#you can just SEE the anger and loathing in the last shot

[cherylblossom]

#our badass 12-year-old Demigod child going up against the God of War

[chevroletdean]

mirror sex [dean winchester] ── ✮⋆˙

kinktober 2024

ship: dean x afab!fem!reader genre: smut, angst to note/warnings: explicit – minors dni, established relationship, hunt almost gone wrong, canon-level violence, patching/stitching up wounds, dean’s self loathing tendencies, hurt/comfort, little bit of praise kink, fingering, porn with plot word count: 3.6k a/n: three days until halloween and i feel like i’m way behind on kinktober. i might just try to get to some of these during november as well, my apologies. also, the cat’s out of the bag: i’m a sucker for angst. i’m curious what you guys enjoy to read/write the most, are you more into fluff, smut, or angst?

Dean’s harsh on himself. Always. You knew that even before you started dating him. It’s how he grew up, after all. From a young age it’s been drilled into him by John; that he has to be tough and strong, that he isn’t allowed to think before he acts, that certain things have to be done – even when these things are ugly. Even when they turn other things ugly. Things like the sight of his hands afterwards. Things like his whole reflection, honestly.

It’s days like these where he enters autopilot, in a poor attempt of resorting to a self-defense mechanism. He can’t stand the reflection in the mirror, so he simply doesn’t look. He wouldn’t like what he sees, so he avoids it altogether, if he can.

Saving people, hunting things, the family business – killing monsters always sounds so heroic until you realize your decisions are cut-and-dry to the cruelest degree, until the soap can only scrub clean the red from your hands but not the guilt that still sticks to your skin, and until you begin to wonder who the actual monster is.

Dean’s harsh on himself in that he blames himself for everything. It’s all his responsibility, the weight of the world always on his shoulders.

Hunts go wrong. It’s part of the job, but that thought isn’t as comforting as it should be, because it doesn’t change anything and it doesn’t take away any of the gravity.

Dean and you had been tracking down this pack of aggressive werewolves. The job had sounded so easy, everything had been so straight-forward. Until you two realized that the town’s sheriff was in on it, and ultimately, so was his son. Partially, at least. Just a kid, barely twenty-one – about the age when Sam hit the library, when he should’ve hit on cute girls on campus, around the age of frat parties with beer-pong cups and hangovers.

A guy who had his whole life ahead of him, but had it snuffed out by a silver bullet to his chest. (or rather, by Dean’s finger pulling that trigger, if you’d ask Dean how it went down, because he sees no point in distancing himself from the narrative when it was his doing). Not because that kid wanted any of it. Hell, as Dean and you had been investigating the case, you came to realize all that boy wanted was a peaceful life. And you knew it was possible, some werewolves were able to build up normalcy without killing anybody, picket-fence and all, more so than your average hunter, sometimes.

But you had shot the sheriff, given that he’d been systematically kidnapping his victims throughout the years. And upon witnessing the silver piercing through his father’s chest, the student went downright feral. He attacked you and jumping you, going for a bite that never landed, was the last thing he ever did.

“You had to shoot him,” you told Dean in the car, just like he predicted you would.

“I know,” came Dean’s reply and those were the only words during the whole ride, just like you predicted they’d be.

Even upon arrival back at the bunker, he remains silent. The loudest noises are just his footsteps, which are heavier than usual as he drags you to your shared room, and ultimately the slam of the bathroom door that he shuts behind the two of you.

“Sit,” he says, voice laced with anger that you know he only directs at himself, and nudges you to the edge of the bathtub. You know better than to argue with him and despite the fact that there’s a nasty gash on his shoulder, you let him clean the minor scratch above your eyebrow first. You must’ve hit your head back when the werewolf slammed you against a shelf, but you’ve definitely had worse. But Dean puts others before himself and your wellbeing is always his priority.

Yet, his ministrations aren’t exactly gentle. He dabs the rubbing alcohol to your cut brow without any regard for the way you wince slightly. His eyes don’t meet yours as he shoves his hand into the cupboard and impatiently fishes for bandages. His jaw is clenched tightly as he patches you up with a bandaid.

He’s in his own head, clearly – or trying to keep those spiraling thoughts at bay within his self-critical mind. Those what ifs and should’ve dones would kill him otherwise.

You can only watch as he straightens his back, turns around, takes a step towards the sink opposite to the bathtub, slams the cabinet shut again, and keeps his gaze purposefully low. His eyes remain glued to his hands as he washes them, as if he doesn’t dare to lift his chin.

“Let me help you with your shoulder,” you mumble softly and he almost can’t hear you over the running water and the running thoughts. It’s your gentle touch that makes him snap out of it, but even as he raises his head at last, his eyes only land on the reflection of you. Your face peeks out over his shoulder, one of your arms wrapped around his middle, the other hand ghosting over his blood-soaked sleeve.

“No need, ‘m fine,” he grumbles, stubborn as ever. But as he turns off the faucet, the movement reminds him of the sharp ache and the dull throb in his arm. Just the graze of the sheriff’s bullet. He knows he got lucky, but he also can’t bring himself to care about any of that with every other dreadful aspect of today.

“A couple of inches away from death doesn’t fit my definition of fine, Dean.”

He can’t argue with that, it would be hypocritical. A droplet of blood on your forehead is enough to make him worry and who is he to deny you your concerns when he’s been injured too? Besides, he knows you can see right through him. Physical injuries are one thing, but the emotional damage often runs deeper than any blade or gun could.

Though his muscles are stiff, Dean doesn’t resist as you slowly peel off his flannel. His eyes are still fixated on you. He can’t bring himself to look at the wound himself, much less let his gaze drift anywhere close to his own reflection right now.

Your movements are mesmerizing enough to keep him distracted anyway.

You reach around him to turn the faucet back on and you grab a washcloth. You tie your messy hair back and out of the way and you carefully roll up the short sleeve of his shirt. You dampen the cloth and wipe the blood from his arm. Once you disinfect the wound, he ultimately looks away. Not because of the sting of the rubbing alcohol, but because of the pain he recognizes in your eyes. Your brows knit together and you frown slightly, sighing to yourself.

He can’t bear watching you pity or fuss over him when part of him feels like he deserves this.

“C’mon, ’s not even that bad, sweetheart,” he grumbles, but his voice is strained.

Your movements come to a halt as you blink up at the mirror, expecting to see his green eyes look back at you through the reflection. But Dean’s head hangs low again and his hands grip onto the edge of the sink he’s staring into.

“I’m glad it’s not,” you hum, but you still grab ahold of his hands and pull him away from the sink. “Sit.”

When you say that word, it sounds a thousand times softer than when he did. You know he hadn’t huffed it at you earlier, but rather didn’t bother concealing his bad mood. Still, his annoyances aren’t directed at you, so he makes an effort to pull you closer gently, in apologetic fashion. His hands settle on your hips as he sits down on the edge of the tub. You’re standing between his legs, surgical thread and needle in your hand.

“Lift your arms f’me, babe?”

When Dean follows your instructions without a witty remark about how eager you are to get him to strip, you know the self loathing is bad. You help him peel off his shirt, tossing it straight into the laundry basket. Luckily there aren’t any other major injuries, though you suspect a couple of bruises will bloom by tomorrow.

His hands go back to your hips, as if he’s able to steady and ground himself by holding you, to which you have no complaints. As long as he’ll let you stitch him up, you even let his bolder touches slide. You’re so focused on closing up the wound that you barely react to his fingers curling around the back of your thighs.

With this position, Dean’s practically forced to face the mirror again. It’s right behind you and with the way you’re half bent over, leaning down to his arm, the view is without obstruction. But his attention is fixated on the jeans-cladded plush in his palms. His hands wander higher, fingers splaying out over your curves. He gives your ass a gentle squeeze to which your breath hitches.

“Careful, unless you want to end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster,” you chuckle playfully, relieved that he’s in high enough spirits for teasing touches.

“Since when are you not into the scarred badass guys?”

“Touché,” you smile in response, “Although I prefer them in a confident mood.”

He groans, knowing where this is going, but he decides to play along. “What d’ya mean?”

Your smile curls into a smug grin as you shrug. “I mean,” you sigh and finish the last stitch, securing the thread into a knot and setting the needle aside. “Scarred, badass guys are even hotter when they know that they’re strong,” you continue, before you plant a kiss to his forehead, “that they’re brave…” Another kiss, to his nose this time.

A quiet growl escapes him as he instinctively tightens his grip on your ass. You know he doesn’t fully believe your words, but you’re adamant about convincing him, so you continue with your list: “…heroic.” More kisses, this time a chaste one directly to his lips, though Dean scoffs and pulls away almost immediately.

“Yeah, right,” he scowls. “Nothing screams hero more than murdering someone.”

“You saved me tonight,” you argue back, whilst gently cupping his face. “You’re definitely my hero.”

His gaze wanders from your lips up to your eyes, seeing nothing but gratitude and adoration in them. Both of which he feels undeserving of. Dean Winchester isn’t half the hero you think he is, he’s all kinds of screwed and his fucked up life consists of violence and regret most of the time. Yet you always look at him as if there’s something worth looking at. Even when he can’t see it himself.

“Just doing my job,” he replies and his voice feels thick and wrong on his own tongue.

“No,” you huff, your thumbs tracing the sharp edge of his jaw, the scruff grazing against the pads of your fingers. “It’s not your job to look after me, or to fight evil. But you’re damn good at it and you do it to make the world a better place. Just like you did today.”

He raises a skeptical eyebrow at your words, since he’s not exactly sure how shortening the lifespan of a young man can possibly add any plus points to his karma. But he understands where you’re coming from, even if he can’t accept it fully just yet. He doesn’t regret pulling the trigger either, he’d do it again – in a heartbeat – if it meant keeping you alive. In that regard, what he did was the right thing, but that didn’t mean it was an easy thing.

“You did what you had to do, babe,” you sigh, tilting his face up a little again before he could avert his gaze once more.

You’d tell him that he shouldn’t beat himself up over it, but that would be like talking to a wall. Your reasoning tends to reach him better than the loving reassurances, even though you both know you’re right. Maybe that boy didn’t deserve to die, werewolf or not, but in that moment it was either him or you.

Your lips land on him once more, this time on his jaw, before they wander down the hollow of his throat. Dean welcomes the sensation of your mouth on his neck, your teeth against his collarbones. Your hands on his chest, warm and soft and eager. So eager to make him feel good, to prove to him his own worth.

Your fingers are always enough to make his walls crumble. The sweet nothings you whisper to his ear always suffice. It might not heal him entirely, but his doubts are soothed for the moment whenever you need him. Whenever you give him what he needs. Whenever you love him.

Your hands reach the waistband of his denim pants, against which his cock is already beginning to strain. Once your touch ghosts over the prominent bulge, he snaps and indulges. In one swift movement, he stands up, his hands still tight on your hips as he picks you up and carries you to the sink. Within a second you find yourself positioned on the bathroom counter, your back nearly bumping against the mirror behind you and your legs draped around Dean’s waist. You’d complain about how he should be careful, lest he wants the fresh stitches to rip open, but your protest dies on Dean’s tongue, which he has already slipped past your lips.

Dean kisses you hard and with purpose, as if wanting to repay your praises. Where your mouth works its magic through words, he has always known different ways to use his. Always a man of actions, your boyfriend. His lips wander down your neck, making you gasp in delight.

He grunts, dizzy with the taste of you, your scent, your voice. You’re so soft under his calloused hands that he’s reminded once more of how close he was to losing you tonight. His impatient hands pull your shirt up over your chest, where his lips latch onto. He doesn’t even bother pulling it over your head fully, eager to search your heartbeat with his tongue, as if he’s able to taste that you’re still alive that way.

While you’re busy discarding your shirt properly, Dean’s mouth finds your nipple through the lace of your bra. You arch your back into his touch further, his name falling from your lips in a whimper that almost has his brain short-circuit.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he gruffs and pulls you off the counter, turning you in his arms so you’d face the mirror. His low voice is gravelly and half muffled by the column of your neck, which he still works some hickeys into. “Always treating me like some kind of hero when you’re the one keeping me alive and sane.”

His bare chest is pressed flush against your back and your hips are lodged against the edge of the sink, to which your shaky fingers grip so tightly that your knuckles turn white. You whimper again, softly, as you feel him rock his hips against your ass. Were it not for his large hands around you, one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, your knees would give out and you’d topple over.

Dean shoves a little harsher, his chest still flat against your back as he pushes you closer to the mirror. It’s fogging up slightly with how heavily you’re panting against the glass. Your eyes meet through the reflection and he finds himself not minding the mirror so long as you’re in the picture as well.

The bandaid that used to roughly match your skin color earlier now sticks out against your flushed face, red and warm all the way down to your neck and even your chest. Your lips are kiss-bitten, puffy and slightly parted as your ragged breath is interrupted by little mewls and whines.

Most days Dean’s looks in the mirror and hates what he sees. But he could get used to this view. At least he can appreciate the sight of his own hands on you, one around your throat, the other between your thighs, making you unravel, being held by yours as you reach for his wrists.

“Maybe scratch the sane part, you know you’re driving me crazy,” he revises his earlier statement as his deft fingers make quick work of your jean’s button and fly. His breath is hot against the shell of your ear and you shudder as he watches every small reaction of yours closely, like a hawk.

He shoves his hand straight into your underwear, satisfied when his fingers find your slick and his ears pick up on the meek moan. He’s barely even touched you yet, but you’re already soaking. You’re so damn responsive it almost makes him want to rip both your pants off and just take you until you’ll see stars. While patience is a virtue, it’s not Dean’s strong suit – yet he wants to take his time with you.

“Always taking such good care of me,” he whispers roughly, gently pinching your clit between his middle and ring finger. “My turn making my girl feel good.”

Using your previous methods on you now, he presses a soft kiss to your temple. His lips brush right against the edge of your bandaid. “My pretty girl,” he breathes, before his mouth wanders to your cheek, where he places another kiss.

“My smart girl, always using her pretty head to keep us alive.” God knows his words are true – your quick thinking and ability to stay level headed has saved the both of you out of dangerous situations more times than he can count.

One of his fingertips slips past your entrance, causing you to overhear whatever he adds to the list of compliments. You’re too distracted by the digit sinking deeper into your cunt with little resistance.

Your blush deepens further, fingers curling around the sink’s ceramic. Your eyelashes flutter and your eyes threaten to close, but Dean prevents your head from dropping low with a gentle nudge of his hand. His fingers tighten around your throat, firm enough to make you redirect your focus, but not enough to squeeze your windpipes, let alone hurt you in any way.

“Eyes on the mirror, doll,” he hums against your jaw. “Would be a shame if you were t’miss out on the show, huh? Look how pretty you are f’me, princess, all sensitive and needy.”

You squirm and whimper, struggling to follow his order with how he’s making your head spin. He’s not playing fair. How’re you supposed to focus on anything except him adding another finger to pump in and out of your cunt?

“Dean, please,” you moan, desperately trying to wiggle your hips. You aren’t even sure what it is you’re begging for, exactly. More of him. All of him. Not like you can’t already feel him throb against the curve of your ass.

“Wanna see you cum on my fingers first, baby,” he mumbles, nearly slurring over his own words. But the hand around your throat loosens its grip and he already moves it down to pull your pants lower. “Know you’re almost there, can feel you squeezing the shit out of my fingers.”

You half groan half sob, beyond flustered, but too far gone to argue back. Your legs are already shaking thanks to his fingers thrusting in and out of you and your breathing becomes more ragged with each intake of oxygen. You attempt to throw him a pleading glance through the mirror, but all you can see is your own messy state. Your gaze briefly flickers down, watching his thumb circle your clit in the reflection. However, your eyes are forced back up as Dean’s free hand winds up in your hair and pulls your head back until it’s settled against his uninjured shoulder.

“Eyes up here,” he quips and you’d want to wipe that smug smirk off his lips, were it not for his fingers curling inside of you and pushing you over the edge at last. Your mouth falls open and you cry out as liquid heat rushes through every fiber of your body. You see your own reflection, expression twisted into pleasure and bliss as your orgasm washes over you and you clamp down on Dean’s fingers. Your grip tightens around his wrist, which doesn’t stop him from guiding you through the ecstasy.

