#BUT I CANNOT LEAVE THEM UNHAPPY

[the-odd-shu]

I would recognise you in another lifetime, entirely in different bodies.

A scenario from the illustrator!Reader universe.

Pairing: Jayce/Viktor/Reader (polycule)

Masterlist:

Previous -> Next

SEASON 2 SPOILERSSSS!!

Gender Neutral Reader with they/them pronouns.

Summary: Reader who is still wandering around in the ruined dimension because they panic scribbled runes onto their forehead which essentially 'repels' Mage!Viktor's magic. It was sheer luck that gave them the correct rune combination, having stolen one of Viktor's research journals and began copying in a blind panic. The runes also allow them to wander the world, beneath Viktor's radar, essentially invisible to his magic as well as untainted by his influence.

"Jayce." A voice in the darkness whispers, sending goosebumps up the man's forearms, as he twisted his broken body round at the call of his name.

The ravine echoed his panicked movements. The whisper of his filthy clothes sliding against each other. The scrap of skin against jagged stone. His leg protests any movement, but his panic is all consuming and rabid.

"Who-who's there?" He demands, his voice coming out cracked and uneven.

The shuffle of shoes on stone have his head snapping back round and up, and his entire body freezes as he sees a humanoid figure perched on a ledge above where he lays. Back lit by the surface, far, far above, the figure is crouched, knees bent with hands flat against the stone they're perched upon.

"Impossible." The thing whispers to itself, which is a testament to just how silent the ravine is that Jayce can hear it. Then the thing begins to climb down, TOWARDS him.

He panics. Unable to tear his eyes off of it, as it moves fluidly, easily, in the uneven terrain, like some sort of uncanny mountain goat. Clearly, it has been navigating this habitat for a long time.

It has several eyes, Jayce realises with horror. Two in the normal places that humans have eyes, that glow subtly in the poor lighting. And then five points on its forehead, that flow with an unnatural, inner light. If Jayce were not so terrified, he may have thought they were arranged like a crown.

The thing's booted feet slam into the ground, and it straightens up like a man. Jayce makes out ruined clothes, worn shoes, and scraggly, unkempt hair. It approaches him fearlessly.

Jayce scrambles away as best as his ruined leg will allow. "S-stay away!" He demands, the fear obvious in his voice.

It pauses. "Oh. Oh my Love." The thing whispers, "what has he let happen to you?" It lowers itself closer to his level, knees hitting stone, before shuffling closer, clearly trying and failing to be unthreatening. "I'll throttle that bastard the next time I lay eyes on him." It hisses to itself, "allowing you to suffer in the name of learning. As if you haven't had a rough several days already."

It continues to mutter to itself, and Jayce realises with a snag that he recognises the voice. And he hadn't before because of how rough it sounds, like the creature hasn't had use of words for years.

He watches with wide eyes as it aims for his leg, rather than his head and anything vital. It tuts under its breath as it crouches above the injury. "Definitely broken." They mutter.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" Jayce asks. In truth, he already knows, but he also doesn't. This person is foreign to him. They move differently to who he is expecting.

"Oh." They say again, voice creaking. "You do not recognise me."

"Step into the light." He says instead.

And the figure tilts their head, those unnatural, glowing eyes sending shivers up and down his back. No, wait, now that they're so close, he realises that the ones further up its face, are in fact runes. Runes that glow with a similar light to the Hexcore. To the magic that had been infused in Viktor's limbs when he had reawakened and stumbled his way across the lab.

At his request, the figure rises once more to their feet, and steps over him towards a beam of light filtering in from far above. The light banishes the uncertainty from Jayce's mind as he gazes upon a face he knows intimately, and yet looks alien to him now.

He was right at least, the upper glowing points on their face were not eyes, but were indeed runes. Runes that looked like they had been carved into the flesh of their forehead.

"What happened to you?" He asks.

"I could ask you the same thing, Love." They return easily, eyes dropping to his leg. "You look like you've been through the ringer." There is a deep, heavy sadness to their voice. A grief that startles Jayce.

Reader lingers by Jayce in the days that follow.

Keeping him company, and indulging his NEED to scribble on the walls. Runes and equations, and any possible ways back home.

They hunt down small creatures to feed him. Sparing his leg the agony of doing it himself, and allowing him to rest.

They venture deeper into the depths of the ravine in search of burnable things for a fire. And help him to the water for a drink.

They do not offer up suggestions of how to escape. Saying obscurer things like, "he's testing you', and 'he won't allow me to remain here if I make this too easy for you'. They always refer to some nameless 'him' but refuse to actually name 'him'. Muttering how if 'he' wanted Jayce to know 'him' yet, than 'he' would have already shown himself.

It gets cold in the ravine at night, so the pair huddle together for warmth. Reader's head on Jayce's shoulder, hands knotted into his ruined clothes as if he'll slip away at a moment's notice.

Sometimes, their rune riddled forehead touches the skin of Jayce's throat. And sometimes the magic residing within offer glimpses of events that Jayce has never experienced himself.

