the middle of the clean-ish kitchen. A kitchen he knew where nothing was. It wasn’t his. It was yours. 

“I think the kids should come back to North Island with me,” Jake opted to ignore what Bradley was saying. Instead, he decided to continue with a vague plan for what the future holds. A future he didn’t want to have with you. A future he didn’t care about. 

“You want the kids to uproot everything they know?” Rooster frowned as he looked over to where Lenny sat watching on. The kids were down, to say the least. Bradley could recognise himself in the permanent pout that had taken shape across Lennox’s face. The puffy eyes and saddened expression really tied the whole look of mourning together. They were just kids, they didn’t deserve any of this. “I don’t think you should be thinking about coming back to work anything soon either.” 

“I don’t need you micromanaging me,” Jake hissed as he held onto his youngest son, all the while his eldest watched on with concern for his dad. “I need you to go home, Rooster, we’ve got it from here.” 

“You don’t got anything, Seresin. Are you kidding me right now?” Bradley didn’t mean to come across as so defensive. But he’d seen Jake in this grief-fueled spiral long enough to know that his destructive and depressive mindset would end up causing more distress for the kids than intended. Jake was a good dad, that had never been questioned. Until now… Bradley wasn’t sure if his best friend could handle parenting three small children without a village to back him up. “The kids haven’t seen you in days–” 

“Would you rather them see me at my worst or not see me at all?” Jake’s grief was eating away at him. So much so that Jake began to wish each time he closed his eyes he’d get to stay with the version of you his mind had envisioned. “I’m fine, I’ve got it from here,” Jake sighed as he hugged little Sammy with all the strength that he had. “I wasn’t, but I’m fine now and I just wanna spend time with the kids.” 

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying right now man,” Bradley replied as he caught sight of Lucy coming down the hall. She’d been sleeping much like her father was. Great, all three Seresin children were present for their father’s impending breakdown. 

“Get the fuck out of my house, Bradshaw.” This hadn’t been the first confrontation Jake and Bradley had gotten into while Bradley had been staying in Rhode Island as the Seresin kid’s personal live-in nanny. And it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It was becoming an almost everyday occurrence. The only difference this time was the kids were here to witness it. “I don’t need you here–”

“You aren’t thinking straight, just–how about the kids and I go for a walk or something and you sort yourself out? Have a shower? Shave? Drink something other than alcohol for–” Before Rooster could finish his sentence, Jake was placing Sam on the kitchen floor with a haste that didn’t sit right with Rooster. Lennox was the first to move from his chair. He was the spitting image of his father. 

“I don’t fucking care, Rooster!” Jake shouted at the top of his lungs. So loud and with such rage that the veins in his neck were popping as his skin turned a nice shade of ruby red. He took fast strides across the kitchen until Jake was standing toe to toe with his best friend. The very friend who’d been taking care of his children since before your passing. “I have to live the rest of my fucking live without the woman I love, so, cut me some godman slack before I knock your smug ass head from your shoulders.” 

Bradley didn’t move. He didn’t retaliate. He watched over Jake’s shoulder how his three children all cowered on the kitchen floor, scared of how their father yelled. Jake was oblivious to his surroundings. He couldn’t see the kids were struggling too. 

“Jake?” Bradley sighed as he placed his hands on either side of Jake’s face. “When the fuck are you gonna get through all this?” Braley asked softly as he remained calm. “When are you gonna wake up?” 

“Wake up?” Jake repeated as he pulled his face from his best friend's grip. “Wake up? Bradshaw, I died with my wife! There is no waking up from any of this!” 

“Maybe–” Bradley shrugged as he walked over to where the kids had been huddled together. It was only as Jake followed Bradley’s trajectory that he realised how much he’d scared his children. Something he never wanted to do. “There's always hope though.” 

“Kids,” Jake sighed as his tears began to fall. He dropped to his knees right then and there in the kitchen he wasn't familiar with. In a house that was now cold and dark without your constant radiating light to keep it warm and bright. “Guys, I'm sorry, huh–Dad didn't mean to raise his voice, he’s just–” Before Jake could finish his sentence, little Lennox was finishing his father’s sentence for him. 

“You’re just sick, dad.” 

“What?” Jake frowned as the kids made their way over to where Jake was kneeling on the tiles. 

“I said you’re just sad, Dad,” Lennox replied once more as he gave his dad a hug. “We’ll take care of you.” 

************************

December 31st 

Jake Seresin tried his best to hide the wet tears that fell down his cheeks as he sat with his kids on the lounge of the home that he had tried his best to keep as tidy as he could. There was a lot of uncertainty, a lot of frustration, a lot of fear and unbelievable sadness that surrounded Jake and your three small children. The unknown was truly tragic, terrifying and treacherous, but Jake wasn’t about to let his kids see the way he so desperately wanted to cry. 

Things had changed since Jake fell mind, body and soul into an unimaginably deep hole of depression. So much so that days had become to feel like one long dream. A paradox of grief and manic love. Your mother had told Jake to feel every ounce of emotion he had locked away. Maz had told him that grief was just someone’s residual love with nowhere else to go. 

Once Jake was able to understand that the pain of losing you was his love for you, he understood why it hurt so deeply on a cellular level. He understood why it hurt to look at the children he’d created with you. He understood why the kids had wanted to sit and open the small, still-wrapped Christmas present Lenny had found in Jake’s bag when he was looking for his dad’s wallet. 

Because it was one of the last things you ever gifted someone. It was one of your last acts on earth. 

“What did Mum get you for Christmas, Daddy?” Jake held the small present in the palm of his hand, the present he had yet to open. The present he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It felt like something he’d held before, the weight felt all too familiar. It haunted him the more he carried it around, held it in the palm of his hand and contemplated the inevitable. 

“I dunno buddy, you reckon I should open it?” Jake asked as he kissed his son's head. “S’not Christmas anymore.” The Naval Aviator had recently shaved his head, it had been the closest to a number one he’d ever had. It was in solidarity, union. A decision he made in the blink of an eye but one he did not regent or ever would. 

“We haven’t taken the tree down yet,” Lucy added her two cents into the conversation as she laid her head on her father’s thigh. “Mum would be upset if you didn’t open it, Dad.” Jake knew that much was true, you probably would be pretty bent out of shape if he never opened it. 

“Alright, I’d better open it then huh?” Jake shook the small perfectly wrapped box he could hold in the palm of his hand. He heard what sounded like a rock rattle inside. His heart nearly exploded inside his chest. 

Fuck….Jake knew what it was and he really didn’t want to open it. 

“Hey, Dad?” Lucy’s voice sounded completely different to anything Jake had ever heard before. She was looking right at him yet her eyes were trained on something one hundred miles away. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Jake replied just as he was about to open the present you’d given him before his life was turned upside down. 

“You need to wake up now,” Lucy’s voice sounded familiar, but it wasn’t her own. “You’ve had enough time here,” 

“What are you talking about Lu?” Jake frowned as he looked at his daughter. An extension of himself and you. “Lucy? Are you feeling okay?” 

“You’ll be a good dad soon,” Lucy smiled as she unwrapped the small ring box in Jake’s hand. The ring box that held what Jake assumed to be your engagement ring. But as little Lucy opened the wrapping, a blinding light burst through the cracks. A light so bright it forced Jake to squint. 

“Please wake up, honey,” Jake heard your voice clear as day as Lucy opened the ring box to send a piercing white light into the living room. Jake was completely captured by the light around him. So much so the entire room was drowned in a light so pure it was crystal clear. He couldn’t see a single thing beyond the all-encompassing white. 

“Please wake up for us,” again your voice was the only thing Jake could hear in the void he found himself in. 

“Y/n?” Jake called out into the void around him. He could feel his ribcage breaking like he couldn't breathe. Every breath he took was agony. “Hello?” Yet he could hear your voice. A voice he longed for. A voice he had to get back to. Jake had to get to you. 