“So good for me,” Dean praises, or you think that’s what you hear in your hazy state. You’re still trying to catch your breath as he withdraws his hands from between your now sticky thighs. He brings it up to his mouth, giving his fingers a brief lick. You shudder in awe watching him. His pupils are blown wide, glistening tongue peeking out from those plump lips of his.

But he changes his mind at the last second.

“Not done with you yet, sweetheart,” he whispers and presses his fingers against your lips. You obediently open your mouth for him, welcoming his fingers in, though you flush more as you taste yourself on his skin.

Your walls flutter and clench around nothing just at that, but you have a feeling he’s about to do something about the empty feeling. He smirks knowingly, his cheek pressed against yours, your faces in the mirror side by side.

“Think I should show you how pretty you look taking my cock? I swear, it feels unfair that I’m always the only one who gets to enjoy the show.”

credit & links: ao3 ──〃★ dividers ──〃★ request here taglist: comment a green heart 💚 to be added to the dean x reader taglist (please note: ageless blogs will only be tagged in fluff and angst posts)

@winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126 @zepskies @hot-and-confused

@spookyfunhottub @calibootsgirl

[hey-must-be-a-devilbetween-us]

Just been thinking about how when Aziraphale said that 'Nothing Lasts Forever' and Crowley immediately took that in a totally different way than Aziraphale intended.

The look of surprise and confusion that quickly becomes desperation that takes over Aziraphale face as Crowley walks away, he calls out to him, begs him to come back to him, and quickly covers it up with 'to heaven.'

he didn't mean them, he would never mean them.

(a lot more under the cut)

the places would change, the circumstances would change, the people and the play and the drama would change, they have always had different seasons of their relationship.

but them, together, as always been as constant as the tides and the phases of the moon, even if they get separated for a month or a decade or a century, they always come back together.

Also been thinking about how Crowley doesn't have faith in a lot of things (for obvious reasons), but the most heart breaking is how he has no faith that underneath it all, no matter what, Aziraphale loves him and wants to be with him, even though he has a mountain of evidence of it.

Its been pointed out that Aziraphale this whole season has seemed to be trying to get closer emotionally to Crowley, 'shooting his shot.'

'Its our car, its our bookshop, its our plan to save Gabriel, take my hand lets dance while you tell me what's wrong my dear boy.'

More than just an arrangement, more than fraternizing, more then just friendly banter over drinks and food, it always was more, but now they can act like it, Aziraphale is going for it in his own way.

and Aziraphale is so obviously frustrated during the fight that Crowley doesn't see that.

but come on, you can't blame Crowley at this point, Aziraphale is effectively asking Crowley to change literally everything about themselves and forget a millennia of trauma and anger and guilt and self-loathing.

It sure makes it seem like Aziraphales love is now suddenly conditional on them changing.

I don't think Aziraphale sees it that way though right?

He doesn't see it as 'I will love Crowley more if they are an angel.' he sees it as 'Crowley will be happier as an angel surely? They will also be safer with that designation.' and 'any sacrifice will be worth it if it means we'll finally be able to be safe and together.'

See, I don't think Aziraphale even wants Crowley to be an angel again.

I think he's trying to convince himself that he wants that, which is what makes the Metatron offering that in the first place so damn insidious.

I think in his heart of hearts, appointing Crowley to be an angel again is just as much of a sacrifice to him as leaving his beloved bookshop, leaving earth with all its wonderful music and color and life and stories and people, but what does that say about him as an angel?

Everyone can sneer and look down on him for having affections for a demon but there is some plausible deniability that its just bad circumstances, Crowley just happens to be a demon but he's really very lovely once you get to know him, in spite of it all.

But like...giving Aziraphale the opportunity to make Crowley an angel again and he doesn't want to take it because...he loves Crowley exactly the way he is? That he may have had a crush on the angel he was, but it was truly The Demon Crowley that he fell in love with.

I think Aziraphale is gonna need some time to get brave enough to say that with his whole chest (but dear lord will it be wonderful when he does.)

And the Metatron knows this, and he knows Crowley is exactly who he is supposed to be, and so The Metatron knows that Crowley could never ever say yes to going back, it goes against his very nature, he knew that Crowley would take it exactly the way he did.

(Ergo more evidence that splitting them up is the whole goal because they're just too powerful together.)

So, Aziraphale is stuck in the worst way I can imagine.

He's given the opportunity to have everything he should want, so he's trying to make the best of it even though it decidedly isn't what he wants, because its evident that the meddling from Heaven and Hell isn't going away, the Metatron is giving him the path of least resistance, isn't that going along with Heaven as far as he can?

Every word he says to Crowley about how wonderful it will be and how this is an amazing opportunity and we'll be together and we'll make better choices, we'll make a difference.

Its trying to convince himself just as much.

I think Aziraphale is terrified of going back to heaven by himself, but what other choice does he have? He's terrified about what will happen if he doesn't, and not because of any explicit threat by the Metatron, but what it would imply about him, if they knew exactly how he felt about Crowley, what might they do to them both?

and that's why the Kiss™ is so horrible and beautiful at the same time, its harsh and it looks like it hurts when their teeth bump together and it is so desperate, but Aziraphale still clings to Crowley, trembling and whimpering (jesus christ sheen...)

More than an expression of romantic love (because by God herself have they expressed it in so many ways for thousands of years,) its a plea to stay, choose this, choose us.

And Aziraphale wants to, but he can't, and its agony, but how could he explain that to Crowley when he barely understands it himself, he doesn't recognize what the Metatron has done.

That's why Aziraphale seems just as angry at the kiss as he is fucking devastated, its not a 'how dare you kiss me,' its an 'how dare you kiss me right now, in this moment, when if it had came earlier everything might have been different."

"How dare you kiss me now to just let me know everything I'm giving up, and not just because you wanted to."

"How dare you make this our first kiss."

Aziraphale doesn't see the Kiss™ as the Hail Mary that it is, he sees it as a spiteful bitter thing, something that he has been yearning for forever being twisted into something to hurt him, but I think he can see the sadness and fear in it too, so he forgives Crowley for it.

And of course, Crowley takes that to mean, "I forgive you for kissing me when you know that's not how I feel, for trying to manipulate me." or something to that effect, either way its enough for him to leave the conversation, nothing more to say.

I think Aziraphales next arc is going to be all about being open and honest and brave, which is in exact juxtaposition to the traits that made him grow closer to Crowley in the first place and that's what really fucking gets me.

From giving away the flaming sword, the entire damn arrangement, trying to thwart the apocalypse, to the very fact that he loves Crowley.

"I'm a fallen angel! I lied! To thwart the will of God!"

"Yeah, ya did, but I'm not gonna tell anybody, are you?"

"Then nothing has to change."

Except it did, and it does, if they are to get their happy ending in their cottage in the south downs.

anyway, yeah that's all i wanted to say i think, how was your guys week so far?

gif credit:

@starklystar @raggedy-spaceman @spooks-ez

(if i missed anyone or miscredited pls lmk!)

cont in reply (i like what i wrote here so i'm trying to keep track lol)

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Guerriero

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Victor, Kevin and the rest of the band eventually, Bobby, Donna, and faceless Uber drivers

Word Count: 1978

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, hardcore jealousy, self loathing, funneling rage as productively as possible

Series Masterlist

It shouldn’t have bothered him. Hell, any other day and any other hand on the small of your back, he wouldn’t have even looked twice. But there was Donna and Jody’s manager guiding you out of the way of traffic, all smooth and handsome and available.

Dean couldn’t look away. He stood in the kitchenette on the bus, forgetting he was looking for some painkillers for his damn head when everything just stopped making sense. He watched as the both of you smiled and talked all the way up to the employee entrance, security passes in hand.

Goddamn Vic.

Instantly, Dean knew it was his fault. If he hadn’t let this thing with Bela go on this long, he might have been able to have a shot with you. If he hadn’t needed the reputation ‘Hail Mary’ that was dating Bela in the first place, maybe he’d have had the freedom to date whoever he wanted sooner. And maybe, if he hadn’t let Bela stay in his room the night before instead of bunking with you, you wouldn’t have been being chatted up alone by the opener’s manager.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

Dean slammed the cabinet closed and dropped onto one of the benches surrounding the table. His head fell into his hands and he tried to get a grip.

Breathe, damnit. 

He needed to breathe.

He had no right to be this pissed. You didn’t owe him anything. Least of all your loyalty. But god had he gotten used to it. Had even grown to expect it.

He started humming ‘Enter Sandman’ and let his breathing match the off beat of the rhythm. 

Somebody cleared their throat. Dean looked up to see a saucer-eyed Kevin staring at him and then looking everywhere else once he got caught.

“You good, man?”

“No.” Dean rubbed his eyes and put his head back down.

He would not punch another keyboardist. He would not punch another band member. Not even Sam.

Sam.

Where was that overgrown hair commercial when he needed him, anyway?

Kevin, God bless him, was still there. “Do you need anything?”

Dean needed to just fucking get it together.

“Can you find my brother for me, please?” Dean wiped his hand down his face. “Just find Sam.”

“On it.” Kevin had his phone out and was walking off the bus before Dean could even mutter his thanks.

Dean stayed on the bus. He didn’t know why, but it felt safest to not be in public. And to not risk seeing you or Victor again and therefore lose the last semblance of sanity he had left.

Several murder plots and a discarded flannel later, Sam’s text buzzed in Dean’s pocket.

He wasn’t even fucking at the venue yet.

Dean threw his phone at the driver’s seat headrest and miraculously it didn’t break.

He breathed again. He counted them harder.

He had tools to get out of this spiral. Missouri told him he could do it on his own. Breathing wasn’t working. But he could put this energy to use, he didn’t need to let it win.

What he did need was to get out of there.

Dean had no idea what, if anything, was said during his Uber ride home. Whatever, he’d rate the guy a five later. He’d tip like the fucking millionaire he was. 

But right now he just wanted to hit something.

The speed bag was too flimsy, too annoying for what had been building inside him for over an hour. Something he had held back on a simmer as long as he could. He didn’t take the time to wrap his knuckles, but he did shove his hands into the first pair of gloves he found, cushioning the worst of potential injuries.

The slap of the punching bag against his gloves was a forgotten clarity.

One-two

One-two

One-two, jab jab

Uppercut

Dean fully exhaled and recentered. 

One-two

One-two-three

One

One

One-two

He knew the anger was at himself. At his past actions and their consequences. But that knowledge didn’t help the force or scope of the emotion dwindle. Dean had always been his worst enemy. And he was damn good at it.

One

One-two

One

One-two-three

He tried to bounce on his feet, his bulky boots weighed down more than he liked. At least his logical brain was rebooting.

One-two

One-two

One-two

One-two-three

Dean felt his phone buzz against his thigh. He ignored it.

One

One

One-two

One-two-three

One-two

One-two

One-two-three

Dean punched until his knuckles ached and his back screamed at his terrible stance. Eventually he dropped the gloves and moved to the free weights. The rage left him slowly and then all at once.

Exhaustion hit him sometime after six o’clock, when he sat down and braved looking at his phone.

He didn’t open his messages or listen to any of the voice mails. Instead he called Sam and told him he was on his way, without detail or apology and then promptly hung up.

The Uber back took twice as long.

He still tipped.

“The fuck you been, boy?!” Bobby said before Dean could clear the service elevator. “We got people going out of their minds looking for you.”

Bobby had to book it to keep time with Dean’s pace at his age, but he was pissed enough not to say anything about it.

“I know, I’m sorry. I had to get my head on straight.---- Uh, anybody rat me out to the suits?” 

Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I have a death wish to you?” “Thanks, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed. “Yeah, well, you better kiss and make up with those girls. They were worried about your sorry ass, too. But first—”

“Dean Michael Winchester.”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks and turned on his heels, better to face the firing squad than to wait for the first bullet to break the skin.

“Pammy.”

“Do not. No. Do not ‘Pammy’ me. Answer your damn phone, asshole.”

Dean didn’t answer, he just walked up to her, looked into her piercing eyes, and waited her out. She exhaled and then stepped back, while looking him over.

“You good?” She held up his right hand to show she saw his raised knuckles.

“I’m good.”

“And the other guy?”

“Hanging in the rec room at home.”

Pam pursed her lips like she was ‘oh’ing at him and grinned. “That could be very kinky, but I catch your drift.”

“Who else I need to make nice with?”

Pam dropped her chin and glared. “Everybody.”

“But I think you should start with Trouble— or Charlie. Then maybe your girlfriend? Remember her? She’s not happy with you either.”

Oh, joy.

“Wait— what time is it? Isn’t Charlie already in the booth?”

“Yeah, can’t you hear that? Jody’s girls are on stage, genius,” Bobby broke in.

“Okay, lemme check in with Sam and see if I can find Trouble before we gotta set up.”

Dean felt Pam and Bobby share a look as he walked away, but he didn’t have the time or the patience to overthink anything at that point. Christ, somebody better have a friggin’ energy drink or he was gonna crash, hard.

Show number two was off to an amazing start.

If Dean survived this tour, he was giving himself a vacation. 

If.

Dean rushed through his warm ups. He chugged a Gatorade because he didn’t want to pass out on stage and polished it off with a 5 hour energy he got off of Kevin. Everybody was surprisingly cool once he arrived and got situated. Something told him it was because he was stone cold sober, but they had seen him at his worst. Everyone knew this was just a bump in the road, not a pitfall. Or so he hoped.

Annie gave him a hug and warned him not to scare her like that again.

With Charlie in the booth, who got only a cursory update over the walkies, that left you. But you had Bela in the VIP for that night’s show, which saved him another round of explanations and apologies, for the time being.

The dressing room was filled with activity, from Sam doing his hair and Pam doing Kevin’s eye liner to Lee putting on deodorant and Annie doing vocal runs in the corner. Dean threw on a fresh shirt before making sure his earpiece was in and his personal mic was secured. His hair was still damp since he threw it under a ball cap after showering at home one last time before they hit the road.

He coated his fingers in gel and played with it until it was close to his usual subtle peak.

“You all pretty enough, yet? Need ya out there, yesterday,” Bobby bellowed and held the door as everyone scrambled to head backstage.

The sounds of the fans sending off SPS thundered above them. Dean inhaled against the familiar anticipation squeezing his insides. As they snaked through the crew and the equipment, the stadium hummed with people milling about, hitting the restroom, or grabbing more drinks before they took the stage.

It felt good to be the headliner. Dean didn’t take that for granted. And if in ten or fifteen years they're no longer relevant and they end up playing county fairs or opening for the next big thing, Dean thinks he’d still do it. Because it’s not about his ego, it’s about giving a good show. About sharing something he made with somebody, the exchange of art, the experience of it. 

Being seen and heard, even in small increments, was so necessary to who he had become.

Breaking him out of his thoughts, Donna shrieked in surprise as the two bands passed each other. Dean couldn’t do anything but give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I know— I’ll see ya later.”

“Oh, you!” She shoved him playfully and let Dean get up on stage. There was never any bad blood there, even if he had them worried too.

Everything was right where it was supposed to be, and Dean slipped his guitar strap on, and got ready to rock. Second night setlists were almost negatives of the ones they planned for first nights. Not that many people could afford to go to both shows, but nonetheless they switched it up even if it was for their own sanity’s sake.

The lights came up and Sam and Dean started the opening riff and just as Dean’s voice broke through the speakers, Charlie cut the lights. “Black” was a tune they had played with a lot over the years, but never something they’d opened with. The fans shrieked over the opening line and then spots shot out over each of them as the song pushed on, churning together into something darker.

Lee held the last chord and the lights all came back up to ruckus applause.

Dean exhaled and braced himself for the next song. He hadn’t spoken to you about it since he sent you the album files, months ago now. Charlie eased the lights back into something more pensive and he centered up on the stage.

“Alright, so you might have heard we shared some of the new stuff with the folks last night.” He paused to let the crowd reply. “But, this one is new to everybody, lemme know whatcha think, alright?”

They started off with Pamela’s count, everyone together, united for ‘Pushing Through’. He thought about all those nights you called him just to check in, with nothing to say, besides just being your caring, thoughtful self. He closed his eyes to the thousands of people in front of him, even to those in the pit whose phones were all glaring at his face, and sang like you were the only person who would hear him.