He sees snapshots of the lab, how it was after Viktor woke up from his coma. He sees books upon books of notes open, runes scrawled in both his and Viktor's handwriting, spread out across several desks. He feels the weight of a marker pen in his dominant hand, and sees someone else's terrified face staring back at him in the reflection of a mirror as they scribbled runes across their forehead.

He feels a deep seated terror closing his airways, as he hears the lab door open behind him. As he hears the familiar gait of Viktor's footsteps, tinged with a metallic after note. He feels sweat break on his forehead as his eyes dart from Viktor's approaching form in the mirror, to the useless ink marks standing out on their skin.

Viktor's voice is heavy with his accent as he calls out a greeting, an unnatural, unsettling undertone altering his voice ever so slightly. If Jayce did not know the man as intimately as he did, he would never have noticed the difference.

In the dream - no, the memory - the body that Jayce is hijacking, turns to meet Viktor as he approaches with slow, terrifying footsteps.

"Join me." He coaxes, a mockery of the sweet words he used to utter when inviting one or both of his lovers into bed after a long day spent in the lab.

His urging is denied. Viktor does not listen, and he takes by force. His hand coming down on Jayce's forehead and forces his submission.

By some miracle, the useless runes etched across his forehead ignite. The moment Viktor's hexcore enhanced fingertips touch the writing and he tries to forge a connection, the energy is abruptly converting into a power source for the runes which immediately burst to life. It send a sharp, siring warmth across Jayce's skin, and causes Viktor to recoil with a shout, ripping his hand away.

There is a weird, iridescent light in Jayce's peripheral vision, as Viktor's form stumbles back.

Jayce's head snaps down, and his eyes connect with little mirror on the desk, and he realises with a start that the simple pen marks had sunk down under his skin; having carved a permanent presence into the flesh.

"You- you shut me out." Viktor whispered, his voice oozing with hurt.

The words that shoot forth from Jayce's mouth are not his own as anger and betrayal coats them thickly. "You tried to erase me!" The body he is in snarls, "you tried to turn me into one of your mindless puppets!"

"Not erase, no! I would never erase you." Viktor tries to reassure, "I just wanted to help you see-" but the dream slips away before Jayce can be convinced.

Reader has helped Jayce to the water, where he drinks before tending to his wounded leg. He is dunking a rag into the water to clean his injuries, only to startle when he looks up and finds the white cloaked figure that led him here, looming on the other side of the water. He lets out a startled gasp. Hears Reader step up behind him.

"Oi!" They bellow, voice carrying effortlessly across the pond, to the figure, who turns their hooded head towards them. "Fuck off!"

Jayce blinks, and the figure is gone.

"Nosy bastard." Reader angrily mutters to themselves, bending down to help Jayce with his leg. "Keeping fucking tabs on me."

When Jayce finally claws his way out of the ravine and ends up on the highest point in the world, he discovers that the 'he' was in fact the Viktor of this world. And he realises almost immedaitely, that there is a heavy tension hanging between Reader and Mage Viktor. A mistrust that clearly upsets the mage, who calmly keeps his expressions smooth and his head turned away from the human. Whilst Reader gives him sad, uncomfortable looks whenever he is near.

The dormant statue of Jayce's alternative self drives a clear wedge between them.

When Jayce and Reader had first gotten up here, the latter had wasted no time in collecting some flowers and striding straight up to the statue, whilst Jayce came to realise that the marble figure looked unnervingly similar to him.

They had knelt beside it, and pressed a warm kiss to its temple, whispering a gentle, "good morning, Love," that sent Jayce's head reeling.

And then the hooded mage had appeared.

"Send him back." Reader commanded Mage!Viktor, expression frosty. "It is only fair."

"I was always going to." Mage Viktor argues back, to which they give him a sharp look.

Jayce is reeling from the hostility between the two. The worst fight he'd ever witnessed between the pair was when Reader misplaced one of Viktor's notebooks, and he'd lost his shit. But this, this was clearly an argument that had festered for far too long.

It was a shame Jayce couldn't afford to stick around to help them figure things out.

Viktor was raising his hand, the runes etched into his fingers beginning to glow a soft blue. Reader stood off to the side, arms crossed and their expression sad as they watched the spell begin to take hold.

It was a stray thought slamming into Jayce that had him grasping the borrowed hammer tighter, and throwing out a panicked, "wait!" Viktor's hand froze mid-cast, the spell freezing. Jayce licked his lips, and turned his attention to Reader. "Can you give me the runes that will help my Y/n?"

This dimension's Reader and Mage!Viktor exchange a tense look. "I could, but it will not help you." Reader tells Jayce, who feels a spike of panic. "You see, that interaction between them and The Herald happens whilst you're in this universe. It is down to them and luck if they manage to find the correct rune combination to remain separate from the hivemind."

"So there is nothing I can do."