“I’m here, you’re alright,” Jake once again heard your angelic siren song. His head began to throb. The feeling was agonising. Like there was no more room for swelling. 

“Where are you?” Jake called out as he stumbled in the light. The smell of burning flesh mixed with jet fuel overcame Jake’s senses. His need to get to you was more powerful than the deep bone ache he could feel in his legs. There was nothing on earth or beyond that would stop Jake from getting to wherever the hell you were calling him from. His entire body ached with a pain so unimaginable it sent him to his knees. Crawling, Jake cried out for you just one more time. 

“Y/n!?” Jake called out once more in a desperate attempt to find you in the void. “Kids?” 

“Here he comes,” Bradley’s voice echoed out as Jake looked up towards where he assumed the sky would be. The glare was too much. Jake placed his forearms over his forehead to soften the brightness. “Come on Hangman, don't leave us out to dry.” 

Some people spend their whole lives trying to make a dream come true. They set a goal and make a plan on how to achieve it. It works for some people. But for others, it’s not so easy. As hard as they work toward the dream, it can feel like the whole world has plotted against them. 

As someone gets further and further away from the dream, people begin to cling to any sign of hope. And the longer it takes and the more it costs…you start to consider whether you should give up. Do you find a new dream? Or do you stick to the one that started you on this journey in the first place? 

For Jake, things weren’t as black and white. 

As Jake closed his eyes and took one painful last breath in, he felt as if he’d fallen from cloud nine. When he opened his eyes, the light was still there….But he wasn’t.

Jake’s eyelids fluttered, the faintest hint of light creeping through the haze of his mind. He tried to move, but his body felt foreign as if it wasn’t entirely his own. The weight of unconsciousness clung to him, reluctant to release its hold. Slowly, he became aware of the sounds around him—

“Jake, It’s me, can you hear me?”

**********************

Tags: @blindedbythelightt @starset21 @tayl0rhuynh @marvelogic @itsmytimetoodream

@maverick-wingman @kodzukenmaaa @eternalsams @seitmai @nota-professional

@jessicab1991 @hardballoonlove @senawashere @withahappyrefrain @dizzybee03 @maisie-rebloging-blog

@a-reader-and-a-writer @sunlightmurdock @shelbycillian @memoriesat30 @accioprocrastination

@the-aspiring-fanfic-writer @athenabarnes @eternallyvenus @emma8895eb @kmc1989 @avengersgirllorianna

[twst-drabbles]

Jade and Jamil 1

Summary: You wake up to the scent of food and go to the dining room. A feast awaits you, but it was made by the hands of Jade and Jamil, who broke into your dorm that you know you've locked up tight.

(Ugh, the writing slump is powerful during the winter... Anyways, have this yandere piece. It's rather tame compared to the other's I've wrote, so no warnings to be had beyond the general trespassing and all that.)

Jade's food tickles the curious part of you, the one that tends to indulge in morbid ideas and sights. Jamil, on the other hand, strikes right at the heart of comfort, with food made to take hold of your longing for home with their rich and familiar scents.

Unfortunately, when these different styles of dishes have been stuffed onto your table, it created a sickening experience. The clash of scents and colors kind of ruined your rather lax morning.

You didn't even let Jade and Jamil in here in the first place. You just wanted to sleep in until noon, get a small snack or something before going right back to bed until it was shower time.

"Why," you wanted to lift your shirt over your nose, "are you here? I didn't invite any of you."

"Ah, well, my apologizes for that," Jade took the initiative, as he was the only one not distracted with perfectly arranging the dishes on the table, "I've heard tell from a ghost or two that you haven't been eating as well as you could have. And since I know you to laze about well past the point of starvation, I've decided to let myself in and make a little something for you," he presented his side of the table, mushroom and fish dishes aplenty, all clearly experimental in nature, "all I ask in return is your enjoyment."

You more than suspect that half of these dishes are from his childhood. Much of it was raw, and those that are cooked were probably heated by a volcanic vent. You're more than sure that Jade has recipes that resemble the food on land but intentionally chose not to use them. Either way, it's a tossup as to whether it will agree with you or not, though there is not doubt that it would be an interesting flavor.

"Don't listen to him, I saw him pick the lock on the front door," Jamil, clearly irritated by Jade's audacity, popped his head from out the kitchen with utensils at hand, "Though I do have to agree with your eating habits. I know you skip breakfast and lately you've been passing up on lunch as well. If the problem is the food, then I'm more than sure I can solve that problem."

While Jade and Jamil didn't make eye contact with one another, the tension in their bodies was very clear to your eyes. And while the food in front of you was calling to you to pounce on it, you turned towards Jade and Jamil.

"Get out." There's no way you're eating in front of them.

Jade's spine stiffened and Jamil nearly tripped over air. But, as per usual, they were both quick to recover as if nothing happened at all.

Jade placed a hand on his chest, eyes thinning to a glare at Jamil. "Ah, I understand. Do you want me to escort Jamil out, then?"

Jamil gave a single laugh and returned that glare with a well mannered stare. "I'm very sure the Prefect meant you. You were the one that picked that lock, after all. I'm here to make sure you don't do anything funny."

Of course, of course. Meander about, pretend to mishear your words until you give up and let one of them stay, hoping that you learn not to bother.

Ugh. You're in a bad mood now.

"Out, both of you." You turn your back on the food and pulled out your phone. You went to the collective group chat that only continued to get bigger and bigger as time went on.

In it, you left a message: I have a literal feast in my dorm right now. Anyone want to eat it?

Jamil's and Jade's phone dinged. They pulled them out, and both pulled a collective frown. That made you smile.

And, of course, over half of your buddies replied positively to the news, and sent back that they're coming right away.

Jade snapped his phone in half, making your organs jump. Jamil had the composure to not do that, but he did stuff it into his pocket with a hiss of a sigh.

"…well then, I'll see you both later." Jamil dismissed himself first.

Jade didn't say a word, merely tightly smiling as he followed behind Jamil.

The door closed, and you breathed a sigh at the lighter atmosphere.

"Well, time for a snack." Something is better than nothing.

[synamartia]

First of all: Vexi, you're a bigger person than me. I wouldn't have blurred the username/pfp on that last one.

Second, how the fuck is someone gonna spew all this hate, then turn right around and make a request in the same breath? Like seriously??? Make it make sense. Please.

As fanfic writers with lives outside of tumblr and limited perspective on multiple topics for whatever reason, we do our best to make sure what we write is inclusive or at least left vague enough for Reader to fill in the blanks. We do this in our free time, for free, and it is incredibly disheartening to receive or see someone else receive things like this, especially when you know it to not be true.

I understand it's upsetting when you can't find quality fics or something you've been enjoying hits you with a detail that makes it no longer entertaining. But if you don't like the direction a story is going, or a detail like skin color of ANY character in said story, just stop reading it. It's that fucking easy. Or maybe, oh, I don't know - try writing it yourself instead of harassing someone because they're not catering to your criteria for reading material? Maybe then you would understand exactly how much time and effort is put into a fic, and the hours upon days of research to make sure what we write is accurate.

Vexi is not a POC and has outright stated that she doesn't know much about the experiences of the African American community, now or in the 1930s. As a writer that strives to give everyone quality fics that are both compelling and accurate, it is well within her rights to make Reader white because one: it's what she understands; and two: it's her story, not yours. Stop harassing writers just because they don't write something specific like the POV of someone in the Black community - it's incredibly immature and uncouth, and it makes us not want to write at all. I reiterate: if you don't like it, don't read it.