He just wanted you to listen to him and everything he couldn’t say.

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

@brightlilith

@coldhearted93

@djs8891

@beautiful-places-blog

@n-o-p-e-never

Chapter 29: Obbligato

[reareaotaku]

I Loathe You [Mike's POV]

Loathe You & I Don't Wanna Be Your Friend, I Wanna Kiss Your Lips Summary: Mike has always had a strange feeling about you, but he's never really known why Pairings: Mean! Mike Wheeler x Mean! Reader Tw: Slight NSFW, First POV [I know, I hate it too] Taglist: @fxchild

"Jump off a cliff, you asshole."

"You first, princess." I roll my eyes, my face detorting in anger.

I didn't understand why the science teacher had paired us up, because I couldn't stand her & vice versa and everyone knew that. They always tried to make us get along, but there was just something about us that always ended up in fire. I felt weird around her and I hated the feeling; So, in turn, I hate her.

Granted, we shared the same group, job, and classes, it still wasn't enough to make us get along. I just couldn't stand her.

"Trust me, everytime I see you I hope to be shot execution style, but I also don't want your face to be the last thing I see."

Oh, that stung a little. I frowned, my eyebrows scrunching up, "Oh, don't worry," I turn to her, looking her dead in the eyes before tilting my head, "The feeling is mutual."

"Oh, isn't that great. For a second there I was worried you liked me."

"In your dreams." I spit out, feeling as if I had won.

"Only the scary ones."

Oh, that was kind of good, but I'd never admit that to her. All she needed was an ego boost; We all know it's already big enough. We are practically nose to nose, glaring at each other. Her nose was scrunched like a Who, but surely if looks could kill, I'd be dead with the way she was looking at me.

"God, can yall just fuck already and get over with it?"

I whip my head towards Lucas, frustrated. He always knew how to make everyone in a room angry and sometimes I was impressed.

"How about you fall down a case of stairs?"

"And break your arm over the ramps," I add, causing Lucas to put his hands up in defeat.

"Okay- Sorry, damn."

--

I could hear the group groan as I stare at the girl across from me. It was a staring contest and we were already almost an hour deep. I would never lose and have her insult me like a bitch, but if she were to lose- Well, my mind was racing with insults.

Staring at her made me realize she had nice eyes. They were a nice, cool, e/c. There was speckles of white from the light reflecting in her eyes and her outer pupil had a black outline that I could make out clearly. I liked her eyes... They were nice.

She blinks before my thought can get too gushy and I fistbump, "Haha! What a cockwhore," I smile causing her to groan and roll her eyes before demanding a rematch.

I knew the group had a slight suspicion that the group knew I liked looking at her, but I would never admit it. I hated the thoughts and the last thing I needed was them to know my dark secret. Maybe her competitive nature would come in my favor...

I don't even realize that I've blinked before a see a smirk on Y/n's face. I groan ass she cheers telling me that I get no pussy. I decide that I was tired of the silly game and go to my food when feeling my stomach rubble, but thankfully it didn't make an audible noise.

---

"We have a new hire."

I perked up at my managers words, before smiling, "Finally, I've been telling you for ages we need another server."

The tubby man gives me an annoyed look, before rolling his eyes, "She'll be starting in a few hours. I want you to train her."

"She?" I hadn't met to say it and I quickly covered my mouth as my eyes widened.

"Don't try anything, Wheeler."

"I wouldn't even think of it, Boss."

---

I watched as the clock ticked. The girl was supposed to be here any minute. I couldn't think of who it could be, but it was probably someone from school. The bell rung from the door and I turned around only for my mouth to drop-

"You've got to be fucking shitting me."

"Oh fuck. You work here?"

I groan before running a hand through your hair, "Out of all the places to work, you chose here?"

Y/n glares at me, "I could say the same thing to you."

I step up to her, before pointing at her chest, before taking it off when realizing I was to close to her tits, "I was here first, so if anyone should leave it's you. You can leave now actually and we could pretend this never happened."

"No way, you're not going to scare me away from a good job."

I feel my fist clench, but I turn away, "Whatever, come on, I guess I have to train you."

---

"I'm surprised you aren't fighting."

I sigh, clicking my tongue, "I'm here to get paid, not fight with her."

Lucas leans on his hand, smiling, "Oh? You know," He looks over at Max, "Don't you think Y/n looks good in that uniform? Maybe you'd look good, too?"

"Don't push it," She gives him a knowing look and Lucas quickly shuts up.

I look back at her, like really look at her. She did kind of look nice- When she wasn't frowning, which she was. Though, if you ignored that, she looked kind of angelic. The light shaped her face while her hair sweeped around her. I shake my head, quickly ridding myself of the thoughts.

"What do you think, Mike?"

"What?" I look at Lucas confused

"What do you think of Y/n in her uniform?"

"She's fine- I mean, it's a uniform, she has to wear it, so it's not anything special. It's just some clothes."

"Right... Just some clothes," Lucas looks over at Max, who was already giving him some knowing look.

"What? Why did you both look at each other like that?"

Lucas holds his hand out in surrender, "Nothing! I swear!"

"So, do you guys want the usual?"

"Yeah," Max hands me her menu, before I write it down on my little notepad.

Though, as I'm writing I hear Lucas mumble under his breath.

"Some clothes you want her to take off,"

"What did you say?" I push, causing Lucas' eyes to widen and he quickly shakes his head.

"Nothing! I didn't say anything."

"I heard you!" I lean in when realizing that Y/n was looking at me. She probably thought I was a mad man. Besides, I didn't want her to hear me "I. Do. Not. Want her to remove her clothes. In fact, I want her to put more on, so I don't have to see all her skin."

"Man, if you say so." Max rolls her eyes, pushing some hair out of her face

"It's okay, Mike. We all go through the denial stage."

"I am not in denial."

"Of course you're not."

I roll my eyes, before flipping him off and going to the kitchen to put in the order. I head towards the back, passing the girl of the hour. She was scrubbing the counter, obviously frustrated. It seemed had accidentally poured syrup on the counter. I looked her up and down while her back was turned and I realized something. The uniform did look good on her, but I was biased I liked her in everything.

I frowned when the thought entered my mind and I looked away from her. I groan, accidentally crushing the ticket in my hand. I look down before facepalming. I am such an idiot.

---

My back was turned and it all happened so fast. One minute Y/n was fine and the next she was on the floor with the Demogorgon standing over her. I didn't even think when I grabbed a pipe and hit the back of the creatures head, effectively causing it to retreat.

"Y/n- Y/n," I grab her arm, where a large wound was. Something inside me stirred and if that creature hadn't retreated, I don't know what I would have done, but I would have done bad. Like killed it by beating it over and over. I picked her up, before bringing her to my car. As I sit in the driver seat, I glance at her through the rearview mirror. I feel my fist clench around the wheel, but I take a deep sigh before shaking my head.

---

I sat her down on the toilet before I started digging through the cabinets, looking for the First Aid Kit.

"Ugh, what happened?"

I look back at her, before frowning, "You were knocked out... you know, by the Demogorgon."

There's a moment of silence, before I finally found the kit. I smile to myself, before taking it out and grabbing her arm to fix her up. I hear her grimace in pain and I let out a quick apology. As I clean her up, I feel weird. Just earlier today we had been going at each other like wild dogs, but now here I was patching her up.

"I'm sorry, Mike."

I look up at her, confused. I tilt my head, "What?"

"I'm sorry. For everything. All the fights, all the arguments you know-"

"It's fine," I interrupt. "I kind of look forward to our fights. You know? It's become routine." I joke, wrapping her arm up. I smile looking at my work. God, I'm good.

"Well, I'm sorry and thank you for patching me up."

"It's nothing..."

It went quiet... Too quiet... I had to break the silence. I didn't necessarily know how, but I couldn't stand the silence. So, I decided to tell her how I felt.

"You know, when I saw you..." I pause. I look at her, my brows scrunching together, "bleeding... I think I died a little when I saw it. Something inside of me- I don't know, but I wanted to kill that stupid Demogorgon." I grab her hand, fiddling with it, "I don't want to see anything bad to happen to you."

"Wow, Mike. I didn't know you felt that way about me."

"Of course. You're my friend." The word friend comes out like acid from my mouth. I didn't want to be her friend- Not anymore- I wanted to so much more, but seeing the circumstances, it was probably best to keep it to myself

"We're friends?"

I huff, frowning at her words, "Yeah. At least I think we are."

"Huh, I thought you hated me-"

I look at her, wide-eyed, "Hate you? I thought YOU hated me-"

"You're always hating on me," She says, over exaggerating her non hurt hand.

I smirk, before letting out a chuckle, "What? I'm only returning your energy!"

She rolls your eyes, looking away from me, "Yeah... If we were friends, I think I'd miss our fighting."

"Who says we have to stop fighting?"

I see a smirk grow on her face, "Yeah, if stopped fighting everyone would question it."

"Right. The last thing I want is for them to be like 'So you guys finally fucked?'" I air quote before rolling my eyes. I smile when she laughs at my joke.

"Yeah, that would be pretty annoying, huh?"

---

I felt weird around her. Things were different and I'm sure everyone could sense it. She was acting weird as well, which didn't help the anxiety that was slowly building inside of me. I decided to approach her to see if she okay.

"Hey, are you okay?"

She seems to snap out of it as she looks at me. "Uh-Yeah- Yeah, I-uh yeah, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You seem a little out of it." I frown, concern filling my voice. She wasn't being herself and it was bothering me.

"Yeah," She crosses her arms, avoiding eye contact. "Everything's fine."

I wasn't an idiot. I knew everything wasn't fine. I didn't know if I should push it, but it was seeming she didn't want to talk about it. I look over at her arm seeing the bandages were clean, "Your arm looks better," I reach for her arm, lightly caressing the bandages. She pulls back, causing me to frown. Did I do something wrong? I sigh, looking around the empty restaurant, before I look back at her, "Come on, let's close up and I'll drive you."

---

I tap the wheel, enjoying the silence. I felt at peace, but the thought of her acting different started to plaque my mind again. I frowned, before deciding to drive a different route. It seemed she noticed, because she speaks up.

"Um, Mike, I'd hate to be a backseat driver, but I think you missed the turn to my house."

"We're not going to your house."

"What?"

I pull to the side of the road and park the car, before finally turning to her. "I just wanted to talk to you. You're acting weird."

"Weird? I'm not acting weird."

I frown, turning my full body towards her. "I made fun of you when you dropped a person's drink and you just said 'Yeah, I should be more careful,' in a monotone voice."

"Monotone? That's a big word, huh?"

"See, like that. You said it in that voice. Did I do something wrong?"

"What? No- I mean, uh I don't know... This is weird, you know?"

"What's weird?"

It was weird? What was it? Did she think this new found peace was weird? I thought it was nice to finally be friends with each other. Was I wrong? Did I mistake our relationship? My thoughts stop when I hear her groan and I look at her bandages see they were all bloody. I watch as she reaches for it, smearing blood on her fingers.

"Have you been changing your bandages?" I wanted to facepalm when the words left my mouth. Of course she had, they had been clean before. It seemed she thought the same, because she responds with a sarcastic-

"No, Mike, I'm not. Why would I do that?"

"Sorry, it was a dumb question, "I sigh, "Why is there blood though? Here give me your arm." I don't give her a chance to respond as I pull her arm towards me and slowly remove her bandages.

"Why are you taking the bandages off? You don't have new ones-"

"Actually-" I let go of her arm, opening the glove box to where there were wrapped bandages. I felt a blush rise to my face, hoping she didn't ask why they were in the glove box. I didn't need her to know I put them in there for her.

"Wow, I never expected you to be prepared."

"Well, when you're always getting attacked by monsters, you kind of have to become prepared for everything."

I frown when I finally get the bandage off. It seems the wound had reopened. "Your wound reopened."

"Oh, is that what happened?"

I glare up at her, before unraveling the new bandages, "It might have happened at work or something... You're lucky I had bandages."

"The luckiest." She sarcastically respond, causing me to groan.

I close my eyes tight, my grip also tightening around her. I open my eyes, looking directly at her. I was frustrated, because it felt like nothing I did would make her happy. "I don't know why you're acting like this. I'm trying, like really trying. I want us to be friends and I don't want to fight with you anymore. Believe it or not, I do care about you... I just... uh, I guess I never realized it until recently. I wish you would stop trying to push me away."

"Well, it's going to take time to be friends. We've fought for so long."

I loosen my grip, before rubbing the area with my thumb. "Yeah.. Time. How can we be friends over time if you just push me away though?"

"I don't push you away. I just... How am I supposed to know you're not going to make me into some big joke."

"Oh yeah," I roll my eyes, before pointing at myself. "I, the guy part of possible the biggest loser club in the world with a shirt that tells the world that, am going to embarrass YOU," I point to her, before chuckling, "A girl who has more friends than I've ever had. Even if I was, who would I embarrass you in front of? Everyone hates me-"

"Everyone doesn't hate you. They just think you're weird."

"Well," I turn back towards my wheel, no longer facing her, "Maybe I like being weird."

"Yeah, I've always liked that about you. You are unapologetically yourself."

I could feel a small smile grow on my face. She liked me? Okay, so maybe she didn't say that, but it was close enough. I turn my head towards her, "You know... I've always liked your hair- and eyes." I make sure to say it fast, so she can't call me on my hesitation.

I hear her chuckle. God, I loved her laugh, it was refreshing like lemonade on a hot day. It was like a s'more in the middle of the woods.

"I like your hair too, even if most people don't like mullets," She grabs my hand, causing me to blush, "And your hands. God I love your hands, they're so pretty. And your legs. I like how long they are."

I let out an awkward laugh, trying to not get to red. I felt a tent grow in my pants, which was the worse thing that could happen at this moment. I shake my head, think of an old grandma to get rid of the boner, which thankfully worked.

"Man, take me home-"

"What, you don't want to tell me more about how much you like my body?" I couldn't believe the words left my mouth, though I'm glad they did. I wanted her to compliment me again.

"Not necessarily your body."

I huff, which causes her to back track on her words.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yeah? How did you mean it?"

"I don't know... Now take me home, seriously. My dad's probably worried."

"Okay, Princess, whatever you want."

[dellalyra]

FAMILY FORMATIONS - PART FOURTEEN

Summary: Shibuya.

CW: angst, violence, lots of it, anger, angst, blood, violence - Shibuya. Need I say more.

A/N: So this is nearly more of an experiment in writing for me so forgive how shit it is. This is gonna be the last plot-centric part for a while then we’re going back to what Family Formations does best - tooth-rotting domestic fluff <3

Recommended Listening:

Me & The Devil - Soap&Skin

Fear and Loathing - Marina

Murder in My Mind - Kordhell

GOODMORNINGTOKYO - TOKYO’S REVENGE

Scrambling – sprinting – running as fast as you can, your lungs are raw from screaming and fighting for hours now. The smell of smoke is putrid as everything collapses around you.

You felt it - Satoru’s gone.

He’s captured, you’re alone.

You had heard names whispered around.

You needed to find someone – anyone, you needed to find someone alive, the hordes of transformed people had been pushed to you by Mei Mei – your claws and fangs show no signs of retracting now they’re all dead. There’s too much adrenaline coursing through your body for you to slow down or properly comprehend anything that happened – or even feel the slash bleeding down your back. You can’t concentrate long enough to transform with your technique into something faster or with better vision.

The shouts of your husband’s defeat and imprisonment resonated through your skull and just wouldn’t quiet down. Hope felt like it was slipping through the cracks caused by Sukuna’s rampage in the pavement. You had the blood of several hundred on your body – your feral technique and anger and grief over the loss of your husband and fear for your loved ones transformed into sheer rage as you slashed and twisted and tore your way through the curses littering the station which were blocking civilians exit. You knew you’d saved thousands of lives single-handedly that night.

But you’d lost.

Noritoshi Kamo and Miwa had somehow ended up with you through everything, and you followed a signal from the airborne Momo and simultaneously you and Kamo notched arrows with a view of Mai and a sniper rifle in the distance.