Mage!Viktor shakes his head. And Reader gives him a look of sympathy. "Sometimes we're lucky, but most of the time, we fall to The Herald like everyone else he cures."

Mage!Viktor and Reader remaining in their ruined dimension. Reader made it a pastime to draw runes on statue!Jayce's forehead to try and revive him. Viktor tells them tiredly that what he has done to their lover is permanent and cannot be reversed. They tell him to go shove his pessimism up his cosmic ass.

They continue to try out different rune combinations day after day. And Viktor lingers nearby, watching them quietly and regretting everything that led them to this place. To these years spent without Jayce'.

He hates that the runes on Reader's forehead prevent him from offering them a glimpse into his thoughts. Prevent him from plainly showing them how remorseful he is. Prevent him from showing them truthfully just how many times he has tried to reverse his mistakes. How many times his tried and failed to bring Jayce back to them. But alas, the runes on their forehead keep him out, and give them enough peace of mind to exist near him, which is more than he truthfully deserves.

"Hand." Reader demands, pulling back their charcoal from Jayce's cracked, marble-like forehead. Viktor offers his hand as he does whenever they finish a combination, and they gently grab his wrist to touch his fingers to the marks. They're always gentle with him, regardless of how furious they are about him ending the world. And somehow the gentleness just makes everything that much worse.

"Though your determination is admirable, have you not grown bored yet?" He asks, as he asks everyday.

"No."

"This isn't working."

"It will."

"There are hundreds of thousands of possibilities. Endless possible combinations. There is no way you will be able to try them all."

"Jayce wouldn't give up." Reader snarks back, effectively shutting Viktor up. "If our roles were reversed, he wouldn't give up on us. Or did that Jayce's determination mean nothing to you." They add, motioning to the place the other Jayce had been stood just this morning. Freshly prepared for the hell he would have to deal with upon returning home.

Viktor lapses into silence. Eyes distant as he glances from his blank faced companion to the meadow of flowers he has cultivated for his late love.

"Hand." Reader demands of him a few moments later, and like clockwork, Viktor gives it to them. Their grasp on his wrist remains careful, but firm. His fingertips smudge the charcoal, and he reaches for that thread within Jayce's dormant subconsciousness. Fishing for a wall that will stop his probing touch, as it had within the individual sat beside him. But as it always seems to, Jayce's mind opens up to Viktor and his fingers sink in. Jayce's memories and emotions swirl beneath his fingertips, and Viktor offers a parting burst of love and adoration before withdrawing. Jayce slumbers on, if not a little easier with the magical nudge.

There is a huff beside him as he withdraws his hand back to his staff. Viktor glances in his peripheral vision at Reader, who tenderly reaches up with a damp, charcoal smudged rag to wipe the old runes away, before they take up their charcoal stick and draw new ones on.

There is a set to Reader's brow this time, a slight wobble in their lower lip that makes Viktor's stomach twist with guilt and longing. He wants to reach out and gather them to him, but he knows from experience that he will just end up getting shoved away, and they'll run from him. Use their runes to their advantage to conceal themselves from him before they inevitably come back for Jayce.

"I miss him." Reader whispers under their breath, and Viktor's eyes close tightly against the sheer pain in their tone.

"As do I." He reassured them, and they smiled tightly at him.

Wordlessly, they reached out for Viktor's hand, and he readily gave it to them. What stuns him however, is how instead of simply placing his fingers for him, they first bring his hand to their lips and press a kiss to the back of it. Their eyes shine when he stares at them in shock, the affection so deeply missed, that for a moment, he is rendered speechless.

"I am still mad at you." They clarify wetly, "but I miss you too."

And Viktor wants to reassure them that he is still here. He has been here the entire time, despite being a little different. Despite having changed. Deep down, he is still their Viktor, and no amount of magic or external influence could truly take him from them.

But he ends up voicing none of that, because they turn away, and lift his offered hand to Jayce's forehead. Viktor's fingertips make contact, and with a jolt, he feels the runes drawn there flare to life.

He lets out a cry, as his magic is snagged from his grasp, and turned to repel him. Reader feels it too, and their grip tightens on Viktor's wrist to yank his hand away.

Jayce's statue body makes a horrible cracking noise as his hands, still outstretched for his hammer, suddenly drop to his sides.

Viktor is on his feet in moments. He grabs Reader by the armpits and hauls them back, his staff raised defensively between them and the statue.

The statue that has begun to flake and twist. Sheets of marble white matter flake off of its ribcage, as its chest begins to rise and fall. It falls off the thing's face, revealing closed eyes and flaring nostrils. Then, the marble around the blown out portion of its head, begins to grow and round out into the shape of a skull, before it cracks like an egg and hair flops out. Familiar, deep brown locks.

With a gasp, Jayce comes back to life. The runes stand out like a crown across his forehead as his eyes fly open and dart all over. His hands pat at his bearded cheeks, along his nose, under his chin. Then he glances down to his body, clad in the very same outfit he had worn on the day Viktor absorbed him into the hivemind.