I'm so sorry that you're getting these messages, Vexi, and I hope that it doesn't deter you from writing to any degree. Don't let this anon get to you, dear. You're an amazing person with a heart of gold. Every word you type is magnificent, and I look forward to reading more from you! 💖

And to the anon doing this: I know you're making your rounds of Hazbin Hotel writers, seeing as Vexi is not the first one I've seen being harassed in such a manner. Just know that I'm turning anon off for my blog, and if you or anyone else decides to hop in my inbox, I will put you on blast so that everyone knows the kind of piece of shit you are for harassing others and spewing the same kind of hate we're ALL trying to eliminate. 🖕

PSA: RACISM, BIGOTRY, ENTITLEMENT IN HAZBIN HOTEL FANDOM

CONTENT WARNING: Inflammatory hate speech, White hate, political baiting, gaslighting, racism, death threats

The messages I’ve received and am addressing below contain upsetting and harmful language that has no place in any community. If these topics are distressing to you, please prioritize your well-being and feel free to stop reading here. Thank you for taking care of yourself.

I never imagined I would find myself addressing this, but here we are. This post is regarding my recent story, Stay With Me, which has stirred up unexpected controversy due to my decision to imply the reader’s race as white. I want to clarify that this choice was made purely for plot purposes.

The story is set in 1920s Louisiana, a time and place where racial and class dynamics were deeply significant. This backdrop was essential to the narrative’s themes of tension and forbidden love, as it explores the societal barriers that would have made a relationship between Alastor and the reader virtually impossible. The decision to depict the reader as an upper-class white individual was not arbitrary—it was intentional, aimed at heightening the drama and emotional weight of their story.

I deeply value the Hazbin Hotel fandom and the x-reader community. Writing for this space has brought me immense joy, and I’ve formed wonderful connections with both readers and fellow writers. That’s why receiving such hateful and inflammatory messages has been incredibly disheartening. The accusations of racism, the vitriol, and the twisting of my creative choices into something they were never meant to be—this has shaken me more than I can express.

To the anonymous senders of these messages: I want to make it clear that my work comes from a place of love and passion. My intention has always been to tell compelling stories that explore complex emotions, societal norms, and the human condition—stories that resonate with readers on a deeper level. To reduce my work to a political agenda or an act of prejudice is deeply hurtful and entirely unfounded.

I want to echo sentiments shared by Kit (please check out her explanation here), another writer in the fandom, who also explored the racial and class dynamics between characters. Like them, I am fascinated by the tension and drama that arise from star-crossed love stories, particularly when societal laws and prejudices forbid such relationships. Writing the reader as white in this context wasn’t about excluding or favoring anyone—it was about creating an authentic narrative rooted in the realities of the era.

For those questioning why I made this choice, I ask: if you can suspend disbelief to fall in love with a cannibalistic, asexual deer demon, why is the reader’s race—chosen for specific plot reasons—the line you cannot cross? My goal as a writer is to craft stories that make sense within their own context. The entitlement to demand otherwise, or to impose personal prejudices onto my work, is unfair and unwarranted.

I hate that I’ve had to turn off anonymous asks. Some of the most heartfelt and hilarious messages I’ve received have come from anonymous users, and losing that connection with my readers pains me. But unfortunately, the actions of a loud, hateful minority have left me with no choice. I will not entertain further discourse on this matter after this post.

To those who have supported me, who have read my stories and shared kind words: thank you. Your encouragement is what keeps me going. Writing for this fandom has been a labor of love, and I pour my heart and soul into every piece I create—for free, might I add. It’s devastating to feel that love overshadowed by hostility.

I won’t let this stop me from creating, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t made me question my place here. To anyone who feels entitled to tear down what others create out of hatred or spite: I hope you take a moment to reflect on the harm your words can cause.

To my true supporters: I appreciate you more than words can express. Your kindness reminds me why I love writing in the first place. Thank you for standing by me.

[parrhesiac]

Among the things I most appreciate about Diana Muldaur's turn as a woman of a certain age, having already been the flawless Trek ingenue in two TOS episodes, is something we hardly see today: she's allowed to have texture, for lack of a better word.

Doctor Katherine Pulaski is an experienced Starfleet officer and shows the years it took to get that experience. She is, of course, still heavily made up, but they didn't have micro-injections of botulism and other insane bullshit, much less digital de-aging, to erase all the signs that someone is over 25 and has acquired character to go with it. It was the '90s, so she looks like a human being!

And she talks like one, too; that husky voice and brusque manner, bad writing aside, are something we should always have gotten from Doctor Beverly Crusher, instead of the insipid sexual-tension-romantic-follower crap of season 1. Yes, they made her a bit of an asshole off the bat, but I imagine she and Jellico (Ronnie Cox is the same age) either get on like a house afire or can't stand each other.

And it's that Leonard H. McCoy irascibility, combined with her gamely adventurous and investigative personality, that we wouldn't get back until Janeway—and even then, not consistently.

I have loved this character from the day she appeared on my TV, and we should have gotten so much more of her!

Diana Muldaur as Katherine Pulaski STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION (1987–1994)

[kinardsevan]

I find the writing of 806 absolutely wildly awful. First, we have a date that is completely antithetical to what we've been shown a week before; we had an established couple who takes care of each other like it's the most natural thing in the world and evidently spends a lot of time together, we have Tommy 100% integrated in Buck's everyday life both on their own and with the 118 (the hospital scene, the birthday party for Chris) and all of a sudden we get Buck bumbling over a hot girl who doesn't say he's on a date (100% OOC) and who doesn't even know Tommy's gay and not bi. Second idiotic idea, Buck's answering yes to Josh's questions which are evidently things you would only say yes to if you loved someone (you don't put someone's happiness above yours if you're casually dating) and then randomly regurgitating that awkward speech instead of a very simple ' I love you' which he's had no trouble using before with other people. It just DOES NOT MAKE SENSE.

i feel like when y’all send me these messages, you’re expecting the long-winded responses at this point (at least I hope so 😂😂). EIther way, you’re about to get one lolololol.

I won’t disagree with you on the writing entirely. I don’t hate it as much as others do, mostly because I feel like I ~kindof understand what they were going for, but it wasn’t perfect by any measure. It left a lot to be desired, and I think what they were doing could’ve been achieved more effectively in other ways.

I also don’t think you’re wrong about how it feels antithetical, especially when we have Buck suggesting to Eddie in 705 that Tommy is gay, and we’re supposed to believe these two are spending all their spare time together, but are apparently not having real conversations during all that time. To that end, I can’t solve that issue for the writers. However, there are parts of your argument that I have counters to. 

For one thing, I don’t think we can knock the fact that even being in a committed relationship doesn’t stop the best of us from stumbling over ourselves when we see someone we’re attracted to. People get so upset about how Buck acts in this scene that they fail to appreciate the major points that I actually enjoy about it: Buck yes, looks, (and is obvious about it), but he apologizes to his boyfriend about it in a way that makes it clear that he’s not outwardly interested in the women. Tommy also tells him that it’s okay (and we know that there’s a deleted line from this scene where he mentions finding one of the waiters good looking). To that end, we get the distinction that while these two don’t have an interest in stepping out on each other, they’re not blind. 

People also get upset about the lack of Buck’s distinction that he’s on a date. And while there are a million different reasons to complain about it (or explain it away), I’m gonna go with the obvious answer of, he doesn’t owe some random woman in an italian eatery his personal life situation, especially in a place where he may not feel ready to express exactly how he defines himself. There’s a massive difference between accepting things about yourself and actually dignifying it out loud, and the fandom has been so quick to assume one requires the other. Buck knows he’s bisexual; he even knows his feelings for Tommy are deep. That doesn’t necessarily have to mean he’s put a label on who he is. Just speaking from personal experience on reaching a point where I’m comfortably labeling myself as queer,… I even struggle with that. Because people throw around all of these terms (bi, queer, pan, etc.), and it creates this pressure to say exactly what you are, which I don’t think is fair to real people, let alone a fictional character. Some might say his decision to not dignify it verbally suggests fear to, but I don’t think that’s the issue. 