Just as you turned to loose your arrow.

You saw him.

A walking ghost.

The bow and arrow dropped as Kamo loosed his arrow and Mai made her shot.

But no sound of weapon art would drown out the ragged scream your body released.

Frozen in place you watched events unfold like you were in a dream. So this was how they got Satoru.

You walked forward into the clearing. You suddenly felt 17 again.

“Oniisan?”

The body turned to you.

He moved like him. He looked like him. He spoke like him.

But it wasn’t him.

“Ah! Welcome to the fray, it’s been a long time hasn’t it, little Dryad? What was it I called you? Oneesan?” The body asked.

“It wasn’t you who called me that. It’s was Suguru Geto. You – you are someone else. You have taken and defiled my best friends corpse and imprisoned my husband. I will kill you, you sick fuck!”

“You certainly have the spirit and temper of the women of your family. Your great great grandmother was very similar.” He easily deflected your arrow before sidestepping the vines grasping for his ankles.

That gives you pause – great great grandmother?

But before you could move another muscle, the man is turning away and you’re being dragged away by Utahime as you thrash against her.

“Greetings, Choso.”

A tall, broad man clad in purple has entered the clearing. Who is this?

“Ah, it appears you have noticed.” Pseudo-Geto says to the newcomer.

The rage coming from this Choso rivals your own – but it’s directed at your apparent common enemy.

“NORITOSHI KAMO!” He screams and simultaneously all (modern) heads whip to look in shock at the 17 year old Kamo heir, seeing the surprise on his own face.

You stop thrashing away from Utahime’s grasp and stare at her.

“Utahime if that’s Kamo – then…” you say.

“The thing inside Geto is over 150 years old!”

You’d read many accounts of the blight on the Kamo Clan, the most nefarious sorcerer to exist.

“How dare you try to make me kill my little brother Yuuji Itadori?!” This Choso screams.

Wait, what?

And before you know it Choso is fighting tooth and nail for Yuuji and you’re sure of your theory – he is also a Kamo, but he must be one of the death painting wombs that Noritoshi Kamo created. Noritoshi is his father, but how is Yuuji related? He’s not a Kamo. But, if… no, that’s crazy. If Noritoshi had been surviving by moving body to body, then maybe - it’s true. A death painting womb has blood connections to its siblings, so Choso would know. You’re grateful you paid attention in cursed object theory in high school.

And speak of the devil, beside you, beside Panda – is Yuuji. You scream his name and he looks to you and you almost cry in relief he’s alive. He’s badly injured and there’s something hollow in his eyes. Yet, now is no time for reunions.

Panda moves to attack but before any of you can make a move to retrieve the prison realm holding your husband and father of you children, a wave of ice encases your allies. Your body had protected itself subconsciously by wrapping yourself in your sunbeam technique – making you too hot for ice to approach.

Opening your eyes, only yourself Yuuji, Momo, and Choso were not frozen.

“You could try calling me big brother once you know?” You hear Choso say as you approach the duo.

“Take this seriously!” Yuuji replies.

“Yuuji! I think he might be right! I’ll explain later – we have to get Satoru!” You unfurl the tendrils of ivy from your hair and begin to focus.

But once again – you don’t get a chance.

Because in front of you stands your saving Grace – the woman you idolised since childhood.

“It’s been a while, Geto, can I get your answer from before? What kind of girls are you into?”

Yuki Tsukomo – one of the four other special grade sorcerers apart from yourself.

You ran to Yuuji, checking him for damage.

“Y/N. I’m –” he starts to say before you hush him and press a kiss to the top of your head, shaking your head because you can’t handle him apologising now - you’re too raw.

Yuki was stalling Geto. You didn’t know why, but you trusted her.

A rumble hit the ground and you finally tuned into the conversation despite your ringing ears.

“I’ve marked people as vessels, non sorcerers given abilities. Many have been in a deep slumber since I chose them, but as of this moment - they’ve awoken.”

Deep slumber? Cursed? Oh god. Please, not her too.

“Are you listening Sukuna? The Heian age has returned!” Geto shouts, gleeful and proud as hundreds of cursed spirits emerge from him, spirits Geto has absorbed through the years.

He reaches his arm into his sleeve, and produces a box. A cube. Covered in eyes, big, shining blue eyes held by your son Akio – inherited by

“Satoru!”

“Gojo-sensei!”

And with that he is gone.

Your first instinct now that he’s gone – your son. Where is Megumi? You sprint around, shaking shoulders of everyone you know – desperate to locate your son.

Utahime approaches you.

“Iori! Have you seen Megumi? I have to find him. Satoru – he –” she pulls you into her chest, still smelling like the perfume you bought her for Christmas.

“Y/N. Listen to me. I don’t know where he is, but you have to listen.” The panicked look in your eyes made you looked crazed. She hadn’t seen this side of you since the Star Plasma Vessel incident.

“Y/N. Satoru has been named an enemy of the jujutsu society and a law has been made that he must stay sealed. Y/N, you’re counted in that. The elders want you dead, they say you and Gojo were conspiring with Geto. Yaga has been arrested, he’s been sentenced to death – for inciting the violence. The stay on Itadori’s execution has been lifted - he’s to be executed on sight, Yuuta Okkutsu has been named his executioner.” She steadies you, keeping you upright.

Your face changes from fear to anger.

“Y/N, we will get Gojo out. For now, you need to find Megumi, and get Yuuji and get out of Shibuya. Get Akio away, hide him. Okay? We’ll get him out Y/N.” She says.

You pull her into your chest.

“Thank you, Utahime. I love you.” You say. Your face has turned to stone. The warrior in you has returned and you’re currently planning your next move. You turn away, whipping out your phone. The veil is down and you can call your mother.

“Momma listen, I’m okay. You need to listen to me. I don’t have long. Satoru has been captured, by Noritoshi Kamo - he’s in the Prison Realm (your mom screams), him and I have been named traitors because Kamo is in the body of Suguru Geto. Mom, please, just let me talk – I don’t have – momma! They want to kill the kid, sukuna’s vessel, I need to find Megumi. Tsumiki, I think she’s part of Kamo’s plan. Yaga is to be executed – our allies are hurt or dead. I don’t know where most people are. I think most are dead. You need to get Akio out of the country. Take him - don’t tell me where. It’s not safe for me to know. Keep him hidden, and keep him safe. In my jewellery box is a baby bracelet – put it on him and he and you will be untraceable. Whatever you need – talk to Gojo’s uncle, he’s at the estate. I love you, I love Akio – please let me talk to him.”

The phone is passed to your toddler son.

“Hi baby boy,” you are trying so hard not to cry, you have to hold it together.

“Mama! Hi mama! Nana momma and papa working!”

“Yeah baby, momma and papa are working – you go with nana okay? Going on an adventure. Akio, I love you so much, my beautiful little boy - you’re our angel and papa loves you so very much too. I have to go help Megumi okay? I love you baby, be good for nana.” You let out a sob, resolve cracking.

“Momma – I gotta go. I’m going to fix this. I’m going to keep everyone safe.” And with that you hung up.

You take a deep breath and grip your arm, the vines tattooed with Satoru, Megumi, Tsumiki and Akio lacing in elegant letters through the leaves reminding you why you’re still standing.

You stand for them.

You shake your head, focus, Y/N. Save your babies.

Yuuji. You have to find him. He’ll know where Megumi is. Wait, where’s Nobara? Toge? Maki?

You walk into the direction you saw Yuuji leave, and you see a pink shock of hair beside a head adorned with two spiky buns.

Yuuji – and Choso.

They’re sitting on the steps.

You sprint to him.

“Yuuji! Where is he? Where’s Megumi? Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

His jaw is tense.

“He – he used Mahoraga, Y/N. I –” you collapse on the ground. That was suicide.

“No! He’s alive! I promise, but Sukuna – he saved him. He’s plotting something with Fushiguro. He’s badly injured, but alive.” You fling your arms around him and feel Yuuji wilt in your arms.

“Y/N. Nobara – she, I don’t know if she’s alive. Sukuna, me, he killed so many people, it’s all my fault. But I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t – Nanamin, he’s, he’s dead.” He croaks into your neck, his mentor killed in front of him and he’s apologising to you.

Hearing Akio’s godfather was dead, best man at your wedding, star of every Thursdays Kooking With Kento at your home as you made dinner together. You felt a fresh wave of sobs and you let them escape. Later, you’d mourn later.

“You did everything you could, Yuuji, it’s okay. You brave, brave boy. You’re not at fault. You’re so strong.” He pulled himself from your grip and wiped his eyes.

You saw Choso, from the corner of your eye. He stood, sheepishly and curiously watching the exchange.

“I need to find Megumi – but Yuuji, you need to come with me. The execution order has been brought up and I’m a wanted woman. We need to get away from here.” You look at him.

The sound of footsteps crushing the debris echoes through the empty street.

“Well well well, it must be my lucky day. The traitorous harlot and Sukuna’s rampaging vessel served to me on a platter. What honour the head of the Zen’in clan will bring to society by killing you both.”

That voice. That grating fucking voice.

How many days had you spent since childhood fighting with the owner of that fucking voice.

“Naoya Zen’in. You lecherous cunt. Here to revel in the death and misery like the reaper you are?”

You spit out at him, pushing Yuuji behind you.

“See – bitch. This is why I never liked you. God, you’re beautiful – such a goddess among women and you’ve already proven yourself fertile with the Gojo brat but your issue is your mouth. Such a shame, a waste of a perfect breeding bitch if you ask me: perfect body, pretty face, esteemed lineage, powerful technique but you just can’t shut that whore mouth can you?” He leers, eyeing your body like meat.

Your snarl in response makes even Choso grimace.

“If you just learned to be a nice girl, sit still and just look pretty – then I’d have married you in an instant. You’d be a pleasure to knock some kids into, just all that temper and ego. Oh well, your protectors gone now, so you’re fair game to kill. I’m now head of the Zen’in family –”

“God Naoya, you really never got smarter did you? Even after all those years in school you’re still a dense bastard. You’re not the Zen’in Clan head, if Naobito is dead – which I’m guessing he is, good riddance I say, and Satoru Gojo is dead or in any way incapacitated – Megumi Fushiguro will be named head of the clan, as per the deal made with Toji.” You smirk, knowing you’ve the upper hand here.

He clicks his tongue. His displeasure is palpable.

“Such a smart mouth. Of course that’s the case, but, I’m going to kill Itadori and you, and then – it would hardly come to fruition if Megumi Fushiguro was dead now, would it?” He smirks.

And that was the flash lit to the powder keg.

“Oh Naoya, I’ve wanted to beat the ever living fuck out of you for so long – you sexist prick.” And with that, years of rage renewed by threats against you and your kids, and insults to your family kick you into 6th gear.

“Yuuji Itadori, I have been appointed your executioner and I am here to put you to death.” A familiar voice calls out from above.

Yuuta.

God, he’s grown. Several inches taller, his hairs shorter and he looks so healthy. He’s filled out, almost 19 now. Not a boy anymore, but a man.

A man, who is trying to kill the boy you’re shielding.

“Step aside, Gojo-San.” He calls as him jumps down from the bridge.

“Ah, you must be Okkotsu. I’m here for the Gojo whore - I’ll leave the vessel to you. I propose an alliance, given our common goals.”

The ringing in your ears returned, surely, Yuuta wouldn’t kill Yuuji? He’d promised Satoru.

He’d promised to protect him if anything happened.

Why would he do this? This wasn’t Yuuta.

Wait – no. It’s not Yuuta. Yuuta is honest, and true to his word. He is also smart and will one day surpass both you and Satoru in talent.

“I’m afraid, I must ask you again to step aside Gojo-San.”

Yuuta never called you that, he just called you Y/N.

“I made a promise to those I respect and trust. I must keep my promises.” Yuuta looks at you.

He doesn’t mean the elders.

He means you and Satoru.

He’s praying to anyone that you’ll understand.

“Yuuji Itadori must die.” Reversed Curse Technique.

You squeeze Yuuji’s hand.

“We can defeat them. Choso – stick with me. Yuuji, you’re with Okkotsu.” As you turn – you whisper ‘trust me’ into Yuuji’s ear. Choso and Yuuji together would hinder the plan, so you needed Choso to stick with you.

You needed to get Choso angry.

“Naoya, you’d forsake your brothers just for power?”

And with that, the thought of fratricidal tendencies – Choso was off. With Naoyo distracted by Choso, you nod at Yuuta – giving him your go ahead. You trusted this man with your life, and the lives of everyone around you. He wouldn’t fail you.

You turned to your personal mission.

“Naoya Zen’in! Too scared to fight me? Scared you’ll lose to a girl?” You shout at him, you didn’t need your bow for this – you tossed it to the side. Fangs and claws and vines weaving out of you. You wanted to do this up close and personal.

And with that you, Choso and Naoya were a flurry of blood red, forest green and shadows. There was no way either of you would match his speed – but that’s okay. It was two versus one and you quickly found out that you and choso fought incredibly well side by side.

Naoya’s continued taunts only fuel your fury. He wants to kill your son. He would kill Megumi just for a title. He had bullied and threatened the women of the sorcery world for so long that all of this was something you could not allow to continue.

Naoya Zen’in has to die.

Choso has him pinned, poisoned by his own blood. You grab your daggers, from where they are holstered on your thighs.

You stand above him.

“Choso – go to your brother.” You say.

And he does. Leaving you and a fatally injured Naoya laying on the ground.

“The women of the world will sing praises of your death, Zen’in and I will forever be proud that it was made you sent you to hell. Let this be a lesson. Don’t touch my fucking kids.”

And with that, you sent a dagger through his temple. A quick death. More than he deserved.

You move to where you sense the boys you’re with. Their energy is heavy.

Choso is standing beside Yuuji, a scene you expected. A fire lit, Yuuta sitting on one side, Yuuji laying – covered in blood but recovering on the other.

“Ballsy move, Yuuta.”

All heads turn to you, and Yuuta stands and you wrap him in a hug.

“I knew you’d understand. I couldn’t risk fighting you too – this was the only way. Thank you, Y/N.”

“No, Yuuta. Thank you. You kept your promise to Satoru and I’m eternally grateful.” You squish him into you. Why are all your kids so much taller than you?

Turning to the brothers.

“Thank you, Yuuji. For trusting me. I’m sorry that this had to happen. But Satoru had contingencies in place for an event such as this.” You say, Yuuji’s haunted eyes look up to you.

“I always trust you, and Gojo Sensei. Dying isn’t fun – but if it’ll keep everyone safe then I’ll do what I need to do.” You stand beside him.

“You’re as good as a son to me Yuuji. You’re safe as long as the Gojo’s are here. This guy too, apparently.” You say, nudging Choso.

“The man in the street?” He asks.

“Dead.” You reply.

“I am sorry for the part I played in your husband’s imprisonment.” He says, facing you.

“You protected Yuuji, and saved us both. We both share the commitment to fight for our families - we’re gonna be really good friends Choso Kamo.” And the death painting womb is exceptionally confused by the way you wrap your arms around his chest and squeeze, but he returns the ‘hug’ and feels a sense of peace.

As you pull away, you’re glad to be beside Choso and Yuuta – the days event seem to have caught up to you. You lose your footing and the world swirls around you. You’ve used so much cursed energy today.

Satoru - he’s gone. Who knows where.

Faced a ghost.

Sent your son off to a place that you can’t know.

Learned your adopted daughter is cursed and a tool in a war.

Had to let a boy you trust kill another boy you love.

Defended your son to the point of killing.

And lost a fuck lot of blood from the wound your adrenaline had helped you ignore.

“I’m okay – I just, Choso can you use your blood manipulation to stop the bleeding? Im guessing your reversed out, Yuuta?” The boys fuss over you and when you feel stable – you turn to Yuuji – a crying mess of a shell of a boy.

You scramble and pull him into you.

“I’m here, you’re safe. I’m so sorry Yuuji. For everything.” You croon.

“I killed so many people. I deserve the death penalty. Sukuna came out and it was a bloodbath.”

Yuuta sat down too.

“You aren’t to blame.” Yuuta says. Decidedly sure in his voice.

Just as the boy goes to respond, a voice sounds out.