"I'm alive." He says breathlessly. And there is bewilderment in his voice. And relief. So much relief.

In Viktor's arms, Reader is practically vibrating out of their skin. "I told you." They whisper joyously. "I TOLD YOU!" They exclaim, turning in Viktor's grip to bless him with the widest, most excited smile he has ever seen them muster.

And then they're scrambling out of his arms and flinging themselves at a bewildered Jayce, who barely recovers quickly enough to grab them back. The pair mould together perfectly, as they always had. And the sight makes Viktor's heart ache. He lowers his staff, and takes a hesitant step forward, a private, relieved smile tugging at his own lips.

"V, get over here." Jayce encourages, one arm still around Reader, and the other outstretched to Viktor who hesitates.

"After everything I have done-" Viktor begins in astonishment, feeling like he doesn't deserve such easy forgiveness.

"I'm not asking." Jayce warns, "I'm telling you, V. Get over here."

And with a huff, Viktor lets Jayce take his extended hand and drag him down into a hug. And by the gods, has he missed the warm touch of this man.

There is still so much left unsaid between them. Apologies that need to be offered, and mistakes that need to be talked out. But for now, this was enough.

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

something something au where recently divorced but still extremely closeted trent walks into a bar owned by beard and frequently bartended by ted

[luveline]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

you get a good dose, confess your affections, and leave poor, oblivious hotch to fix things up neatly. 

cw painkiller high, light suggestive theme 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hello.” 

You lift your gaze without blinking. Hotch is standing in the doorway, making his way in with a bouquet of flowers tucked under one arm and a white envelope against his chest. 

“Hello,” he says again, meeting your wide, still eyes with concern. “You okay?” 

“Flowers for me?” 

“You’re the one here in a hospital bed. They’re from me and Jack. He insisted.” 

You nod up and down robotically. Your heart is unhappy today. You’ve been fast and slow and now it’s running fast again, a tip-tip-tip on the heart monitor that makes Hotch frown. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They told me you were on a lot of pain medication, you shouldn’t be hurting anymore. Is it not working?” 

“I feel a lot.” 

“And that’s unsettling,” he surmises.

“Can I have my flowers?” 

Hotch offers them to you immediately. “Why don’t you count to a hundred for me?” 

“They’re beautiful, but there’s not that many.” 

“Count to one hundred. I can start. Do you need me to start for you?” 

You dip your face into the flowers. “I love when you say stuff like that.” 

Hotch doesn’t answer you. You begin counting, hoping he’ll say a nice thing if you do as he asked. The numbers get mixed up after thirty five, there really aren’t enough flowers to count to a hundred, but when forty five and fifty four begin to feel like the same number spiritually, Hotch reaches for your forearm and gives it a squeeze. That means job well done. Nobody else in the team gets arm squeezes —they’re for you. Nobody else has noticed, but you have. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

You beam at him. The heart monitor beeps in slow loops. “You’re welcome. Did it help?” 

“I’d say so.” He takes off his suit jacket and puts it over the back of the chair, pulling the chair towards the bed with his foot, and getting comfortable beside you, a little lower down than you but tall regardless. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“I can’t believe you got me flowers.” 

“I got you flowers the last time you were injured.” 

“I know,” you say with a laugh. “I know, it was amazing.” 

“Here’s your card from Jack. I’ve opened it for you, I hope that’s okay.” 

“I cannot open anything. I tried to stab my pudding open with a spoon and broke it and can’t find the sharp part in my blankets. I’m worried it’s going to poke me.” 

Hotch stands from his chair. “That’s not good.” 

You take up Jack’s card, pinching the folded printer paper and pulling all of its homemade glory from the envelope. The front has a red heart drawn with bandages wrapped around it, and inside is a message written in impressive penmanship considering his age. To Y/N, it says, Please get well soon. We are hoping you to have a speedy recovery! Love you, Jack and Aaron 

“It says you love me,” you say. 

“Mm, Jack wrote the message. He misses you.” 

You catch the feeling of Hotch’s hand where it slips between your legs and almost burst, giggling excitedly, which makes his hand jump away from you like a fish out of water. “You have the spoon!” 

“Found it. No more danger.” 

“Thank you. I knew you could find it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The pain medication Hotch spoke of is starting to make itself known. You hadn’t felt very different to begin with, the only worthy note your absence of pain, but right now you feel weird. Light. Happy, but strange, like the opposite feeling of missing a step. You know something’s wrong and you know it’s the medication, but you’re elated at the same time. Hotch is here. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’ll know. 

“Do you think I feel happy ‘cos of you or the morphine?” you ask. Softly, slurring, you swallow and try not to sound as drunk. “I feel amazing.” 

“It’s the morphine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since I had some myself, but I remember feeling amazing at the time, and you’re on a lot more of it than I was.” Hotch sets himself back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you staying for long?” 

“Until they make me leave,” he says. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Yesterday you were here for ten minutes and I felt like my heart was bruised.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His eyes seem darker than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I had to be home to take care of Jack.” 