Further, I think the issue of “he doesn’t know Tommy’s gay”… I don’t think that’s the intention with the question. When watching it back, first of all, you have to remember from a writing standpoint, they have to have an entry for how Tommy and Abby were (previously) inclined. Moreover, asking Tommy if he’s ever been with a woman is not the same as asking him if he’s gay. Those are two entirely different questions. I can literally cite from a book to you that I own (Guilded Razors by Sam Lansky) which directly discusses being involved with women even though he knew he was gay. Evan first says that he notices Tommy didn’t look at the women when he did. I imagine that trying to figure out how fluid he is in his own mindset towards both sexes makes it confusing to understand someone who is strictly straight or gay. I can’t conceptualize of it and I’ve known personally that I liked both since I was in middle school. So I don’t think it’s ridiculous for him to ask his boyfriend (who he later will distinguish as someone he’s extremely comfortable with, and would be comfortable asking those kinds of questions to) about his attraction (or lack thereof) to women. I also think it has more to do with the follow-up question (“have you ever been with a woman”). Sometimes we ask questions that we already have the answer to just so we can get to the follow-up. When you intersect that with the “How do we bring Abby in to the conversation” of it all, it makes sense. 

Second, I totally agree that Evan answering those questions points to him being in love with Tommy. When I wrote up my psychology breakdown of the break-up, I referenced two things which tell us they’re in love with one another. 

-The entire “we don’t have to go that far” exchange with Josh. I think there’s a lot to be said about the fact that with Evan still figuring himself out, maybe it’s hard for him to dignify being in love with Tommy verbally. I also think that when you’re an adult and you get into serious relationships like this, there’s a period of time where you’re in love with them but you haven’t put a label on it. 

-“If I were move in with you, you won’t mean to, you wouldn’t plan for it, but you’d end up breaking my heart. And I don’t think that I could deal with that.” THIS ENTIRE FUCKING LINE MY GOD. (Just rip my heart out LFJr.) 

However, I think your argument about the fact that he skips over the “I love you” and straight to “move in with me” negates some serious engagement with the source material. First of all, we have an acknowledgment that Tommy’s clearly responding from a place of trauma. He’s responding from a place of “I love you more and then lose you; better to lose you here and now by my own hand”. From Buck’s side, we’ve seen him struggle with being in love. He was in love with Abby and never got to tell her, and then was strung along for months until he finally ended things in a letter to her. He was left by Ali when she couldn’t deal with his “lifestyle” (job). Love may not have entered the equation there, but he was clearly serious about her. Taylor was messy for him, but he clearly felt deeply for her, and even that blew up in his face. There are competing schools of thought on whether he truly loved her or not, but at the end of the day, that relationship fell apart due to issues with trust. Natalia wasn’t around long enough for him to dignify anything towards her. 

And then there’s the mess with his parents. We’ve never had this acknowledged, but I struggle to believe that Evan grew up in a house where “I love you” was actually said out loud very much (if at all). Based on how absent we know Phillip and Margaret were (and are to some degree still), I feel like they probably lived by the attitude of “we may not have always said it, but we always felt it”….which isn’t really good enough as a parent. Your kids need to hear you say it, and they need to know it’s okay to say it back. When you don’t have that foundation, it’s hard to put those feelings into words towards others, even if you do feel it, because they might burn you. Evan has been burned, and even though we don’t know a lot of his backstory, we know Tommy has too. So while you argue that he’s used those three words towards others in the past, I counter with, did it feel this real? Did stand to lose as much? Because I don’t really view the relationship as Tommy being more in it than Evan is. I think we’re kind-of getting that “grew up in the same house but turned out different” trope.  We see Tommy as someone who wants to take care of the person he loves because he hasn’t had that before, while Buck fumbles his way through wondering if it’s okay to do those things because no one has really shown him how. There’s also been commentary on the fact that he asked Tommy to move in instead of saying “I love you” because this entire relationship has been grand gestures. I think there’s something dignifying in that choice. He’s telling Tommy he sees a future with him. He talks about things like marriage, but from Tommy’s end it reads as out of left field from someone who’s still figuring out who they are in their sexuality. I think (after watching the scene back), that Evan doesn’t necessarily feel that way about himself, but the same way he railroads Tommy with the starry-eyed future, Tommy kind-of does the same thing back to him with the breakup. It’s very…. “I pushed you five steps in the wrong direction and now you’re pushing me ten steps back” (for lack of a better metaphor). And I know people argue about the fact that this entire relationship has been so key with communication from day one, but those forms of communication have never required the two of them to get down into their traumas with one another. It’s really fucking easy to have day-to-day conversations with people that stay on the surface and just keep powering through. Go back to 710 and notice how we don’t go deep into the daddy issues. They both touch on them, and then Evan changes the subject and Tommy goes with him on it. I don’t think it’s unreasonable at six months in to not have done a deep dive on major trauma. You can skate around it if it’s not something you’re ready to talk about. It’s one of my reasons for why these two will ultimately be back together in 8b, because at some point you have to flesh out the unfinished business of it all (ala Wyatt and Judd when Judd’s leg was broken). Now, I don’t know if that happens the involvement of a serial killer, or a truck/jeep/helicopter accident, or trapped in a burning building… I just know that at some point, it has to come to fruition. TM enjoys these kinds of standoffs too much to not have a plan for these two to end up in one. 

That all said, I’ve said before, the general audience doesn’t have a psychology degree or years of trauma counseliing under their belt. They’re not going to look at these two and read it the same way I can. TM probably doesn’t even realize the way he’s writing it is very direct into psychological motives 😂

But, just to cover my own skin… I could always be wrong. One of my very favorite people has a completely different theory on how b/t will be handled, and we agree to disagree 😂😂😂. as I’ve said to him “the best part of this entire scenario is that one of us eventually has to be wrong”. 

(circling back to your “simple i love you” just one last time as I looked at it again…. it feels siimple to us as an audience. however, verbalizing that shit out loud when you fear rejection and abandonment is an entirely different story. we know they had abandonment on the brain for Buck going into the midseason finale, and this obviously would’ve played right into it. So in what world are you going to expect him to give up “I love you” when he’s about to be broken up with. That would’ve been unnecessarily cruel.) 

My last little addition, to circle back to other points I’ve made… there’s a give and take in this relationship that we need (or at least deserve) to see. Personally, I feel like Buck will be the first one to say “I love you”, but my preference would be that Tommy does. It’s the whole issue of stepping beyond the fear for me that makes me feel that way.

By correlation, I feel like Buck has to give up the loft. He asks Tommy to move in, but we’ve had many discussions about the fact that Tommy has a house with a car lift and a muay thai set up. those are not things that would translate well into a loft. Having that trade-off would show a meeting in the middle on things that they both hold close to the vest. Tommy allowing himself to love and be loved would be a major point for him, while Evan giving up the loft would suggest that he’s not just in things for the short-term, because he can also give things up for Tommy. (also, the loft is very bachelor-esque, and these two are not bachelors when they’re with each other so….) 

sorry not sorry. you’re welcome for my rambles lol

[weministertomonsters]

The Alien Emissary

Or, It's Hard To Be An Emissary When Everything In Space Hates You

➤ Wordcount - 1.9k (ignore the double spacing, the format always gets fucked when I write on my phone. I'll fix it later!)

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Sweat drips down your temple as you yank the decelerator on the shiny new spacecraft you just stole from a bunch of angry aliens. When your superior broke protocol to squeeze every last drop of advantage out of the deal, the alien race you were negotiating with decided to solve the problem by lighting his ass on fire. Bye, Frank. The show of aggression made everyone trigger-happy, and within seconds, bullets were flying on what had once been neutral ground.

You’re not built for warfare. Your expertise lies in intergalactic extraterrestrial correspondence, preferably from the safety of a comfy spaceship. So you hauled ass and ran for shelter, which just so happened to be the Vathri shuttle; a smallish, compact transportation vehicle nowhere near as flashy as one of their motherships. You had no trouble finding the cockpit and silently thanked the stars for your former career in piloting as you got the shuttle off the ground.