“Itadori. What are you doing? Let’s head back to Jujutsu High.”

“Fushiguro.”

“MEGUMI!”

He hadn’t spotted you behind Choso’s imposing frame.

“Mom! I thought – I thought you were gone too. I thought - you’d go for him. Shit, I thought they had you too.” He stumbles into your arms and you collapse holding him.

“God I was so worried I’d lost you. I couldn’t find you anywhere.” You say.

“Megumi. You know don’t you?” You say, brushing his hair from his face.

“Tsumiki.” He says, face grave.

You’re distracted by counting the cuts on Megumi’s face, you vaguely hear talking.

“So start by saving me, Itadori.” Now you’re listening.

“Noritoshi Kamo has made plans for those involved with Jujutsu to face off in a Culling Game.” Megumi claims,

“And Tsumiki is ensnared in that. So I’m begging you, Itadori. I need your strength.”

Yuuji can never say no to Megumi. God you hope these two get their happy ending.

“Like hell am I letting you boys go in alone.”

“Mom – it’s not safe. Akio –” Megumi immediately rejects this.

“Akio is safe, don’t forget who you’re speaking to boys. I might be your mom – but I am also Y/N of the Y/L/N clan. I’m the first person to hold my technique in 600 years - I’m the head of my clan. A special grade sorcerer. Wife of the strongest sorcerer alive and mother of the head of the Zen’in clan. There is no woman more influential or strong as me alive. Today, I nearly lost most of my kids, all but one of my best friends are dead and the other is back from the grave, my husband was taken, my eldest son used a technique he knew would kill him and then sorcery’s biggest bully came to execute both of my sons – and I responded by stabbing a dagger through his skull. Do not underestimate me, boys.”

“Megumi – putting all of that aside. I have 3 children. One is hidden, and safe – the other two are being sent into a death match. I vowed to protect you all with my life. That is what I’m doing. You – are my son, and I am always by your side.” You clutch his burned cheek in your palm. Pressing a kiss to his temple. A part of you is nostalgic for the days you didn’t feel any stubble on those soft cheeks – just baby soft skin. He wanted to protect you now, but no matter how grown they get - you’re still their momma.

You stand up, holding his hand – and gesture to the boys to do the same.

“Where are we going, Y/N?” Yuuji asks.

“We’re going to get my fucking husband out of that box and end this shitshow, let’s go boys.”

[goblins-riddles-or-frocks]

@redmapleleavesonwhitesnow

The episode is really interesting because they clearly have a roadmap in Fire & Blood, but the execution was just kind of poor. I know they were filming during the writers’ strike and they had completed scripts. But writers are typically also on set during filming, and HOTD proceeding without any writer input… shows lol. I think that might be why the vibes were just kind of off despite the plot being pretty sound?

Personally I found the episode pretty directionless and without its own succinct throughline. The most egregious example for me was Rhaenyra’s plot. She is ostensibly the protagonist but she had absolutely nothing to do. All of her scenes where she’s just looking a little upset or angry, literally amounted to what was accomplished by the two second shot of her at the end of the season one finale. They did not cover any new ground with her whatsoever???

Meanwhile with the Greens, I think opening with that time jump after Luke’s death and not having any direct reactions to it was a mistake. It’s really odd the way everyone was kind of glossing it over. It felt like it should be more of a game changer. No one was like “why did you kill a child, you were not supposed to be doing that??” lmao. And while we see them kind blame him for the conflict a little, it’s not either any particular urgency or anger lmao. It sounds like they’re just like “Oh well it’s Aemond. He’s stupid, he does things like this.” There’s hardly any emotional element to the stakes when they’re considering like does it even mean now that Luke is dead and there’s likely no peace to be had between them anymore? They’re so blasé about it.

Last season I thought it was a fantastic choice to have Aemond kill Luke *on accident.* It looked like he was just trying to scare him, and like while those were dangerous circumstances and it probably would’ve resulted in his death anyway lol it’s obvious that he wasn’t trying to kill him in that moment at least? We get that shot where it’s clear that he’s in shock and kind of terrified of having done something like that and it’s so good! But frankly, why even bother having that beat if you’re not going to do anything with it? There’s just nothing. They could’ve gotten much more mileage out of the Greens processing and reacting to that information. Like Alicent being like “why the fuck did you do that???” and him either being like “I’m sorry, mom, I didn’t mean to 😞” or having to own it and be like “yeah I killed him and it was totally on purpose!” because saying that he definitely pushed them to war on accident would’ve been infinitely worse.

There’s also no development there in terms of his character and who he is as a person. At the moment, he seems to be pretty ready to just like go out and kill things, which fair, but how does that relate to the fact that he accidentally killed Luke? He has a history of being pretty vicious and he did attack the kids previously with a with a knife— which is what resulted in him losing his eye. And he has always been the angry one, the cruel one, but none of that context seems to come into play wrt how he relates to this, when there was so much that could be done.

And that’s a thread that continues with the rest of the Greens too. They also did absolutely nothing with Aegon. He was built up in the previous season as kind of a vile gross little rapist. He’s set up as just an awful, person, but then he gets this particularly humanizing moment when we see him trying to run away when he’s been named king, and that glimpse of patheticness and self loathing. And there’s really none of that in that pilot? Frankly I did actually enjoy the kind of workplace comedy element of him and Otto struggling. Or him just being like “yeah, so Aemond can just hop in the family car and go like scare some people into declaring for us or mow them over if they don’t idk” Like he’s kind of his silly, but there isn’t much substance there. We don’t see him forcing himself to be more present as king because he knows that he has no other choice and they are at war (and what other way can he get his Mom’s approval?) Nor do we even see him being exceptionally cruel by medieval king standards. Like we didn’t see him go Joffrey, in terms of constant cruelty and abusing his newfound power to make himself feel bigger. He’s not even like miserably unequipped to be king? His mistakes seem more like he’s just untested and also being undermined by Otto. It’s just such a tepid take?

Moving on to Alicent. So I think it’s an INSANE choice to just tell us that she and Criston are/have been fucking without any build up to how that comes about. To be clear I think it’s a galaxy brained progression, don’t I don’t dislike it. But the way that episode literally opens with Criston giving her head, and then Alicent immediately after being like “this can never happen again” implying it’s the first time, but showing none of the character interaction that got there or what exactly they’re feeling about it seems like such a waste. If you’re just telling me that these characters are fucking, without any of the emotional context for why this matters or what this does or does not mean to them, why should I care, you know? It’s just such a missed opportunity. Like theres nothing compelling about physically seeing Criston’s head under her skirt, divorced of any context lmao.

There are interesting elements implied: Alicent seems to be trying to exert power over someone, anyone; Criston is so servile damn; the entire relationship is so clearly about Rhaenyra for both of them. But that’s all just vague inference? And they do nothing with it. There’s also the additional interesting point where it’s clearly not a one time thing, despite what Alicent said earlier because they’re literally fucking during blood and cheese. But like… you could show us how that happened or why? What brings Alicent to be like “well I know I said there wouldn’t be any repeats but….” Or like is Criston cool with this? Is he initiating, is she? I’d compare it to how Criston and Rhaenyra’s dynamic developed in early season one when its so clear that she’s only looking for a bit of fun when she hooks up with him, and it’s directly after being rejected by Daemon so he’s a replacement. And we see how he puts her on a pedestal and clearly thinks it’s way more than it is. Like their sex scene has so much context and character, and comparatively the season two scenes have none of that!

I will say, the bit where he’s talking to Aemond about it and is saying that Rhaenyra pulled Alicent into a web and intoxicated her (insane!! thing to tell Alicent’s son by the way) where he’s clearly projection is good. But like… not enough lol. There’s obviously some interesting complex things happening there but they don’t dig into them.

Anyway moving onto Alicent, it’s not really clear what’s going on with her? She also hasn’t progressed since season one. I feel like her scenes haven’t added very much. We know that she’s upset about the bloodshed, but that isn’t news. We know she’s upset about being undermined by Otto, but that isn’t news. Her relationship with Criston is new, and it may be where she’s trying to exert power, but we don’t see her come to that point Meanwhile I don’t understand what’s going on with her and Larys anymore.

There’s the scene where tells her that he’s changed all of her maids because they were disloyal— first of all I think highlighting how many servants they have in the same episode as Blood and Cheese, where the castle is conspicuously empty, and not tying those two things together somehow is a really weird choice. They needed some sort of excuse or reason for why no one saw or did anything? Because that castle looked fucking empty.

They could’ve easily said that Aegon got pissy and fired all of their servants, or that he was so shitty to them that the servants were very happy to turn a blind eye. Or idk maybe Alicent was upset about all of her maids being resigned without her permission and she’s the one who fires all of the new ones? But there are truly no ties there, so what is Larys reassigning all the servants supposed to mean? It’s undermining Alicent but… we’ve been here before, we know about that. It could have been a direct reaction to her original handmaids barring Larys from seeing her/not telling her what she was up to when she was fucking Criston but again a) bad choice of placement with Blood and Cheese b) it seems like the reassigning happened before. I’ll allow that maybe he’s trying to tell her that her handmaids answer to him, therefore he knows what she was up to. But it still doesn’t go anywhere?

I kind of wish she tried to do something about it, but also I just don’t really like the dynamic so I may just be biased in this instance. I don’t find it particularly compelling and I think it’s just odd that she puts up with him. I personally always thought that it stretched disbelief a little bit but whatever.

Anyway Blood and Cheese! That scene was so poorly written??? I feel like there’s very little emotional buildup to it. It’s just paced really badly and as a result it doesn’t have as much emotional resonance as it could have. Honestly, I thought it being from Blood and Cheese’s perspective was a mistake. I think it probably would’ve been a better idea to just be in Helena‘s POV from the beginning, and to be shocked by it with her when she realizes someone’s broken into her room, and to have more time to sit with her fear.

I think the actress did a pretty good job with what she was given, but it felt abrupt to me. The progression from her thinking maybe they’re there to rob her, to being forced to tell them which one is her son, to just picking up her other kid and booking it just felt like it was shot oddly and wasn’t given enough time to breathe.

And the smaller moving parts of the scene just kept testing my suspension of disbelief. Like first of all, from the assassins’ perspective we see that they’re purely monetarily motivated. Why aren’t they more tempted by her offering them her necklace/or more gold? Daemon may have promised them gold but she could likely give them way more as the sitting Queen? If they just particularly hate the Greens/the Targaryens/or are just violent and jonesing to dismember a kid then idk establish that more clearly.

Meanwhile it was just really odd that they completely lost interest in her after she told them who was the son. They just ignore her while she runs away. You’d think they’d be worried about discovery at all? But they’re not because the castle is fucking empty shdhfgf

Why the fuck is Criston the single only member of the King’s Guard in that entire building? Literally no one is guarding the royal family when they’re at war and should probably be way more terrified of anything like this happening???

I did actually like the element of her running into her mother’s room, and the implication that’s she is just so traumatized that she regressed to childhood. But it’s a very anti-climactic note to end on. Like what exactly is it meant to convey to have Alicent be interrupted while having sex, Helaena to tell her, dead eyed, that they “killed the boy” and to close on Alicent just being like :o

Like shfhff what is the point of any of that? The choices are just kind nonsensical to me. It’s also wild that in F&B Helaena has two sons, but the other one just doesn’t exist in the show. (Which imo also removes some of the horror where she has to choose which would die! That’s so awful!) So it’s a much bigger deal that their single heir has been murdered. But also with the show’s track record… I’m not sure they’re going to react to it adequately lol.

Like at the end of the day, the Dance of the Dragons is a tragedy. If you’re familiar with the original series at all you know how it turns out. It’s not about who wins it’s about the characters and their journeys. So constantly divorcing the plot of emotional relevance sure is uh. a choice.

[the-force-awakens]

Thinking about what a sweet, kind, silly and gentle hearted person Poe is until you piss him off and once that switch is flipped, he's a force to be reckoned with

Oh, did you mean? my most favorite? facet? of his character? that makes me lose my marbles? and also happens to be maybe my favorite character trope of all time? that? Okay I hope you were expecting an infodump because what-ho! that's what's happening, I have come prepared and with receipts, let's fucking go on how Poe Dameron is a goddamned force of nature and how the galaxy should be really fucking thankful his loyalty is first and foremost to the Resistance and to the Light, because if it wasn't...well, I'd dread to think, but it wouldn't be good for anyone else.

The fun thing for me, is that it has always been a part of Poe's character, right from The Force Awakens -- it's subtle, but it's there, hidden between the sassy quips in the face in danger and the professionality of Commander Dameron; little fleeting moments that tell you that Poe Dameron is not someone to be trifled with at all, including one of his very first scenes:

I'm 90% certain that Poe's gaze actually lands first on Tekka's body here, before lifting it up to glare at Ren - and that's more than just a defiant glare, that's a look of loathing. Which fits, considering that I do believe the Force Awakens novelization confirms that Poe rushes in without thinking, and acts on sheer anger/rage when he goes to shoot Ren after Ren kills Tekka.

(More lengthy thoughts under the cut, I was not kidding, I saved a dozen images for this).

And that look is far from the only moment in TFA that clearly goes "oh. yeah, Poe can be scary when he wants to be", there's this frankly delightful moment during the trench run when Poe sees a fellow pilot perish while covering him:

and then moments later, when Poe flies into the heart of Starkiller to destroy the oscillator, we get this shot:

that's far more than just determination/focus, he's angry. and he has every goddamned right to be - he was just held captive and tortured for (??) days, and this monstrosity just destroyed an entire fucking planetary system, and the very Republic that Poe has spent his entire adult life believing the inherent values of, that he thought could genuinely improve. Never mind the detail that Poe probably likely spent time on the Hosnian System, if he didn't live there temporarily during his time in the Defense Fleet.

But these shots makes it clear where the comic gets the idea from that the First Order might, y'know, actually be. A little bit terrified of Poe Dameron:

He's a serious threat, and ruthless when it comes to the First Order. People joke a lot about Poe being reckless, but I don't see a lot of recognition for the fact that he can be ruthless - he sees point b and dives straight at it, and he's absolutely relentless in his determination to take the First Order down.

The quickest possible way to enrage Poe is inaction or injustice. We see this clearly in the Last Jedi, when he believes Holdo is essentially leading them to their deaths and has thrown the Resistance away:

but we also see it as far back as Before the Awakening by Greg Rucka:

This conversation carries on for a page or so more, I think, with Poe arguing against the New Republic's decision to not act or investigate further (it's also what prompts him into going rogue to investigate on his own, which leads Leia into recruiting him for the Resistance).

And we've even seen it in material as recent as Free Fall, which means this is a character trait Poe has had his entire life:

(these do not paint my girl in a great light but like she's fucked up okay!! and being groomed into taking her mother's place it's fine, it's fine, she's my fucked up little blorbo)

anyway. so this is Poe when he's, probably about 16? 16 going on 17 here, and this is probably the angriest he's ever been considering how shocked he is about the chill in his own voice (which if you were ever curious why I say Poe's anger runs cold, it's because of this scene right here). He's so enraged by the injustice being carried out by Sotin, that he's genuinely - for the first time in the book - considering actually killing someone. And he gets into a screaming match about what the right decision is with Zorii.

(he also gets to punch Sotin later, by the way, if you even care. It's glorious. I love my favorite character who decides murder is okay if said murder is in question a guy who deals in the slave trade)

But also.

My favorite instance of this, ever, which rewrote my fucking goddamned brainchemistry in 2017 when I read it and made me have to step away from my computer and honest to god pace the length of my house to walk it off, is his confrontation with Terex in issue #13 of the Poe comics.

Because you know what?

This entire fucking exchange is personal, and almost/pretty much outright vindictive? Like at this point, Poe has solidly won this round - Terex has finally been defeated, and all Poe has to do is hand him over to the First Order. He knows, in doing so, Terex will likely be killed, and after who knows how long of Terex's bullshit meaning Poe couldn't trust his squadron, and the fact that L'ulo just died - well, Poe's not real broken up about it, which is fun in itself.

But then he asks Malarus if he can have a moment with Terex before he hands him over and Poe....uses that moment to gloat.