“I know you had to, it’s not your fault, but I still missed you.” 

You prop Jack’s amazing card on the nightstand with a proud grin. You love Jack Hotchner, he’s the smartest, kindest, sweetest boy you’ve ever met, and it must be because of his parents. You’ve not met Haley many times, but Hotch is amazing. It makes sense that his kid would be just as awesome as he is. Turning your attention back to the flowers, you find the courage to ask, “Do you think you could bring Jack to see me?” 

“I think he might be a little young for hospitals, I’m sorry.” 

“Well, maybe I can see him when I’m out of the hospital? How can I say thank you for the card? Does he still like bears?” 

“He has enough bears,” Hotch says gently. “You don’t need to buy him anything, he just wants you to get better soon.” 

“You’re such a good dad.” Your lashes kiss with the force of your smile. “You’re lovely. Jack is really kind.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re handsome,” you continue, slinking down in the bed. You feel tired but not sleepy, craving a really big, hot sandwich. Hotch holds your gaze. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“What?” he asks quietly. 

“Can you please get me a big, hot sandwich? Maybe with hot chicken? Or spicy chicken in a burrito? I really need it to be hot.” 

Hotch laughs aloud and reaches for your forearm to squeeze you again. “Of course I can. I’ll call Derek and I’ll make him get you both of those things, if you like.” 

“Oh, good. I really really don’t want you to leave but I really want the sandwich more than I want you to stay.” You tip your head to one side. “If you hugged me again I’d say I want you to stay more than I want the sandwich, ‘cos you haven’t hugged me in a long time.” 

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the pad of his thumb working against your wrist. 

“No, I know I’m not supposed to want you to hug me.” 

“We’re friends,” he says, shaking his head, “good friends, aren’t we? It’s alright if you want a hug. I should be better at giving them.” 

When he was with Haley you wouldn’t have dreamed of wanting it, because your affection for him has always been more than a friend‘s. You’ve guarded the secret carefully over the years. What’s more unfair to a wife than to fancy her husband? But Haley left Hotch, and he’s been single for a while now, and you think that lately he’s actively dating. He’s always had pride in his appearance, but his suits are tailored again. His hair is left to grow beyond what’s easily maintained. He and Dave occasionally joke about him getting back out there —he doesn’t need to get out there, you’re right here. 

You can’t help frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I think I’m a bad friend.” 

“You aren’t a bad friend.” 

“I am, I have ulterior motives.” 

Hotch rolls his eyes. “Honey, everybody does. You’re fine. You’re a good friend. You know you’re the sole member of the team who’s remembered Jack’s birthday every year? Remembered mine?” 

“I don’t do that to be a good friend, I just love Jack.” 

His hand slips down to yours. He holds it briefly. “I know you do.” 

“It’s why I remember yours,” you say, shaking your head, annoyed he’s taken his hand back but ready to move on to better things. “Can you ask Derek for my sandwich now, please? Please, please, I’m so hungry I’m gonna die.” 

Hotch gives you a funny look. “How about I go and get you your sandwich? I’ll be very fast. I’ll go to Sam’s across the street, would you like that?” 

“Can I have maybe a donut too?” 

“Sure, honey. I’ll get you a half dozen.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. Do you want any in particular?” 

Hotch goes off to get you a sandwich and you click the button for more morphine without really thinking. You’re asleep before he gets back.

—

You wake up shaking. 

Aaron straightens in his chair. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it’s nearing the end of your visiting hours and he’s been here since three. Your sandwich is stone cold in the bag and he’s not sure how he’ll get it warmed up.

Your arms are trembling badly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Hotch, where am I?” 

Aaron stands. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had some morphine and it ended up sedating you. The shaking will calm down soon, but nothing’s wrong, okay?” 

You’re noticeably confused, and Aaron hates it enough to sew his fingers between yours. His are thicker by quite a bit, but he’s used to smaller hands. He’s careful with you. He can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. 

The undercurrent of fear you’d been harbouring begins to ebb. You let Aaron hold your hand and settle back down into your sheets, turning your face toward him and shutting your eyes. You don’t seem sleepy. He’s not sure what’s wrong. 

When you say you love him, he understands. He loves you, too. He doesn’t think that he’s in love with you, but he could be. He’s had enough guilty daydreams about it, batted them away, moments doing the dishes or at the gym or when you’re standing together working a case, where he forgets to forbid himself the pleasure and imagines you in simple intimacies. He sees himself taking your hand. He pictures waking up to the smell of you on his pillows. When he’s especially pent up and you’ve haunted him with your bare face or a shy smile, he ends the day thinking of you. How he’d kiss your head with just a little of his weight atop you, or a lot. 

And then he feels so horribly wrong for doing it that he resigns himself to the distance between you forever. 

Aaron doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he could fall in love with you if given the chance. He has to determine how honest your morphine-confession was, and there’s no time like the present. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

“I brought you the donuts and a sandwich, but I’ll have to reheat it. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I ask for a sandwich?” you ask, startled.