Before the Vathri could notice what was happening, you had sealed the entrance ports to keep them out. There was plenty of spear-waving and shard-snapping, but none of them want to attack their own spacecraft, so you took off without a hitch. By the time they realized you’d taken their only mode of transportation, it was too late. You can only hope they have another way to call their mothership for a ride. You're not too worried because the tech-savvy Vathri are probably already tracking you, thirsting for blood.

You wipe the sweat from your brow and drop into the pilot’s seat, scanning the unfamiliar controls for a tracking system to make sure they can't locate you too easily. Despite your piloting experience, the Vathri controls are difficult to decipher, like trying to use a keyboard made for a foreign language. Every dial and button looks like a potential disaster. Two buttons in particular catch your attention—a blinking red one, ominous and foreboding, placed next to a glowy green button. Some real Matrix-level bullshit. After a moment’s hesitation, you reach for the green button.

A fuzzy sound echoes over the intercom, followed by a glitchy, deep voice: “Inadvisable.”

Well, shit.

“Who’s this? Are you the system?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder just in case. The voice came through the speakers, and there’s no one behind you.

The response takes a moment, but the voice comes again. "No."

"Who are you? Are you one of them?"

"Partially."

"What does that mean?"

"I am Vathri, but I am not with this contingent."

"Um, how's that?" You manage to find the hover feature and turn it on, multitasking figuring the shuttle out and talking to the voice.

"I am a prisoner of the Vathri State."

"Wait, so you're on this shuttle?" Your eyes widen in alarm.

"How else would we be in conversation? I am chained in the hold."

"Great, then stay there. The last thing I want to add to my list of crimes is assisting in a jailbreak," you mutter.

Now that you're hovering, the last thing you want is something sneaking up on you. There are much worse things than the Vathri out here. The Vathri you're talking to takes so long to speak again that you almost forget about it as you search the compartments on the dashboard for a manual. Unlikely, but you're not one to go without checking these kinds of things. Everything is scrupulously clean. There are even any bits and bobs in the compartments. The small square screen in front of you looks like it's for scoping, so you turn that on. Bingo. Your surroundings blink on the screen, which is nice and empty.

"A platoon of Vathri is headed your way," the intercom buzzes. "And they make haste."

"No!" You look at the screen and the prisoner is right.

An indicator has just shown up on the radar and it's coming up fast. The system beeps politely to let you know. You grab the controls and kick the little spacecraft into gear. You might not know A from B, but you do know how to fly things in general. The shuttle shoots forward smooth as butter sliding across a hot plate, and you grapple with the steering, which suddenly seems to have a mind of its own.

"Careful," you mutter, leaning back in the seat and reminding yourself to breathe.

You haven't got a helmet on to enhance your vision, so you have to rely on your human eyesight and just pray you don't fly straight into asteroid spray. There's probably a mode for that on the scoping system but it's beyond your understanding. You can't just mash buttons and hope something goes well. You're sweating again.

"I can assist you."

"I'm handling it," you snap, jolting in your seat. Your almost forgotten about them. "We're fine."

"You have little knowledge of the controls and have effectively made this spacecraft a potential coffin."

"How are you seeing what I'm doing anyway?" You demand, taking a hard right.

The shuttle wheels around so sharply that it does a neat little flip over your pursuers. There's a thump in the hold, and you wince.

"I guess you're not strapped in. Sorry," you mutter. You can't help but gasp when you see the behemoth of a ship that's after you. It's black and the gloss on the exterior makes it look slippery. It's clearly meant for stealth and packed with heavy artillery. The spiked flare on top resembles a shark's fin, and you nearly shear the hull of the shuttle open on it. That's how close the ship is.

"Shit!" You scream. "What the fuck is that?"

"A Deathglider," the imprisoned Vathri says. Their voice sounds far away. "Calm yourself, human. You will lose control."

"That thing is massive! Oh my god, I'm so fucked," you moan, pushing the acceleration as high as it can go.

The Deathglider is too big for quick turns, but it has triple the thrusters and once it curves around, it's quickly gaining on you again.

"I can pilot the craft."

"Not a chance!" You snap. "I'm managing!"

Indeed, you are. If you can turn the correct scoping mode on, you might be able to lose them in an asteroid field. If your sense of direction is still holding true, then you know from the briefing earlier today that there's one nearby. You're confident you can pull it off up until the Deathglider starts shooting at you. The first shot misses by a good twenty feet—or maybe that was a warning—and your mouth falls open as you see the metal shaft of the bullet burning past the cockpit window.

"I'm human, you assholes!" You holler into the air. "I made a mistake, but I'm not that big of a threat! Stop with the missiles!"

"I do not believe they are much interested in you."

"Oh yeah? Then why in the blazes..."

"That was for me."

You gasp and steer to the left as the Deathglider takes a second shot. Another near miss; and now the system is giving you a warning of the engine overheating. Your ride isn't meant to accelerate this fast and for so long.

"What the hell did you even do, kill the Queen?" You demand. "Why do you have a army after you?"

"I fucked the Princess."

"Come again?"

"Is that not the word you use? To fuck—"

"I heard you the first time! I thought you were joking!" You screech.

"They are almost upon us. Let me help you."

This entire time, the Vathri's voice has remained at the same eerily unaffected pitch. If they're scared of dying in an exploding ball of shrapnel, they don't sound like it. You give up trying to do this alone when the next shot takes out one of the thrusters. Luckily, it clips clean off instead of going up in a fiery blaze, but unless there's a miracle, the shuttle will soon be dead in the black water of space.

"Tell me what to do," you say.

"Press the third button to the left of the scoping system. It will mask us. Then turn and fly underneath the Deathglider. It will buy us a few minutes. Long enough to unlock my—"

"Okay, third button, got it." You're panting as the system starts making a blaring sound to warn you of the incoming projectile which is a huge ship hurtling towards you.

You press the button, flip the shuttle over, and dip under the Deathglider with what feels like moments to spare. You book it in the other direction, so concentrated on getting away that it takes you a while to notice that everything is invisible. Including yourself. The visual of space stretching above and beneath you, sparkling with stars, is impossibly beautiful. At the same time, not being able to see your body creates a disconnect with your brain, and your vision starts to go all funny.

"Press the red button!" Finally, there's some haste in that voice. You feel a warm ping of smugness.

"Huh... What button?" You mumble as your ears pop from the pressure. "What?"

"The red-" What comes after that is a jumble of Vathri that grates in your ears like nails on a chalkboard.

It's just enough to prevent you from falling asleep and remind you that you're in some kind of danger. The Vathri told you to do something... Your body moves like it's in a pool of syrup. You know your hands are there somewhere, but you can't see them and everything feels numb. You pat the invisible dashboard, poking at things. You press something and the shuttle powers down and starts to float, tipping belly-up like a bloated fish. With what feels like the last of your energy, you smack your hand down in the spot where you remember the red button to be.

Nothing happens, or so you think. Your eyes start to close. You're strapped into the seat, but it feels like the seatbelt came loose at some point and you're slipping. Your head seems to be drifting away from your body. Suddenly, blinding lights sting your eyes, which snap open and stream with prickling pain. You're coughing and gasping for air as the pressure lifts off of you and you're able to breathe again. The interior has returned, and the scenery of space is whizzing by outside the window as the shuttle flies. You unclip your seatbelt and stand, bumping into something.

It takes a moment for your vision to connect to your brain, which fires up with an enthusiastic thought: that's an absolute unit of an alien. The imprisoned Vathri is now standing right in front of you, leaning over the controls. You did it, you set him free. Your movements still feel a little wobbly, so when you lean in to see what he's doing, you sort of tip off balance against his side. He's warm and it's nice. He glances at you.

"Did you do it? Are we safe?" You ask.