And y'all know me i don't use words like that for Poe but like. he kind of does? he asks a moment alone with terex specifically so that he can taunt Terex that he won, that Terex didn't beat him, and that in trying to take Poe down, Terex cost himself everything (a fact Poe happily rubs in his face), and even adds that "and when I give you to the First Order, I bet they'll take the rest."

So like. Yeah.

Poe knew full well they'd likely kill him, and spends the next few issues full heartedly believing that Terex was dead. And he taunts Terex with it here in this moment. It is TRULY glorious and honestly had 17 year old me's little head spinning because it was such a subversion of what I thought Poe would do -- but he did! He didn't try to figure out a way to spare Terex's life, and he used his final moments with Terex to make sure Terex knew that Poe was fully aware of what the choice he was making meant.

It's fucking DELICIOUS.

And I also love this panel from earlier into the issue:

Because again, it's a great illustration of how Poe can come off cold because of the art choices Phil Noto made here: look at the jacket. It's zipped up all the way to Poe's neck (a rarity for Poe), and just generally gives him this very closed off, cold appearance because he's at his wit's end in this issue, and he is angry about the circumstances Terex has forced him into.

So...yeah. Poe Dameron is a sweet, compassionate, silly guy who makes the worst fucking puns you've ever heard this side of the galaxy. He loves his droid, wears his mother's wedding ring with the intent to give it to the right partner someday, and loves all of his friends full heartedly and is generally the most tactile, affectionate person you will ever meet. He's pretty much everyone's best friend, because he has that kind of charisma and ability to make anyone feel like they're the most important person in the galaxy.

But Poe Dameron is also the man that the First Order seems genuinely intimidated/afraid of. He's the man that destroyed Starkiller base, and toppled the most powerful crime syndicate in the galaxy when he was just 17 years old. He is not someone you ever, ever want to piss off, because for all his warmth and love, Poe has an anger that runs cold, and when he hates something - it's just like when he loves something, he doesn't go half-way.

General Organa isn't the only Resistance general that can be absolutely terrifying in her own right as much as she can be gentle and loving. It's just that Leia's the only one anyone ever notices, because...well, Poe's silly and funny and usually kind of easy going.

And the fact that people underestimate him is what makes him that much more dangerous.

[amyisherenowitsokay]

Sent the last one before I listened to anything lmao, so while I'm going thru at the same time - Curious if there's a reference/POV for the title of Sing To Me itself, or it's just the lyrics that matter. like, who's asking for/singing? What's ON MY MIND for re:2 in reference to, I assume from the POV of Zims thoughts? Nothing to say about re:3 except "oh. i'm excited. i can feel the plot and vibes already." esp with Obey lol. and going over the anime ones, is there a particular genre/feel/tone you see for each pick? what are they? right off the top of your head, how do you think the openings would 'look'? odd thought, cos i forgot the first Q was for broad encompassing and was like, "the tonal dissonance wtf" BUT. would you say there's any relation between both sets of answers, if you imagined Q1's placed between the Q2's openings/endings? or rather would you pick different answers in that situation? (and ofc, what would they be? why?) ..and yeah the tone of slotting re:3's Q1 in with re:3's Q2 slides together so well.. (well, the opening & encompassing answers. ending's just vibey. curious if the ending song would still stay, since the tone throws it? something i'm missing? lyrics i figure.) ..gotta ask for some hints/spoiler crumbs for what's coming for re:3. can't just ignore the dramatic music bomb.

Sing to Me is one of my favorite songs, both for lyrics, tone, and narrative (also, it was made for the Death Stranding sound track, a favorite game of mine, and gets more love for that reason as well.)

To me, the song is attributed to both Zim and Gaz. It reads to me as very desperate, seeking help, but also seeking distraction. It's about not really recognizing oneself anymore, for the worse, and panicking. It's also reads as incredibly lonely. I think at the beginning of Re:MHNY1, both Zim and Gaz are pretty miserable in their personal lives. No friends, no social lives. Gaz is simmering in her own familial estrangement and Zim is rolling in his own self-loathing about his Defectiveness and banishment. I think it's a really good song that evokes a lot of feelings of anger and pleading and hopeless optimism, which I think really lends to some of the darker themes in Re:MHNY1.

OWN MY MIND, in it's most basic sense, could totally be about Zim. He was not the primary individual I had in mind for this song, and I will leave it at that.

Infected I picture being very Cyberpunk 2077 . A lot of slow motion shots with flickers to the beat in the background. Hints of things to come.

Young and a Menace and Obey I'm picturing a lot of Shakugan no Shana III energy. A lot more sharp, punchy, foreboding and foreshadowing. There's a LOT of anger. conflict, and tension in the sequels, and it'd be super cool to see that reflected. Especially with the same wind-down energy of a more peppy rock-song, the same way the first "series" ending did.

Regarding synergy/vibes in my song choices, I chose them mostly on vibes. I like anime openers that really have a lot of darkness and action that look really cool, with closers that have really upbeat 90's anime energy. Think Black Butler's (CW), Attack on Titan (CW) and Tokyo Ghoul's (another CW) style of openers/closers - gritty intros, visually impactful, . Then Black Butler's S1 closure is jamming out to BECCA with chibis doing everyday things. Evangelion's crazy ass is just peaceful "Fly Me to The Moon." I love a closure with some dissonance. Really makes the anime feel more dimensional to me.

I would not change any songs as the "series" went on, because I feel like the more you understand the fics, the more the songs feel MORE appropriate, not less, and that'd be a cool thing to do. Like Gravity Falls's constant hints since the beginning of the series that look like fun gibberish, but actually were just laying out the whole plot of the series the whole time.

In terms of the relationship between my choices, I'd say the openers/closers are what they are, while my encompassing/main songs would be on the soundtrack. Kind of in the same way New Divide by Linkin Park became both meme and THE song for The Transformers movies (rip Chester). Like, Perfect Day was Legally Blonde's opener, but Watch Me Shine was the main song that really emphasized a climax/turning point in the movie. The same role I Wanna Be Bad played in What A Girl Wants. I probably just dated the fuck out of myself, but that's the vibe I was mentally picturing.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

B - Battle

Written for @maalezzo...another sad one :(

Song prompt: Back from the dead

Words: 1,1k

Pairing: Ori x reader

Warning: Angst

As your caravan approached Erebor, you shivered violently.

Despite the gruelling voyage your family and you had braved, a part of you yearned to go back to the Blue Mountains and forget all about this cursed Mountain that had robbed you of so much.

“A new future,” your mother kept repeating, but her very words made your blood freeze in dismay. You didn’t want a brighter or better future—you would have been more than content with the one you had chosen for yourself.

Ori and you had grown up together—it had always been him. At a time when you had yearned for a playmate, he had been the one to team up with you and—when your tastes and interests evolved—he was the only choice you could countenance.

For a while, you had been perfectly happy, planning that future that was to be callously supplanted by lavish banquets and elegant robes.

A scowl spread across your face at the mere thought of it.

You hated the Lonely Mountain which fully deserved its fateful name—once upon a time, you had dreamed of a small hut and an even smaller business. It would have been a humble life of hard work and occasional deprivation, but you would have had Ori by your side.

“I’d give every piece of gold in that hoard to have him back,” you muttered under your breath and shrugged when your mother shot a sharp glance in your direction.

It had been months since you had learned about the Battle of the Five Armies and she was growing tired of seeing you so down in the mouth; in her opinion, your youth disqualified you from feeling and behaving like a widow.

Of course, she could not fathom how much that life you have never gotten to lead had meant to you and how desperately you wished that things could have been different—she didn’t know how deeply you had loved the shy scribe and how profoundly you loathed him now for having abandoned you.

You forced a smile on your face; making your mother unhappy was the last thing you wanted to do and—either way—there was nothing you could do now that would change the course of fate.

“Don’t go,” you begged, digging your cold fingers into Ori’s sleeve anxiously.

“Love…” His fingers trembled against your cheek as he tried to wipe away your tears as soon as they fell—he was losing that fight just as miserably as you were losing yours. “I don’t have a choice; I can’t let my brothers go alone. Balin needs me.”

“I need you more,” you screamed; you were beyond mundane notions like dignity or shame at this point. “We had a plan…How can you throw away our future like that? It’s just a dream, Ori, you can never succeed.”

His gaze hardened. “We have to try at least.”

“Why? What will you get out of it? Even if the impossible were to happen and your ragtag team can reconquer that blasted mountain—will you risk everything just to be a servant somewhere else?”

“Let’s not part in anger,” Ori said softly, cupping your tear-streaked face in his tender hands and pressing a lingering kiss onto your trembling lips. “I shall send word as soon as I can. I promise.”

“If you leave,” you declared with cold finality, “there will be no need to send anything at all. As soon as you step out of this camp, you’re dead to me.”

You had regretted your harsh words as soon as you had let them fly like poisoned arrows—every night since that discussion, you saw his wounded, helpless expression in your dreams, and you woke up crying.

There had been no letter and the uncertainty of whether it was only his love or his whole person that lay dead beyond the gates of Erebor was positively torturous.

“Ah, we’re almost there,” your mother exclaimed—instantly, your stomach clenched in agony, and you were sure that you were going to be sick.

As soon as your caravan passed the gates, a long trail of weary dwarves yearning for a warm meal and a soft bed, a flash of copper made your heart stop.

You nearly jumped behind a rock to avoid questioning or investigating what you thought you had seen; you had been haunted by your memories for too long and you had sworn to your family and to yourself that you would start anew in Erebor.

This was no way to do that.

And yet, your gaze followed that singular flame as it threaded through the throng of people, approaching your chariot with the determination of a homing pigeon.

You focused on your breathing, forcing air in and out of your lungs stubbornly, while you stood as if rooted to the floor or turned to stone in expectation of a devastating truth.

Maybe it was his brother, come to tell you that he had died a miserable death on the battlefield or maybe…

There he was—Ori, your beloved, in the flesh—skinnier than you remembered him and with deep lines of sorrow bracketing his generous mouth, but very much alive.

Torn between overwhelming relief and irrational anger, you turned away, pretending to check the luggage piled high on your little cart.

“I…Hello,” a tentative voice greeted you, repeating your name thrice as if to conjure you from the ashes of a fallen kingdom—but it was not you who was a ghost.

Wheeling around with so much force that you almost crashed into him, you gnashed your teeth in frustration.

“I never thought that you and I would ever meet again,” you hissed, accusing him of you knew not what. “You know, I mourn the loss of you sometimes, and pray for peace within. The word ‘distraught’ can not describe how my heart has been, but where do we begin, now that you’re back from the dead?”

“To be fair,” he chuckled dryly and without the slightest bit of humour, “I’ve told you that we’d succeed. If only you could have had more faith in me, in us, in your king.”

You bristled but didn’t contradict him—evidently, he was proven right by the way things had turned out, and you were too smart not to admit when you had been wrong.

“I’ve made my peace with losing you,” you declared coolly. He did not have to know how long it had taken you and how bitterly you had wept.

“So, it makes no difference to you whether I live or die?” Ori’s voice faltered, swallowed by the voracious darkness of his new abode.

“I did not say that,” you whispered. From somewhere, your name was echoing feebly. “My mother is calling me; I’ve got to go.”

Despite the turmoil in your soul after this breathtaking, earth-shattering revelation, you had to admit that it felt incredibly good to be the one to walk away from him this time.

@fellowshipofthefics Here's another one.

Lots of love from me

-> Masterlist

[milktoast-femboy]

stangst - i got people in my skin

【 A/N: i was meaning to write something for forduary but never gotten around to it. as a ford pines simp i am ashamed. apologies apologies. hopefully this one shot will make up for it. started as mostly a vent but ended up way longer than i had intended.

TW below the cut for self harm, self loathing and general stangst. mind those tags and stay safe out there. title is from in the wings by mother mother b/c stan has those mother mother vibes. 

CROSS-POSTED TO AO3! 】

STAN WATCHES the deceptively tiny flame in his hand. He watches as it dances and flickers in bright hues of yellow and orange and he can hear his mother's words in his head. 'My little spark of light' as she would call him back then. Burning brightly despite the darks of the world around him. A fighter. A protector.

But that night, huddled in his beaten old car around the tiny flame of his lighter whilst the blizzard outside continued it's merciless rampage, those words couldn't have felt farther from the truth. Whatever fire burned in Stanley Pines now felt more like dying embers, desperately trying to fight for any sort of spark.

And Stanley was so, so tired of fighting. And nobody was there to protect him.

As the winds and snow wrought all hell outside his Diablo, so to did Stan's mind seem keen on attacking him. Memories of painfully familiar beaches, days of rebuilding broken down boats and sunburns and nights of reading comics under the flashlight. Memories of laughter with someone who he'd thought would be by his side forever. Memories that used to be filled with happiness, now only tinged with a deep sense of longing for moments long lost to time.

Nights like those where he would have given everything just to see his brother one last time. To have his brother tell him that he missed him. That his time on the streets fighting for scraps was over. That his home was by his side.

'But who would want some worthless screw up like you around?'

These thought would hit him like knives directly in the chest.

'Face it, Stanley Pines is nothing but a leech. Ford knew the truth, it's why he wanted to get away from you.'

His free hand grips the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, chest heaving and throat tight with emotion the owner dare not release. 'Men don't cry' a voice sounding like his father reminds him. But the sea of emotions inside him only rages harder. A mix of anger and sorrow and a gnawing sort of loneliness that threaten to swallow him whole.

Like many times before, he would turn to the flame of his lighter. The sting of the hot metal against the skin of his arm would distract him from everything wrong with his life, albeit temporarily, as a new burn mark begins to set in among the ever growing collection.

Stanley couldn't help but look at them with a twisted sense of accomplishment. The pale marks on his arm feeling almost like a strange proof of everything he was going through. That the pain he was in was real.

Feeling a comfortable numbness set in, he lets himself drift into an uneasy rest. For a moment everything causing him pain seemed pleasantly distant. Even the roar of the blizzard just outside the car seemed to fade into darkness as sleep took hold.

✲ ✲ ✲

HIS SELF-DESTRUCTIVE coping mechanism would be something that stayed with him for a while. A release he'd turn to every so often during his days living like a stray. Until one day he gets a post card from someone he'd never thought he would hear from again and just like that he's making tracks to some nowhere town called Gravity Falls with barely more than his car and the clothes on his back and a feeling in his heart that almost resembles hope.

Somehow things take a turn even worse than he could've imagined. It's as if the universe took a look at Stan's worst fears and decided to top them and his brother's now empty home feels even colder than his car had.

The still stinging burn on his back feels like punishment. A reminder that Stanley Pines was worth nothing and this is what happened when he tried to believe otherwise. Stanley Pines would soon after meet his untimely fate in a car crash, with nothing left of his life but a smoldering wreck of metal.

At least as far as the rest of the world was concerned.

Meanwhile, the man known now as Stanford Pines attends a funeral in a suit that wasn't his, trying to ignore the way the foreign fabric itches against his growing amount of scars.

Some of them from his habit. Others were from his time working on the portal as he often did so with very little concern for himself.

As the years pass something begins to change. His false persona in Mr Mystery becomes less of a means to an end and slowly becomes something that he enjoyed. Something that he was good at. Along the way he meets the naive yet kind to a fault Soos Ramirez and the rebellious red-head Wendy Curdoroy. He tells himself they were just employees yet their presence in his life brings something different. A spark of light in an otherwise cold heart. A spark that later on becomes a flame when one summer he finds himself with the care of Shermie's grandchildren. Two brown haired twins that fill Stan with an almost painful sense of nostalgia that somehow worm their way into his heart in no time at all.

Without thinking about it, his habit slowly starts to lessen over these years until that summer when it stops. And while he never shakes the sense of longing for his own twin and wherever he may be, for the first time in his life since Glass Shard Beach the con man feels a sense of belonging somewhere. He had a home and people who cared about him.

But that was Stanford Pines. Stanley Pines didn't belong anywhere. And like life enjoys reminding Stanley, all good things must come to an end.

✲ ✲ ✲

IT FELT like a dream. After decades of toiling away in the shadows of the basement on a thin hope of fixing his mistakes, the moment of actually seeing his twin there in the glow of the portal felt almost too good to be true.