“A hot one. You emphasised.” 

“Thank you, Aaron. I don’t think I’m hungry now, I’m kinda queasy.” 

“You had a little bit more morphine than you should’ve.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says under his breath, “that’s not your fault.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly. Any want to draw the truth from you is quickly dwindling. All he wants now is to make sure you’re okay. 

He spills himself closer to you and, without untangling your hands, brings your thin blankets to your shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay. The queasiness won’t last long. In fact, eating might help, but we can wait.” 

“Don’t you have to go home?” 

“No, I can stay if you want me to.” 

“Please, I want you to.” 

“You’re still on the morphine,” he says, rubbing your hand, “I can ask them to lower your dosage if you don’t like it, but you have to remember that it’s keeping you unaware of your pain.” 

You hesitate. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Then it won’t,” he promises. You had more than your fair share of pain. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“This is all I want. For you to look after me.” 

He takes a measured breath. “I would love to look after you.” 

You turn your head half an inch to see him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying to blend the half of him you know at work with the half of him responsible for his outer life, the part of him that flirts with beautiful women at bars, the part of him that loved being a husband. “I don’t know what you want, and now isn’t the time, but,” —he prepares to be brave— “if you want me to look after you, then I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.”

“Can you kiss me?” 

His heart skips a beat. “No, honey, I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

“Not even on the head?” 

His stomach aches, but it’s a good feeling. Like worrying you lost something and finding it in the first place you’ve looked. “On the head I can do.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed in wait of his kiss, a light, chaste brush of the lips to your temple. The morphine makes you laugh, a girly, giggly bubble of it as you burrow into the sheets, like he’s tickled you. He’s twice as endeared when you squint at him like you’re waiting. 

“Can I–”

“One more,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “Any more than that and you’ll die of embarrassment when you’re not drugged out of your mind.” 

“I’m not out of my mind. I’m just hallucinating. Or having a great dream.” 

He’s inclined to agree, but he knows with confidence he hasn’t had any heavy medication today. He gives you a fond look and sits back down, obliging you when you scramble to put your hand in his again. It’s a weight he could get used to holding.

“I really like you,” you confess quietly. 

He quite likes you in return. “That’s great, honey. Do you want to talk about it later? Maybe you can have one of your donuts.” 

You don’t take his misdirection as rejection, you just pull his hand to your chest and smile. “No thank you. I can wait.” 

He can wait too. 

[purplethespian]

The Rights of Disabled Americans Are Under Attack

We need to take action as soon as we can! Texas v. Becerra is an attack on disabled people and needs to be stopped.

What's happening? In the court case Texas v. Becerra, 17 states are suing the US government and because they are unhappy with additions made to Section 504 under the Biden Administration. They are asking the Justice Department to rule Section 504 unconstitutional!

What is Section 504? Section 504 is an extremely important law passed in the 1970s that protects disabled Americans from discrimination. If an entity, such as a school or hospital, receives money from the US government, it cannot discriminate against disabled people without losing that money.

Why are they asking for it to be ruled unconstitutional? In May of 2024, the Deparment of Health and Human Services issued updated guidelines for Section 504 to be more comprehensive and more specific about types of prohibited discriminatory actions against disabled people. Among these updated guidelines is an introduction that says (among many other things) that depending on the context, gender dysphoria could be a disability protected by Section 504. Naturally, because Republicans love to attack trans people, the Attorneys General of the 17 states, led by Ken Paxton of Texas, have launched a lawsuit about it.

Which states are part of the lawsuit? The 17 states are Alaska, Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Louisiana, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, South Carolina, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, and West Virginia.

What can I do to help? The most important thing to do is to spread awareness about this. Very few people outside of the disabled community are talking about this case, which is terrifying because without Section 504, disabled people will lose part of what protects us from discrimination. If you are not disabled, please talk about this!

Another thing that you can do to help is to contact the Attorney General of your state and ask them to take action! If you live in one of the states involved with the lawsuit, you can call the office of your Attorney General and ask them to withdraw from the lawsuit. If you live in a state not involved, you can contact your state's AG and ask them to file papers with the court in support of Section 504.

You might also want to contact your representatives in Congress to tell them about the court case and ask them to take action to protect their disabled constituents. Your Senators and Representatives may be able to contact the AG of your state or take other action in support of Section 504. Here is a sample phone script to get you started:

"Hi, my name is [Name] and I am one of your constituents living in [City/Town Name]. My address is [address] (this ensures that your message/phone call will be counted). I am calling today to ask you to take action to support Section 504 and protect the rights of disabled residents of [State]. The court case Texas v. Becerra is trying to make Section 504 unconstitutional, which would leave millions of Americans, including those in our state, vulnerable to discrimination. Please contact [Attorney General] and ask [him/her] to [withdraw from this case/file papers for this case in support of Section 504]. [You may want to talk about how Section 504 is relevant to your life either as a disabled person or as someone who cares about disabled people and/or civil rights generally.] Thank you for your attention."