"We have bought ourselves a few hours." He straightens and turns to you. "I apologize for the oversight with the cloaking. I did not realize it would affect you so."

"It's nothing a few minutes won't fix," you reply woozily.

Famous last words, because you end up passing out.

──────────────────

I'm aliveee! Passing out is the easiest way to close a scene but I think I use it too often. Oops? Also, are the spaceship shenanigans accurate to scifi? Don't know, don't care. I had lots of fun writing it and I intend to write more. I have another story somewhere that is very similar to this one. They're kind of the same idea that I just keep sort of rewriting until I'm happy with it? I think I'm happy with it now.

[millieisawriter]

okay guys <33 requests keep coming in (just got one for arthur/dutch x brothel worker reader,) and i love that but for some reason (i'm still a lil sick, woke up with a terrible headache) writing has been going slow :( so! not wanting to leave y'all dry i've prepared something like this :)

headcannons: RDR2 men as dads

including: arthur, javier, charles, sean, lenny

Arthur Morgan

considering his past experiences, he'd feel so grateful to have another chance at having family

this time he would leave the outlaw life for his family, now he knows being two things at once, a criminal and a good father, doesn't work

tries to watch his language around the kid, and succeeds most of the time

the most protective dad ever, like he'd fr team up with the kid against you even if you're trying to scold the kid for something she/he did

when i say protective i mean it – if the kid coughs he's rushing her/him to the nearest doctor

he sucks at fishing, but he would take the kid fishing if she/he likes it

if the kid wants a dog, arthur is getting a dog for her/him immediately

would let the kid doodle in his journal

bedtime stories for the kid that are literally about the gang's past, excluding the darker parts of the story

Javier Escuella

writes his own lullabies for the kid

encourages any form of creativity like playing an instrument, singing, dancing

his kid would be the best dressed kid around, he's always getting the prettiest clothes for her/him and teaching about the importance of a clean appearance

but the kid would think it's extremely funny to run from him whenever he's trying to get them to wear a new shiny pair of boots, they just love to rebel against him

tries to watch his language around the kid, nearly failing often like "mierrrr–coles"

the kid would think spanish is harder than english, so whenever javier tried to learn her/him his language, the kid would get frustrated at some point and just scream gibberish

then javier would pick random days where he speaks only spanish to the kid. she/he might be reluctant to answer in spanish, but she/he understands the language well. however, javier will NOT reply until the kid speaks spanish

Charles Smith

teaching the kid about how important it is to respect the nature and the land

would make any toy the kid asks for by hand

i think that's obvious, but he would take the kid hunting when they're old enough

teaching the kid to take care of injured animals, that's how a rabbit ended up living in the house ("temporarily" at first)

would be so happy to let the kid braid his hair or put flowers in it, or if the kid made a flowercrown for him

most calm dad ever, he never gets angry at his kid. he doesn't even need to yell, one look is enough for the kid to stop whatever nonsense they're doing

doesn't panic as long as the kid isn't in a lot of pain. like maybe the kid will fall or get a scrape or a little cut, and charles would be just like "you're fine, walk it off" but he'd say it gently

good at playing hide and seek, many times the kid would just give up searching for him or throw a tantrum because charles found her/him so quick

Sean MacGuire

terrible influence, you couldn't have picked a worse father for your kids

doesn't bother to watch his language around the kid at all, so even if the kid doesn't pick up his accent, they would swear in sean's irish accent

allows his kid to stay up late, eat sweets instead of a normal meal, encourages mischevious behavior

would teach the kid to gamble

his kid is literally his partner in crime, sean would teach her/him how to silently steal from people's pockets or how to pick a lock

getting a mannequin, putting a jacket with many pockets on it, wrapping it in things that make noise like little bells on a string, and telling the kid to pickpocket it without making any noise

the kind of dad that will purposely do something to embarrass his kid in public, but would also brag about his kid

would offer a sip of beer to his kid a few times because "that's not even real alcohol!" but you quickly smack the idea out of his head

neither sean nor his kid are allowed around matches after a small incident that involved matches and hay

Lenny Summers

would make sure his kid is well-spoken and understands the importance of education

takes the kid for trips to a nearby bookstore

at first the kid didn't like reading much, feeling like lenny pressures them too much into it, but eventually they started enjoying books

would raise the kindest, gentlest, most obedient kid ever, the kind of kid that never talks back to the parents

yet still he'd also teach the kid to stand up for themselves when someone would try to push them around

IF the kid did something wrong, lenny would pull up with "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed"

would never fall into the loop of "why" questions, because his answers would be so long and detailed the kid would just give up

[yuyusshinelight]

The Elf feat c.jh

⚠️ Warning ⚠️

♪ English is not my first language so sorry if there's any mistake.

♪ This post is just pure fiction. This does NOT represent Jongho in any way.

Note: Hi my shining stars! I have a cold so I'm probably not uploading things as often as I would like. But don't worry, I feel a bit better today so I have brought you the next one: Jongho! I hope you have fun reading it as much as I had writing it. I love you all, my shining stars!!!

The Elf tradition. Something he discovered on social media and later he saw in his hyungs. Also it was an activity he wanted to experience with his son since he was born but obviously he couldn't because his son was too young.

But now his kid is three years old so Santa has finally 'sent' one of his elves to his house. Apple, as his son named it. And today is Jongho's turn to move the elf. He is so excited for doing so, more than your son searching the elf in the morning. You actually think that the father is more enthusiastic with this whole thing than the son. Cute.

The matter is that your son has been playing lately with a tiny cactus you have as decoration and, as his parents, you are worried about him getting hurt with the plant. The best solution would have been to hide the cactus but you want to teach your son that if you tell him to not do something for his wellbeing, he should not do it. But, again, he is three years old. Kids are curious and the more you tell them no, the more they want to do it.

So, taking advantage of having a wicked elf in the house, you can teach your son what can happen if he continues playing with the cactus. And that's exactly what Jongho has prepared for this morning. He has put some band-aids on the elf's butt pretending to be hurt and, next to the poor 'pained' elf, he has placed a note.

"Apple! What did you do?" That's your son's little voice after running all over the house searching for his elf. The kid knows that neither of you can touch the elf so he just stands there, with a little pout and both hands on his cheeks. You, who can't see your baby pouting without going to hug him, crouch down to his level, obviously hugging him and pointing at the piece of paper next to the elf "Look, he left a note. Give it to daddy so he can read it for us" and that's exactly what your kid does.

Taking the paper carefully so as not to touch the elf, your son goes with Jongho to hand him said paper and the male, being as dramatic as he can be, reads the note for his son "Tip of the day, never play leap frog with a cactus".

"Who would think of it?" Your son puts his fist on his waist before turning to look at his elf again, he's not worried about Apple anymore "Well darling, Apple was bored and decided to play with the cactus" you decide to defend the elf, just curious of what your son will respond, but instead of the kid, is the father who talks next "See? He played with the cactus and got a puncture" Jongho gives him a little tap on the nose, leaving the note forgotten on the table "But I don't play leap frog with it!".

"But you can also get a puncture, love" Jongho replies to him, imitating his posture until the kid turns to look at his mother for help but you just nod at what your husband has said. Defeated, your son looks at his hands, thinking about how much it would hurt if he gets punctured and suddenly raises his hand "I will be careful next time, I don't want a puncture on my finger" the kid moves his index in front of your face, exactly the same way as when he wants you to give him a kiss because he has gotten hurt, and that's precisely what you do, give him a kiss on his finger.

And even if that was not what you had planned with this mischief, the face your son is giving you is sufficient to make you two look at each other in defeat "You love to play with that cactus, uhm?" Jongho says, taking your son in his arms to tickle him a little "Then remember, you have to be extra careful with the thorns, okay?" and your son only nods, taking his father's hand to avoid further tickling.