But, somehow, it was real. His brother, despite being much older as he himself was and dressed in some Mad Max-esque outfit, was back. Against all odds, Stanley Pines had managed to do at least one good thing in his life.

And Ford hated him.

He thinks to himself, bitterly, that of course he would. He may have brought Ford back but that didn't change all the wrong he had done to him, including pushing him into the portal in the first place. But even knowing this didn't make the sting of it all hurt any less.

And now, lying in his bed and failing to fall asleep, it seems like the adrenaline of everything that had happened that day was starting to wear off and the abuse he put on his old bones during it all had begun to make themselves known. He almost wanted to list all the places that hurt but he figured it'd be easier to list what didn't hurt.

He sighs as he raises a hand to his cheek. That was definitely going to be a nice bruise later on, and while it didn't hurt as much as the rest of his body it still managed to be the most painful thing that happened today.

In hindsight he didn't know why he assumed that would have gone any better, yet in the moment it felt all to natural to try and hug Ford. Like an old instinct buried deep within, the need to make sure his brother wasn't hurt. But instead he got a six fingered fist to the face.

And to top it all of he was going to lose everything once summer's over. The place he'd come to call home would be taken from him. And the kids... even if living on the streets again didn't do him in he'd doubt that their parents would let him anywhere near him once they learned the truth of who he was.

Soon there won't be any Mr Mystery, just Stanley Pines again. The man who had destroyed his brother's future. The man who destroyed his family. The man who pushed his brother into a portal. The man who had lied to everyone, who took his brother's identity and staged a ruse three decades running.

'The man who should have died back in that car crash.' A dark voice whispers in his mind.

Suddenly he finds himself feeling very small. No longer a man with a home and a family, he feels like he's the abandoned teen from the night it all went wrong. The first night of many where he'd spent huddled in his car. Unwanted. Unloved. And utterly alone.

Moving on autopilot, his hands begin to rummage through his bedside dresser until they clasp around an all too familiar object. Buried underneath other knick knacks and papers. Unused.

'Looks like old habits die hard.' He thinks with a pained smile.

It feels wrong doing this again. 'What would the kids think?' his mind chides him. But he knows that soon enough none of it will matter anyway.

The white hot sting of the lighter feels like an old friend.

✲ ✲ ✲

'You punched him. Your brother spend years of his life trying to save you and that's how you repay him.'

'He put the whole world in jeapordy doing so. It was stupid and reckless, did that knucklehead not read any of the warnings I left him?'

'If he hadn't then you wouldn't be here now.'

'Well maybe it would've been for the best. Saving me isn't worth putting the universe in danger.'

'Obviously Stan didn't agree.'

Ford put his head in his hands in exasperation. This mental back and forth had been going on for the past hour or so he'd been trying to spend dismantling what was left of the portal. It had started when, while taking apart the scattered pieces, he couldn't help but admire just how well put toegther they were for having been made by a single man with, presumably, little more engineering experience than fixing his car.

He tried to shake it off. Impressive or not didn't change the fact that he had endangered the whole world by doing so. And while punching him may have been overkill, Stan's reckless behavior just infuriated him to no end. It seemed like the past few decades had done nothing to change that about him.

And yet try as he might to focus on the task at hand there was that nagging feeling that had attached itself to Ford and refused to let go. Guilt. And no amount of trying to convince himself that he was in the right seemed to chase it away, his mind continuing to wander to the last conversation they had. To how just as he finished explaining the terms of their arrangement he saw a flicker of something in his twin's face before Stan had told him to stay away from the kids.

Ford didn't pride himself as someone who was well-versed in reading the emotions of others but his twin had suddenly looked small. Scared even? Whatever it was, it felt wrong to see on the face of his usually strong and fiery brother.

He supposed he didn't really know this version of his brother at all. Gone was the sun burnt youth from their childhood, replaced by this grey haired man who looked far too much like their father for either of their comfort, the old fez and suit not helping. They were twins and yet with the years of anger and strain they might as well be strangers. 'When did we become old men?' indeed.

And as much as he tried to hold onto the anger over the years, and stars did he try, there was always that part of Ford that missed his twin. The same part that insisted on keeping the photograph all those years. And though he wouldn't admit it out loud, he truly was glad to see Stan again.

'So glad that you're going to take his home away.' His brain chided.

He wasn't wrong for wanting his life back. And taking his house back didn't mean Stan had to leave.

'But did Stan know that?'

Stan knew he wouldn't kick him out... right?

'Have you given him any reason to?'

Stanley knew he would never do what...

'What your father did?'

Ford pulled his overcoat closer, suddenly feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the basement crawl up his spine. And with a sigh he knew that the only way to put these thoughts to rest would be to talk to his brother again.

'Right, like that went so well last time.'

Decidedly ignoring that last thought, he left the dank basement and entered the warmth of the shack. Trying to shake off the surreal feeling of seeing what Stan had done to his home, he quietly made his way to his brother's room. A soft light spilling out from underneath the door told him that the occupant was probably awake.

'Perhaps I'm not the only one lost in thought.'

"Stan...?" He says after a moment of deliberation. When his only response is silence he pushes forward. "Stanley, I..." Pausing for a moment, Ford realizes that he didn't prepare what to say. "...I know that our conversation earlier didn't go as well as it could've, but..." Understatement of the century. "...for the sake of the children, we should at least try and be friendly towards one another."

A beat of silence passes and he can hear a scoff on the other side of the door.

"Stan, are you even listening to me?" A feeling of indignation is quickly replacing Ford's guilt. To think that he came all this way to try and fix things and his brother didn't even have the decency to respond!

Acting on frustration, the scientist pulls open the door with the intention of scolding his brother. Once he sees the state of his brother any words of annoyance died in his throat.

"Holy shit, Ford, haven't you ever heard of knocking?!" His brother snaps out before turning his back to him. Not in time to stop Ford from seeing the painful looking burns on his arm.

"Stanley! Your arm, how- what happened?!" He sputters out. He almost thought the burns could have been from something in the portal room earlier, but the burns looked fresh. Almost as if they've happened just now...

"The kids aren't around, Ford, you don't have to act like you give a shit." Stan's response, muttered low enough that he had almost missed it, had lacked all of the heat his brother displayed earlier. Only a tired sort of resignation, like all the fight had left him.

Seeing Stan in this state - looking like he's given up - it made Ford's stomach churn with how wrong it was. And yet it feels like he's seen him in a similar state long ago. The words 'some brother you turned out to be' echo in his head.

"You... you don't really believe that, do you?" He finally manages. For once his mind is blank, grappling to find anything to say to make the situation better. His brother let out a hollow sounding chuckle.

"'The first worthwhile thing in your life' you said. Well, I guess you were right. Stanley Pines never did anything worthwhile. His whole life was just him lying and cheating to get by." Ford was stricken by the amount of vehomence in his twin's words. 'Is this how he really sees himself?'

"But don't worry. Once the summer is over you'll get your life back and you'll never have to see your worthless brother ever again just like you want."

Keeping his gaze locked on the floor, the only reaction he could see was his brother's fists shaking at his sides before turning and walking out of the room. Smiling bitterly to himself, he tries to ignore the hurt he feels at his brother leaving.

...Only to be surprised to hear the same footsteps return a few moments later. A glance from the floor reveals Ford standing at his doorway holding a jar of some substance in his hand and some peroxide and the expression of a lost owl. Even more surprising was what he said.

"I never wanted you to leave, Stan." With the caution of someone approaching a startled animal, the scientist comes to sit next to his brother and took a deep breath to steel himself.

"Don't get me wrong, I figured you would probably want to leave once summer was over and I'm not comfortable with you running a mockery-" He coughed into his hand. "-the Mystery Shack in my home. But I wouldn't- I would never just throw you onto the streets!" The words 'unlike father' went unsaid, but the brothers both thought it.

"Why not?" Stan asked softly, looking hopeful but uncertain. "Is it cause I'm just an old, crusty man?"

"Stan, that's not-"

"Or maybe you just want somebody around to do the grunt work. Clean up and dust an' shit. Guess that's the only thing I'd be good fo-"

"It's because you're my brother!" The shout makes Stan halt his rambles, leaving the two in silence before Ford continues. "Even when I was angry with you...even when I wanted nothing to do with you...even when I told myself that I hated you I never being your brother. And not one moment did I ever stop missing you." It takes all his willpower to keep his voice mostly steady as he speaks the truth he had denied to even himself all these years. Even now he can hear a shake enter his voice but he knows he can't stop. Not just for his brother, who was taking in his words like a drowning man to oxygen, but also for himself.

"And while I'm still angry about everything - Westcoast Tech, rebuilding the portal, ignoring my warnings about the dangers - I still love you. Always have. And I'm so...-" He feels Stan's hand on his shoulder as he chokes back a sob threatening to tear it's way from his throat. "so, so sorry that I wasn't there to tell you that when you needed to hear it most."

Just as he felt himself start to choke up, a pair of strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him into a tight hug. Minutes that could've been hours pass by like that. Ford's shoulders shaking in a silent breakdown while Stan simply held him steady despite tears gathering in his eyes as well.

Once he finally manages to pull himself together it came time to treat the burns on Stan's arms. Opening the jar of what he explained was a highly potent burn cream he'd come across in the multiverse, Ford thought he might've cried again when he saw just how scarred his brother's arms were. Most seemed to be similar looking burn marks, albeit most looking older, but there were some that looked like cuts or road burns.

"Stan, are these burns self inflicted...?" 'Please don't let it be true.' he thinks, but Stan looking away is all the answer he needs.

Forcing away the guilt that threatens to eat him up, Ford focuses his efforts on treating the fresher burns on his twin's skin.

It seemed like he wasn't the only one feeling guilty, either. Stan hadn't seen his brother cry since they were young and hated to be the reason why.

"I'm sorry." His twin's words make Ford look up from his work, eyebrows drawn in concern.

"Stan..." His brother continued on as if not having heard him.

"I'm sorry I fucked up your future, I'm sorry I didn't just tell you what happened. I'm sorry I was so obsessed with that stupid fucking boat that I couldn't see I was holding you back. Pops was ri-"

"Don't." The single word was spoken with barely restrained anger, though this time none of it was directed at Stan. Upon seeing Stan look up with an expression of worry the scientist forced himself to soften his tone. Despite how much he wished he could give a few choice words (and hand gestures) to their late father, right now he needed to be there for his brother. "Don't say things like that about yourself. Please."

A silence settles over as Ford finishes treating his brother's arms. It's not too long until the burns are properly treated, the burn cream already doing its job. He's about to ask his brother how he's feeling when he sees Stan is leaning against the headboard and practically drifting off but looking happy for the first time since their not so great reunion in the basement.

Feeling pretty tired himself after the long and emotional night and seeing the glow of a nearby clock reading 4am, Stanford decides to take his leave.

"Goodnight, Lee." He whispers to his dozing off brother as he leaves.

Both of them knew things weren't perfect. One night wouldn't be enough to heal the decades of wounds between the two of them, but it was a start. Many nights of healing would follow soon after. Having two niblings armed with glitter and notebooks certainly helped.

.｡ ☽ *⋆⍋*⍋*｡*⍋*⍋⋆* ☾ ｡.

[swamp-spirit]

Some thoughts about dark fiction and mental illness and being a bit too good at Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

I've been in therapy on and off since age 11, and pretty much every therapist has told me I'm very good at reasoning through my emotions.

In third grade, I started keeping a tin of Altoids by my bed. I didn't really like the taste of the peppermint ones, but when I worried too much to sleep, I pretended they were magic medicine that made all my worries go away.

In fifth grade, I understood that sometimes, all the color just went out of life and I stopped feeling happy. I kept thinking about how meaningless my life was. I didn't know this was called depression, but I understood it would pass.

I have been able to explain to every therapist why my emotions are irrational, why my life is wonderful and I am so grateful to have it.

This has never stopped those emotions. It helps. Over my thirty years of being Mentally Ill, I have learned many signs. When I feel like I've forgotten some Important, Terrible Thing, I know this is a lie my anxiety tells and no longer sift through everything I hate about myself to try to find the True Horrible Reason I loath myself so deeply. When every song on my Spotify seems to pulse with life, I recognize I am falling into mania, get lots of sleep, and watch my spending carefully. When I begin to read article after article on an issue that upsets me because I must Face the Horrible Truth, I recognize this is my OCD, admit what I'm doing to my wife, and ask for distraction. I take my meds. I do deep breathing. I carry stim toys.

The thing is, you can stare an emotion dead in the eyes. You can recognize it, explain it, and still feel it.

It turns out, after decades of your mind screaming that you are sad and afraid and telling those emotions they are irrational and unfair and only make you cruel and paranoid and selfish, some part of your brain learns to treat what you feel as unimportant.

I lost anger first. It's a secret, even to me, but I am a very angry person. I'm easily overstimulated, my nervous system is a skittish horse, and my emotional regulation is shot. I always try to see the other side of things. I usually can. This is good. I do not want to change this about myself, but it often means I direct my anger the only safe direction I can. It took me years to understand why I would self harm after arguments, because I wasn't angry, was I? I was, I'm learning. I am. I am angry. I don't know how to be angry.

These days, my body often knows how I feel before my brain, and my wife knows what my body is saying before I do.

"I don't understand why my pain's been so bad this week." "Love, you got fired last week and we can't afford our apartment anymore. You're upset." "Oh. I think I am."

I like angry characters. I like watching their anger be destructive and terrible and ruin their lives. I do not want to learn how to lash out, how to blame others for my raging emotions, how to hate without guilt, but I want to learn to be angry. Characters can be angry for me, ruin little pretend worlds for pretend reasons. They can be so much worse than I ever am and still be loved and forgiven.

I like it when characters are afraid and that fear is rational. Where they can scream and cry and fight because there ARE monsters lurking in the shadows. I can feel with them, inhabit a world where all my irrational emotions are rational, where there is no need for me to undermine or dismiss myself.

Sometimes, I feel the people who understand this the least are people who never question their own emotions, who assume if they hurt, they have been attacked, and if they have been attacked, they can do all the harm they want.

I am learning am slowly trying to relearn to use my atrophied emotions and not treat them like monsters that will swallow me the second I unchain them. In the meantime, I walk them through stories, slowly. You can hurt here. You can hate here. You can feel here.

[arithecreatorsstuff]

Cupcakes and a Long Overdue Conversation

After a rough day, Rabbit needs to talk to a few "people". She needs some questions answered, and is sacrificing some baked goods to get them.

Another day, another Keter Breach. This time, it was one of the many "zombie" viruses in house. 25 agents down, and at least a hundred D-Class casualties, several I had to neutralize first hand. For the record, I loathe zombies. They're so... dumb. The last one just stood there as I shot its head.

After a nice, long decontamination shower, I head back to my flat. And several questions come rushing into my head. Why are there so many ways to zombify people? Why are we even holding some of our "residents"? How the hell do you reason with a pissed off nearly immortal Sumerian in full berserk mode? Why do I have an affect on some, but not all the "residents" here? Why does the Foundation keep Jack Bright around? If we can't contain some of this weird crap, what do we do?

And somehow I'm baking cupcakes on autopilot. I hadn't even realized it until I glanced at my counter, now littered with the evidence. A final question comes to mind: why do I bake during times of stress and confusion? That I think I iknow the answer to at least; it's something I picked up from my dad. He turned his stress response into a second career, going from the factory to the bakery. Speaking of Dad, or at least fatherly figures in general, maybe it's time to talk to 343. After I finish the batch. It's not like either me or my dad to leave a job half done.

Once finished, frosted, and boxed, I head to the Safe Wing. I spot Dr. Glass trying to convince a nervous new researcher that nothing in the wing will hurt them so long as they pay attention, after all not even the Safe Classes are entirely Safe. I wave, tell the new hire they'll be fine, and press on. I reach the door, and knock.

"Come in, Agent Rabbit."

"I'd ask how you knew it was me, sir, but I'd rather not be silly, if you don't mind." I enter, box in hand. "Hi. Um, I know you're busy, but if you have a few moments, I have... some questions."

"Yes, and I see you also brought a gift, or is it a bribe?" I smile, and hand the box over to 343. He opens it up, and grins.