I will also be contacting my representatives for my state's government and asking them to commit to protecting the rights of disabled people in my state, regardless of the outcome of Texas v. Becerra. Here is the script I will be using:

"Hi, my name is [Name] and I am one of your constituents living in [City/Town Name]. My address is [address] (this ensures that your message/phone call will be counted). As you may be aware, 17 states (including our own) have filed a lawsuit against the federal government in a case called Texas v. Becerra, which if successful would make Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act unconstitutional. This would make millions of Americans, including those in our great state, vulnerable to discrimination. I am calling today to ask you to commit to protecting the rights of disabled [state residents], regardless of the outcome of this court case. I hope that you will support or introduce state legislation that protects disabled [state residents] from discrimination and other forms of harm. [You may want to talk about your experience as a disabled person or someone who cares about disabled people.] Thank you for your attention and for your work as a legislator."

Where can I find more information about this case and about actions I can take? DREDF, the Disability Rights Education & Defense Fund, has a page on their website talking all about this case and what you can do to help. They have sample scripts for contacting your state's Attorney General, as well as contact information for the AGs in all 50 states. They also held a community briefing recently where they talked about the changes to Section 504 that were introduced by the Biden Administration, what is happening with the court case, and what community members can do. The webinar recording is about 45 minutes long and can be found here.

Additionally, this website has information about the percentage of each state's population that is disabled, as well as other info. You may want to include that information when calling your various representatives.

The court will begin considering all information about the case on Tuesday, February 25th, 2025. This means that we need to act fast!

If we all come together to protect Section 504, I firmly believe that we can be successful. Let's do this!

[gaypirate420]

Witch Trial// Dream*

Dream* of the Endless x fem!witch!reader.

Summary: The Lord of Dreams has to rescue his witch from her demise at the stake.

A/N: 1675 Morpheus lives in my head rent free. This might be ooc. And it's long and maybe not historically accurate linguistically speaking.

Angst/Fluff. Slow burn? Pun not intended.

Part two.

1680, London.

Your breath was ragged as you pushed a chair against your door, trying to prevent anyone from getting inside. You heard their whispers earlier, you knew their plans, the village you've been living in for the last two decades has found you out and you will be burned because of your secret.

Your hands are trembling as you brush your hair back, almost too hard, without much thinking you took a leather bag, taking things that you deemed important, you could still flee, make a run for it and live.

Books, diaries, cards and amulets, you wished you could take it all, all the memories but there is no time.

Shivers ran through your back as you heard them, the mob, the shouts, someone must've known you wanted to escape. Your gaze roamed around your home searching for something, anything.

So you knelt.

"Dream Lord." You called to the air, clasping your hands together.

His steps are slow, walking with no rush, clothes blend with the shadows. The Lord of Dreams has heard your callings, he has told you many times that he was not at your beck and call, that he cannot save you for any small inconvenience you come by. And for the most part of the century you've stuck to those rules, if you were so insisting this time it meant trouble.

Leaves crush against his shoes, everything is silent as he opens the door of your home. The raven perched on his shoulder ruffles her feathers, sensing the heavy energy.

His expression doesn't change much, his starry eyes only took into the scene, your home was wrecked, everything you owned was broken and there was no sight of you. His jaw clenched as he saw the small altar you have for him undone and ruined.

"Please, my lord. Please." He could feel your calls at the back of his mind, they were now more desperate, pleading. Jessamy caws at him, catching his attention before she took flight again, guiding him.

"I do not deserve to be put in the pyre!" You shouted, everyone in the trail looking at you. "I am not a follower of satan!"

"You have lived in this village for twenty years, yet you hold no signs of aging and have no children, you look younger than any woman in here, but you are older." The judge says, his gaze is scrutinizing.

"Much more older." The man continued, something was handed to him, a piece of clothing, he stepped closer, you could sense anger but there was fear, everyone in the room was afraid of you to some degree.

"This fell from your blouse one day, is this not you?" He asks as he unfolds the cloth, revealing a small portrait of you, he turns it around, the date in it reads 1568 following with a small legend of your name. One of your lovers was a painter, you remember feeling so cherished when they showed a painting of yourself, now you only feel cold sweat running down your skin.

"That is my grandmother." You said confidently, your chin up and gaze not waving from the judge's. But he did not believe you.

"Your name is in this portrait. You are over a hundred years old." He stated before walking away. "I have never harmed anyone in this village!" You plead with a crack on your voice. The judge turns around, meeting your gaze again.

"You are a temptress, seducing women to do your bidding, making innocent men suffer from the most bizarre dreams after meeting you."

It was true, mostly, the women were pretty, those that were unhappy with their husbands found themselves in your home more often than not. And the men were insufferable, they made you angry with their ignorance, with their attempts at courting you, perhaps one or two suffered your wrath in the form of nightmares. But you were already lectured about that by your patron.