[meadow-sea]

here is part 2 of my glorious harumasa and ether aptitude regression syndrome (again calling it EARS) hcs because im not finished yapping (beware of possibly unclear and vague wording im not writing an essay here)

- harumasa sometimes experiences something like a phantom limb sensation where he feels sections or even his entire body is that of an ethereal. like his physical body stays the same but he feels he is in an ethereal body with all the ridges and warped limbs and proportions which makes interacting with things harder. (reason number 546 to avoid work)

- this translates over to my next hc that EARS will sometimes cause harumasa to just exist. from the perspective of an ethereal (thanatos specifically). like he'll keep his mind and memories but his senses will be replaced by an ethereal's. words will lose meaning, or gain new meanings, he wouldn't be able to talk much, if at all. ethereals exist in chaotic unstable hollows so it would be difficult for one, and harumasa by extension when in this state, to like do things. he knows what he is supposed to do hypothetically but executing it is another matter. (reason 471 to avoid work). like tf is a coffee machine, the carpet is coffee, chairs aren't chairs, everything is fixed to the ground and the ground is fixed to the sky and the coffee is and the coffee is and coffee type of shit. harumasa beats himself up over it. a lot. but not where anyone can see ofc.

- from his demo and trust events, we can infer that harumasa has trouble sleeping. i imagine that he has weird ass out of body dreams and paralysis. like having sleep paralysis, from the perspective of the sleep paralysis demon which is thanatos. roaming around new eridu as thanatos. that kind of stuff. i bet he's dreamt before of being in a my neighbour totoro situation where he's totoro, as a thanatos, at a bus stop with either soukaku or two random kids

- harumasa definitely has some ethereal like mannerisms to me. his dash attack is literally like thanatos. the way he moves is inhuman, smooth, unnaturally fluid in a way that training alone cannot achieve. very uncanny if you look closely. his direct gaze can be unnerving. this def isn't something he stresses about and practices to avoid why would you ask aha ha. his natural talent with archery is partially attributed to EARS along with sharp senses, observation skills and reflexes

- all of the above become more extreme depending on how long he’s been exposed to ether and to what level

believe it or not i am still not finished. i will continue the yap later so yet again i ask you to stay tuned. pretend i give you a charming wink as you read this. alsooo this post is linked to another so maybe read that one. i did say this is a part 2

[saiintvalentiine]

request: for the sake of the holiday spirit, have we considered clonefies first christmas..

and to cap off requests, a Christmas episode! i hope you enjoy Clonefies wondering about the Christmas spirit. . .

Word count: 1,114

“You gotta have a stocking.”

“. . . Like on? Right now?”

Ken's look is scathing.

“No, a Christmas stocking. For Christmas. Smartass.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Ken still looks annoyed, so Wifies puts his book down and turns to face him fully.

“Yes, Ken?”

“Do you even realize that this is gonna be your first Christmas?”

Wifies opens his mouth. Closes it. It's not really— but it is. He has the idea of a memory about. . . something Christmas like. A fireplace while it snows. The suggestion of twinkling colored lights.

“Isn't Christmas this week?” he asks in turn.

“Yes!”

A red and white stocking hits Wifies's face. He spits out a bit of white fur and he pulls it off of his face.

“I've got glitter glue. C'mon.”

Wifies follows and uses Ken's mysteriously acquired box of glitter glue to write his name on one side of the stocking, along with some small wobbly stars and lopsided swirls. This seems to satisfy Ken greatly— at least he doesn't throw anymore hosiery at Wifies after.

He thinks that's the end of it, but then Parrot and him meet up and it comes up again.

“Are you doing anything for Christmas?” Parrot asks, head tilting in such a way that he looks like a perfect impression of real jungle parrots.

“Uh,” Ken will probably want to do something with the stocking, so he says, “Maybe?”

“Oh, do you not celebrate?” Parrot asks. “Sorry man, I didn't realize.”

“No, I just— I don't know what I'll be doing, is all.”

“Alright,” Parrot nods slowly. “Me and some of the other Unstable members are gonna do a party on the 24th if you want to come. I'll send you the details, come if you want.”

“Thanks. I'll. . . let you know.”

It stays on Wifies's mind after that. Should he care more? Does it matter? He doesn't have any warm fuzzy feelings attached to Christmas. He's not sure what to think.

“Wato, is Christmas all that important?” Wifies asks, arms heavy with a box of redstone components.

Wato glances back at him.

“It's a pretty big deal, but only if you want it to be,” Wato says, dropping their own box off into a corner of the room. “Why?”

“Well, Ken seemed to care,” Wifies puts the box down next to Wato’s and dusts his hands off. “And Parrot looked at me funny for not really knowing what I was gonna do for Christmas.”

“You talked to two people who can't control their faces,” Wato snorts. “It matters if you want it to matter.”

“I want to care about the things people I love care about.”

Wato pinches Wifies's ear, all show and no force.

“One day you'll learn to care just for yourself. But if you want to test out the Christmas hype, you should join Ken and me on the 25th and we'll make it fun.”

“Alright, alright, let go of me!”

Wato does and they go back to organizing their cluttered storage room. Wifies turns the suggestion over in his head and makes a plan.

The 24th is cold but the party is warm and loud. Spoke throws himself across Wifies's back as soon as he arrives, muttering and cheering. Minute peels him off with a smile and a greeting. Parrot weaves in and out of the crowd madly. He’s pretty sure Zam and Wemmbu are arm wrestling in the corner, but there's a ring of people around them that he doesn’t want to muscle through. There are so many people stuffed into one place that Wifies is honestly dizzy.

He's been kissed under a dozen different mistletoe doorways by a dozen different people by the time he escapes.

Okay. Well. It wasn't a bad experience, but it wasn't— ideal. He’s not sure if the Christmas spirit was in the room with them, but the eggnog was nice and he likes everyone quite a bit.

He makes his way into Ken and Wato’s server with little fanfare, still in his party clothes and sticky with stolen lipstick marks.

[Wato1876]: Wifies!!!! Come join us at spawn!!!

Before Wifies can start the journey, he feels the tingle of a command teleport and suddenly he’s inside a glittery pink and silver nightmare. There is tinsel on his face within seconds.

“Wifies!” Ken bounds over, giving him a squeezing hug. “You smell like liquor.”

“I went to a Christmas party,” he says, shrugging his coat off and shaking snow out of his hair.

“Dude, you’re covered in lipstick,” Wato says. They’re in the softest looking green sweater Wifies has ever seen.

“I’m really good at standing under mistletoe, I guess.”

“Who took your first mistletoe kiss?!” Ken demands.

Wifies purses his lips and says, “Clown, actually.”

“ClownPierce?!”

“Wow,” Wato says with a whistle. “Good job?”

“Thanks?” Wifies feels sticky. “Actually, can I take a shower here?”

“Yeah, sure, fucking ClownPierce?”

Wifies shoves Ken’s head back and Ken yowls and sputters, baring his sharp teeth at Wifies. Wato barks out a laugh at them and disappears, only to return with a bundle of clothes and a towel, which Wifies takes gratefully. He washes up and discovers there’s an equally soft white sweater in the pile Wato gave him, which he’s thrilled to pull on.

“See?” Ken says when Wifies finds them, sprawled out on a blanket pile in front of a fireplace that definitely wasn’t there a week ago. “I told you it’d fit him fine.”

Ken is wearing a red sweater of the same kind. They all look like matching baubles now, matching just like the three red and white stockings on the fireplace mantle. Wifies sits down next to him on the floor.

“Good! Wifies, do you want hot chocolate?” Wato yells.

“No, thank you. My stomach is actually kind of upset.”

“Did you have eggnog?” Ken asks, tail swaying in a leisurely figure eight.

“I did.”

“That’ll do it.”

Wato comes back with three mugs regardless. They hand one off to Ken, and the smell of chocolate wafts out of it. The one they hand Wifies, however, smells like ginger and peppermint tea.

“For your stomach,” Wato clarifies, sitting down on Wifies’s other side. “That should help. I think.”