"Not a bribe, per se... more like tribute, this isn't an officially sanctioned visit. I do hope red velvet is to your liking."

"Red velvet cupcakes? You do indeed have questions. And, for the record, I'm just pleased you thought of me. What can I help you with?"

"Well, starting with the last breach... just how many zombie viruses does the multiverse need?"

"Honestly... those aren't my doing, and the cursed things keep turning up. I had hoped that one of them might draw the attention of your... friend 049, but no such luck."

"Give me time, I might be able to help there. I do seem to have a way with some of our... residents, and the Doctor is fond of me. Although, I'd like to know what's so special about me, and why only certain residents? Like, 999 I can see why, as nothing seems to affect him... but why is it only 50/50 with Abel? And 682 isn't affected by me at all, but 035 is terrified of me. I have had zero contact with him, but the Doctor tells me he's afraid of me."

"035 is not so much afraid of you, as he's afraid you'll take the only "friend" he has, in your dear Doctor. As for why your abilities are erratic, it's because you're still developing them. You're still a young woman, and your gifts take time to strengthen. As for Abel... there is no way to reach a mind that is hidden behind all that anger consistently. You should be commended for trying, however."

"And just what are my abilities? If I may be so bold to ask, of course."

"Much like 999, you can soothe the minds and hearts of those troubled. But, to a lesser degree. You also have a keen mind, and a good heart. As far as your other gifts go... you will find out as you go." He tries a cupcake. "You're also an excellent baker. Your father is proud."

"Thank you, I'll mention it to him when I call him next. Now... why, aside from comedic value from the running feud between Dr. Clef and himself... is Jack Bright here? In the Foundation?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Although... I do wish those two would just stop already. They're grown men acting like children."

"Huh. Dr. Gears said the same thing after the Silly String incident."

"He asked me to redact that. I tried, but it just happened all over again."

"Maybe we need to suggest to O5 that we need to put him in a coma. 682 would like a try, but we'd just wind up with the same Bright mind in a new body. Better the hypodermic than the big angry lizard." I sigh. "I do have one final question, if I may ask."

"Go ahead, my dear little Rabbit."

"The stress baking thing... is that me being me, or is that my dad showing?"

"You are your father's daughter, Rabbit."

"Thought as much. So it's generational. Good to know. Well, sir... you've been rather helpful. I still have a few people I need to call on, so I'll take my leave now."

"Do give my warm regards to your Doctor, and do not let things get to you. You're doing well, my dear."

"Every day is a new adventure, just not always the fun kind. Thank you very much, and enjoy the cupcakes."

"Thank you for thinking of me. Not everyone here is as kind as you. And I do enjoy talking to you. I hope you'll come back."

"Of course. By the way... what's your preferred pie?"

"Hmm. Why don't you surprise me?"

[reareaotaku]

I Loathe You

Summary: You and Mike have always had this strange disdain feelings for each other, but what if emotions were just misinterpreted Pairings: Yandere! [Aged Up!] Mean! Mike Wheeler x Mean! Reader Tw: Mean! Mike, Mean! Reader, Teenager Mike & Reader [PT 2: I Don't Want to be your Friend, I Want to Kiss your Lips]

"Jump off a cliff, you asshole."

"You first, princess." Mike rolls his eyes, his face detorting in anger.

You didn't know why the zoology teacher had partnered you two together, even though you both were infamous for hating each other. There have been attempts to get the two of you to get along, but it obviously didn't work. People didn't understand why you hated each other, because you shared mutual friend groups and you guys were always around the same people.

"Trust me, everytime I see you I hope to be shot execution style, but I also don't want your face to be the last thing I see."

"Oh, don't worry," He turns to you, looking you dead in the eyes, "The feeling is mutual."

"Oh, isn't that great. For a second there I was worried you liked me."

"In your dreams."

"Only the scary ones."

You are practical nose to nose, as you both glare at each other. Your nose is scrunched up if looks could kill, you would both be dead.

"God, can yall just fuck already and get over with it?"

You both whip around towards Lucas, now glaring at him, instead of each other.

"How about you fall down a case of stairs?"

"And break your arm over the ramps," Mike adds, causing Lucas to put his hands up in defeat.

"Okay- Sorry, damn."

--

The group groaned as you and Mike went on a staring contest, before insulting whoever blinked. It was just another way for you both to not only one up another, but also to insult each other.

You blinked, causing Mike to fist bump the air, before calling you a 'Cockwhore.'

"Again." You straightened your back and you both went back to staring at eachother.

Some would think that one of you would get tired of the game, but you both loved to find any chance to insult each other. But, the group thought that maybe you guys liked looking at each other, especially in the eyes, but didn't want to admit it.

Mike scrunched his eyes and a smirk grew on you. He groaned, before blinking and you cheered, calling him a 'No Pussy Getting Bitch'.

He rolled his eyes, going towards his food and you were willing to take that win.

----

You groaned, tearing off the ticket, seeing Mike talking to your mutual friends. It was one thing that you both went to the same school, shared the same friends, but you also worked together. If you didn't make a shit ton in tips, you would have quit the minute you realized he work there.

Though, some might bring up the fact he had been working at the restaurant longer than you, but you did more work than him. He knew he could get away with it, because the regulars loved him, because he was a, in there words, 'Pretty Boy'.

You didn't think he was all that pretty. Sure, he had nice hands with nice long fingers and a sharp face with a defined jawline. Okay, and maybe his hair filled his face in a cute way and maybe his light freckles that covered his face had a nice charm. You shake your head and rid yourself of the thoughts. He was nothing special, he was just a guy. A guy who you guessed you could see the charm of- If he wasn't an asshole.

---

You grabbed your wound from where you had by clawed into by that plant-looking monster. Thankfully, you had gotten out of there, before it could take your head off. Mike was looking through the medicine cabinets, trying to find a first aid kit. It was... well weird.

Having almost died, you realized something. Life was to short for you to be spending it hating a guy who had never really done anything to you. You looked over at him, your nails digging into your skin, he had finally found the First-Aid kit.

He grabbed your hand, putting it on the countertop, before dabbing it with peroxide. You grimaced and he mumbled an apology. You felt strange, just early that day you had both been telling each other to die and now he was tending to your wounds.

"I'm sorry, Mike."

He looks up at you a little confused, "What?"

"I'm sorry," You looked away from him, not wanting to make eye contact with him, "For everything. All the fights, all the arguments, you know-"

"It's fine. I kind of look forward to our fights. You know? It's become routine." He jokes, wrapping your arm up.

You lightly sighed, "Well, I'm sorry and thank you for patching me up."

"It's nothing..."

There's a moment of silence and you don't know what to say. You want to say something, anything, but before you can break the silence, Mike does.

"You know, when I saw you..." He pauses and you're giving him your full attention. He looks at you, his eyes filled with anger and darkness. His eyes were nearly black, "bleeding... I think I died a little when I saw it. Something inside of me- I don't know, but I wanted to kill that stupid Demogorgon."

You're a little taken aback by Mike's confession. He grabs your hand and fiddles with it.

"I don't want to see anything bad to happen to you."

"Wow, Mike. I didn't know you felt that way about me."

"Of course. You're my friend." The word friend comes out like acid from his mouth. He didn't want to be your friend- he wanted to be so much more- but he didn't want to break the already thin ice.

"We're friends?"

He huffs, staring at your hands, "Yeah. At least I think we are."

"Huh, I thought you hated me-"

He looks at you, wide eyed, "Hate you? I thought YOU hated me-"

"You're always hating on me," You say, over exaggerating your non hurt hand.

"What?" He laughs, "I'm only returning your energy!"

You roll your eyes, looking away from him, "Yeah... If we were friends, I think I'd miss our fighting."

"Who says we have to stop fighting?"

[deathsconsort]

@shadowsing azriel said "you can talk to me about anything. you know that, right?"

they had been sparring for some time now. nesta had to work out all her anger and frustration and azriel had been the one she seeked out. not cassian because he was half the source of her anger. the other half was rhysand, no surprise there. she didn’t expect smooth sailing with him despite the moment the two had shared in feyre’s birthing room, but she didn’t expect cassian to side with him constantly whenever an argument between them emerged. it’s been getting on her nerves for some time now, but she always tries to reassure herself by remembering how long cassian had known rhysand for.

this instance with bryce and handing over the mask was different and it was starting to wear her down. the confidence she had with her and cassian’s mating bond was deteriorating, maybe the bond was simply just that, a bond. maybe the love he believes he feels with her is nothing more than a facade brought on by the bond. it certainly feels that way when he is siding with rhysand and hardly stands up for her. not that she needs anyone to stand up for her, but it would be nice to see someone is on her side and cares about her. just how bryce and her mother had.

negative thoughts flowed in her mind one right after the other. her punches became harder, more aggressive. her chest was heaving partly from going all out in their sparring session and partly from frustration. her power thrummed in her veins, begging to be released. whether nesta knew it or not, her eyes glowed with molten silver. azriel’s voice brought her reeling back into reality, forced her power back down before she accidentally incinerated azriel and this entire rooftop. that was the last thing she needed; more reasons for people to be angry with her. she shot him an incredulous look. “no i can’t. not about this.”

the bond between her and azriel meant a great deal to her and she would loathe herself even more than she already does if she were to do anything to mess that up. so complaining and ranting to him about his high lord was out of the question. nesta steps out of the ring and walks to the water dispenser, taking a long drink in an attempt to cool off the burning anger raging inside her. “why haven’t you told me off azriel, about letting bryce borrow the mask?” nesta found azriel, at times, to be a lot like her. he puts on an unreadable mask that makes it difficult to know what he’s thinking or feeling. he either was silently angry at her, but was being polite by not digging into her because multiple people have already or he had a different opinion. nesta wasn’t sure why, but his opinion mattered to her.

[brightblessed]

He was stronger than them. As capable as his allies were, as much as he relied on them, Roi knew that he was stronger than them. Whether it was due to his blessing, the fact that he had been rejoined with Ardbert on the First, or something else... Roi was basically a weapon of mass destruction. He knew that. He should be the one that bled. That is why he often put himself in the line of fire to protect the others. Took blows meant for them.

It hadn't been so long ago that Roi thought Thancred must loathe him. After all, hadn't Thancred been the one to ask him to protect Minfilia before she was swept away and used as a vessel for Hydealyn? Roi owed Thancred for so much. Recruiting the foolish black mage into the Scions. Seeing something in him. Giving him the future where people care about him and he had allowed his heart to unthaw at last.

A shot rings out in the cold air. Thancred calls his name. And before he can even look directly at his friend, the shot connected. He saw red. Red clashing with white clothes, hair, and snow. In a moment, panic and fury splashed over him with the force of a tidal wave.

How dare they.... How dare they hurt him.

Roi had been trying to show mercy to the enemy. Many were tempered. Curing them was a priority. But it mattered little compared to them killing his friends. He didn't even know how severe the wound was before he dove into fending off the enemies. His sword and magicks tearing them apart. Despite his rage, Roi tried his best to not fatally wound. But it was not in the front of his mind. All he could think about was Thancred and red.

He hated it. Let him bleed. Let him die. He didn't want anyone else to ever hurt because of him. Not to save him. Anything but that. Just like his mother and his uncle. Like his aunt when she got sicker and sicker because of the work she had to do to support him. Like so many others. He was angry at Thancred. But more than that, angry at himself for allowing it to happen.

He ran to his friend and dropped to his knees beside him. The amount of blood was concerning. Wounds from guns were more painful than Roi could explain. The heat and force from the weapon left bones broken and skin and muscle torn.

"Thancred!" Roi dropped his sword to his side, both hands moving toward his friend. One hand, all but the tips of his fingers covered with a glove, rested upon his cheek. The other took hold of his hand, the one gripping his wound. Roi was shaking. He felt like a helpless child. Killing he was good at. Mending... He barely knew where to start. If he were like his uncle Niall, he could heal and harm with magic. But Roi would never be the man that he was.

"Why the hells did you...?" He grits his teeth. Fighting back the words his anger wanted to spit. Now was not the time. He needed to be supportive. He needed to be firm and stable. He needed to calm down. Even though his throat felt tight. Even though his nerves made him tremble more than the chilly air could ever hope to...

"I've got you. They're all dealt with..." He squeezed his hand a little. The hand on his cheek tensed. He didn't want him to pass out. "Stay with me... I... I cannot lose you. I... can't do this without you." His voice trembles with the last few words.

( @soulsalight. )

@brightblessed sent: [ TWO ]  for receiver to take a bullet for sender.  / for Thancred

He's used to keeping an eye on the other Scions, to keep danger away from them and directed towards himself, knowing them at his back, being able to trust them with it, too.

With Roi it's ...different. It's not that he doesn't trust him, far from it. With a history as long and riddled with battles fought side by side, with mistakes made by Thancred and forgiven by Roi when he had no sound reason to, it's more difficult to not put his entire faith into him, even just taking into consideration the things he owes to him for his forgiveness alone.

With the staff of a mage traded for the massive sword of a dark knight Roi has also traded some of his agility for huge swings of a weapon less suited for fast paced combat, leaving blindspots enemies in bigger numbers may exploit. But when fighting together, it is these blindspots Thancred is able to cover perfectly. The gunblade more suited to weave faster attacks, the charges of the aetheric cartridges able to cover distance a huge sword by itself cannot, allowing Roi to preserve his aether for when he needs it for charged attacks.

They work well together, as long as Thancred can spare enough attention to reading Roi's movements and anticipate his next step to adjust accordingly.

With a fighting style measuring up to Thancred's own recklessness, if not at times exceeding it, too, Roy has always been a wild card. A force Thancred cannot fathom ever measuring up to, unsure if he is in awe or unsettled by the raw strength and volatile magics the other man may unleash at will.

He thinks it's different since their time in the First somehow, but with his own aether impaired ever since Flow spirited him away to Dravania it may just be his skewed perception of the matter. He has never been one particularly susceptible to the workings aether anyway. Perhaps, at some point, he'll bring it up to Y'shtola or Urianger.

If he gets the chance still after this.

As with everything, it's Thancred's own inadequacy that trips him up and almost costs someone else dearly. He turns a little too slowly, after leaving Roi's side open to the trajectory of a bullet in favor of striking another enemy down. He didn't take into account that the Garlean machinist previously focused on him might turn to take a shot at Roi when Thancred's own conjured shield proved impenetrable.

No.

No!

Sometimes blind faith just isn't enough.

"Roi!"

He jumps before he can think, throwing himself right into the trajectory of the bullet. White hot pain rips through his shoulder, the impact leaves him breathless at first, rocking him to his core, but then he can't contain a garbled scream of pain as the bullet rips right through him, the wound immediately staining his coat in a dark red. His arm goes limp with the pain, his weapon slips from his grasp although he desperately tries to cling to it, but he is ultimately helpless to keep it from tumbling into the snow at his feet.

Thancred's vision swims and he struggles to keep himself upright, ears ringing, eyes trying to focus on anything and everything, disoriented for a moment as everything arpund him appears a little too bright, until his gazes settles on his friend, who's eyes have gone wide now that he realized what happened.

Thancred's other hand comes up to grasp at his wounded shoulder, he feels the blood ooze over his fingers, near searing against the chilled tips of them. His breathing turns shallow. A sudden nausea grips him. He's survived far worse. His friends are right there. Urianger and Alphinaud can fix this.

And yet he can pinpoint the exact moment his body slips into shock. His arm goes numb, his fingertips tingle. The battle is slowing down, or maybe Thancred's perception of that is skewed, too as his eyes unfocus and refocus. He feels his knees buckle, but doesn't feel the impact rock his body as he fails to keep himself steady.

Pathetic.

A voice rings in his head and it's all he can do not to flinch at it. It's a memory. A nightmare. The worst kind. An echo of a mistake that haunts him to this day.

The last thing he sees is Roi rushing over, he thinks their friends are close behind, although they're little more than colorful splotches as his vision blurrs further. He has trouble focusing on anything, even though Roi is right there.

"I'm sorry." He rasps, attempting and failing to make his voice sound anywhere near humorous. He feels ready to throw up. He coughs, tastes copper. "That didn't quite go as planned."