“It will. Thank you.”

“We were gossiping before you got here,” Ken informs him as he sits up.

“Christmas gossiping?” Wifies raises his eyebrow. That also doesn’t seem like the Christmas spirit.

“Yes, obviously.”

“Alright, so what’s the good gossip?”

Ken launches into a story that somehow involves half of their shared friends, Wato chiming in occasionally. Wifies still isn't sure that this is the Christmas spirit, but it's not a half bad way to spend the night to get to the 25th.

[rosesforwildwitches]

It took Stolas actively sleeping with another man to figure out he wanted to divorce his wife because he was raised in an incredibly restrictive and sheltered environment and pushed into the narrative of being the perfect royal by literally everyone in his life up until Blitzø showed up, from his father to his entire social circle to his wife. He didn't realize he was gay until he slept with Blitzø, and his bizzare dating choices after that make a lot more sense when you realize that this is a man who's spent over 3 decades with no chance to explore actual reality outside of what everyone else around him wanted him to be between the forced marriage and whatnot. This man acts like an idiot because he has very little exposure to or experience with his own feelings, desires for life, or even who he is at his core, and while it does come from a position of material and political privilege that shouldn't be ignored, it's a very real detriment to Stolas's sense of self and ability to navigate the world.

And saying the show writes women to be unlikable bitches to make men look better is completely inaccurate because the show has many unlikable asshole characters who are completely self serving, some of whom are men and some of whom are women. Andrealphus is written with the exact same level of pure bitch evil as his sister, he just happens to know hell's legal system better. Moxxie's dad is written as pure plain evil as characters can be in narrative. The second client of IMP is shown to be a man who's a cartoonishly evil sinner who's motive for killing his business rival winds up being that he knows he'll wind up in hell and he wants to be together with the dude. There's plenty of assholes in the cannon, just not all of them are dudes. And if we want to bring the whole Hellaverse into it, Valentino is the easy shot here, but he also gets critiques for "romanticizing abusers" when he's a male abuser, and Stella gets called out for "character assassination" for being a female abuser.

I'm honestly starting to think a lot of Helluva Boss and Hazbin Hotel critics who complain about these two characters specifically as depictions of abusers specifically have a general problem where they're uncomfortable with any depictions of domestic abuse. That or they're just uncomfortable with the victims of said abuse not being women and/or perfect angels in their behavior all the time, because it messes with their own personal notions of how abuse survivors act. In reality a lot of people in domestic abuse situations act way more like Stolas or Angel Dust than people who haven't been through it like to think about, and it doesn't mean they deserved their abusive situation at all. One doesn't have to be a perfect shining paragon to deserve not being treated like shit by a romantic partner.

ok this isn’t a hellaverse acc anymore but i have to get this rant out here,

octavia was not being irrational with how she acted in sinsmas!! just imagine being in her shoes: your dad cheats on ur mom with some random dude, constantly picks him, and even sacrifices his life for him on live television. how would that make you feel?

“oh but stolas has shown he cares about her!” he SAID he cares about her with words, yes, but he had never shown it with his actions, atleast not on screen. you can see it in the loo loo land ep when he claimed he wanted to have a special day for via but made blitzo tag along despite the fact he can defend the both of them just fine because?? he was just horny i guess???

you can also see it in the seeing stars ep when he goes to la to look for via but gets sidetracked by blitzo again, at the end it wasn’t even him that found her, it was loona 😭

stolas is not a good father, nor was he “trying his best”, and the fact that the show expects the audience to believe that shows how incompetent the writing is at times

[thechthonicherbalist]

My humble Altar

Before I put it away for the winter holidays and local solstice celebrations, here's my little pop-up altar, complete with offerings. Sharing in response to my friend @jehan-the-necromancer who has been curious for a while now and the lovely @chthoniclakewitch who asked about it.🥰 (I thought I might as well put the pics in a post, I hope you two don't mind being tagged. 🙈)

Mostly I'm working with Apollo and Aphrodite, Gods of Love, Sexuality, Queerness, Healing, Muse, Poetry, Inspiration and Beauty! The reason is mostly my own queer gender identity and sexuality, as well as a life-long love for art, music and writing.

But also my experiences with CSA, depression and hurt are relevant in regards to many of these topics, as well as the struggles that come as a result. Apollo and Aphrodite give me security, capacity to practice self-love and consider the love others have for me, when anxiety threatens to lie to my heart and make me doubt it. They are also who I turn to for comfort and where I seek refuge when these things get hurt or when it's difficult to navigate them. And they are the ones I pray to, when I want to extend my love to others or when I hope to see people I carry in my heart protected, healing and cared for. Especially in situations where I directly help a person with these things... Aphrodite helps me learn how to think, act, speak and connect with deep love and care for the human essence. Apollo helps me learn how to see the light and beauty of things and how to tap into my healing potential through creative expression. Both these things are life long journeys.

I also pray to Ares and Hecate. Ares because I am a very sensitive person who experiences others and their own emotions very deeply and easily gets very deeply impacted by them. It can be like I absorb the emotions of others and then have to work through them and understand them in all detail myself, even if they don't even fathom that or don't have to do that themselves. So I often carry lots of fear, sadness and hurt in my heart, or need to untangle the anger of others or sometimes also myself, because it mostly servers as a protective response. Simultaneously I have a profound inability to take in and hold the emotion of anger very well, due to complex childhood trauma where people with unresolved anger issues would lash out in life- and safety-threatening ways due to their lack of self-control and and cause both physical and emotional damage. Therefore it was equally life-threatening in this environment to express anger or any other emotion or to protect myself by removing myself from situations that overwhelmed me. To this day, there is nothing more terrifying to me than a person who cannot control their anger, who cannot communicate an issue, fear or a hurt in other ways than by lashing out. It still feels life-threatening, it gives me mortal anxiety and I can't process and react to that in real time. I will always shut down and struggle to comprehend even my own thoughts and memories in this moment. I am reduced to pure fear and survival instincts at this point. And it took me many years to learn from Ares that I am allowed to protect myself, guard my peace and well-being by taking breaks when this become too much, especially when I'm under intentional attack.

Ares reminds me that it is okay to feel and express my own anger, but also that I do not want to follow examples of toxic, unhealed anger expression, by reminding me of the warrior's honor. He reminds me that unfiltered emotion equals war and destruction. And in collaboration with Aphrodite and Apollo, that such things have no place in healthy, loving connections. That there is always a hurt or a fear underneath such strong and violent emotions, that seek to be protected. And that it is important to step back, to process my anger, yes, but to write it down, over and over until I am calm and understand the essence of what I want to express, without hurting the ones I love. And that others are equally responsible to do moderate their own emotions and that I don't have to expose myself if they have not been responsible enough to put in the work and effort it takes to learn how. Ares is also who teaches me to enforce boundaries. That I am worthy of divine and earthly protection and justice. That it is okay to fight injustice and mistreatment, instead of quietly tolerating it. That my well-being, my rights and my existence are worth fighting for. That my life and I am worth fighting for. Worth defending. That if nobody stands up for me, it is okay if I do that. That peace is fought for, negotiated over, not merely tolerated. He and Apollo are who I pray to, for strength and endurance in my battle against depression, chronic illness and now cancer. He is the first god I ever prayed to, who I ever recognized as a god, when I was a child.

And Hecate is... Hecate. The mother, the maiden and the crone. The witch goddess. Protector of the crossroads. Those who know her, know her. Those who do not... fear her. I pray to her for protection, for guidance. And to help me heal the witch-wound. The wound all people carry who have been othered or unjustly accused and punished out of fear for their knowledge and powers, rather than being honoured, heard and understood. She is also known as the goddess of Boundaries, the Underworld, Plants and Herbalism as well as the Moon. I'd like to say that my connection with her is much more... obscure and yet personal than with any of the other gods. I refer to her as mother, when I pray.