"You shall be burned, return to hell with your master!"

"They will burn her tomorrow." Morpheus said to his sister, who stood in his gallery after being called.

"Humans have done that recently, it is quite a shame." Death spoke softly, a soft sympathetic expression on her face, her brother wasn't pleased, in the slightest, she would dare to say he was angry about your demise. Dream knows your nature as a witch doesn't grant immortality, only longevity, and he doesn't know of any mortal that survived being burned alive.

"She has been working for me for eighty years. I granted her protection in exchange for her loyalty and work. She has not failed me." His star filled eyes looked away.

"She became important to you." Death says with a small smile, leaning her body against a wall. Morpheus let out a small huff, side eying her, instantly, almost burning holes into her.

"I shall keep my word. As she kept hers." He said simply, almost offended at the claim from his sister.

"And how do you plan to do that?" She asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"I have a favor to ask from you, my sister." He stepped closer, his eyes meeting hers.

Everything is a blur. You haven't slept all night, but who would in a dark cold cell. You could hear your heartbeat on your ears, merging with the screams of insults and the occasional rock being thrown at you as they dragged you around the village.

They tie you. You don't understand what the preacher is saying, if he is condemning you or asking God to have mercy on your soul, you cannot concentrate, your eyes look down as the wood piles around you.

"Dream Lord... please, help me." You whispered with trembling lips, you thought of yourself as strong, you cannot help but weep now.

And so it begins, soft crackling cuts your thoughts, the smell of wood burning fills your lungs, the smoke starting to rise and cloud your surroundings. You looked up at the sky before closing your eyes.

Gasping.

Erratic gasping for air, your eyes shoot open, your body trembling frantically as you choke on tears, making you cough, you sit up, hugging yourself.

A soft cawing noise makes you lift your head. The now familiar raven with a white chest hops onto the bed you now realize you're resting in.

"Calm yourself." His voice reverberates through your mind making you jump a bit.

"My- my- mas-ter." You choked out the words.

His fingers found their way to your chin, the touch is gentle, just a small coaxing for you to look at him.

"That was no dream." The dream lord spoke, almost like he could read your mind at the moment. "And yes, you are still alive." He reassured, his tone laced with a discreet softness that wasn't there before. But the lord of dreams wasn't sure you even understood him.

"I burned. I could feel it." You whispered out, trembling slightly at the memory. His fingers lingered for a moment but he caught himself and pulled away, tucking his hands into his pockets "They said some vile things about me." You sniffle.

"Do not let their ignorance harm you further." That was all the comfort he offered before silence fell upon the room.

"Those are yours." Morpheus pointed with his eyes, making you look at the leather bag on the nightstand. He could feel the relief in your expression.

"Thank you, master. I am in your depth." You mumbled out, bowing your head in gratitude, your hands still caressing your own skin in seek of comfort.

"There is no need to thank me. I merely kept my word, so you do not have to give me anything in return." Morpheus said before walking to the door. "I will send someone to fetch you for dinner, in the meantime I suggest you rest." With that he left, leaving you and Jessamy alone, she tilted her head at you before hopping onto your lap, your hand resting on her body as the feeling of her feathers grounded you.

Morpheus closed the door of your room, he walked away, his hand pulling from his pocket, looking down at the small portrait of you for a moment before tucking it back into his coat, keeping it safe, and most important, a secret.

"What a weekend, literally end up dead."- Reader, 1680.

A/N: (Divider 1) (Divider 2) hiiiii, heeeyyyy, we're SO BACK Sandman girlies and theys, omggggggggggg, send requests as always I might take some time to do them. Also I do not support NG, idk if it needs to be said, but now u know.

[hollyberrygarden]

I was thinking over the way Pavlova describes Wildberry's crush. he says (direct quote), "you know well that it won't work out, but you have no intention of giving up!" in their interaction in the kingdom, he also calls it a "foolish" type of love

and I was like. what does that imply about Wildberry's crush?? and how would it apply to Crunchy Chip??

"foolish" implies a lack of good sense or judgment. it's a crush that can only end negatively—heartbreak, fighting, strain, or some other horrible result. Wildberry could either keep his feelings to himself, being unhappy with his own cowardice. he could also confess and get rejected, therefore losing whatever bond he had with his crush in the first place. but he could also be accepted and enter a relationship, but then the worries he has could be true. it could not work out, just like he knows it won't, and it would be unfair to both of them. every possible end result (to someone who is convinced it will not work out) would demonstrate the foolishness of the crush he has. Wildberry strikes me as the kind of guy who doesn't get crushes often, and he deals with them on his own before he chooses to confess, if ever

I'm imagining him in his own head about it, which is why no one else seems to know; it could also be why he doesn't externally react to it when the others are around but pretty much concedes to his worries over it (and openly seems. I guess worried about them!!) when he's talking one-on-one with Pavlova. he has gone over these possibilities to himself without any external input. he is trying to figure out how to make it work, which is the "no intention of giving up" that Pavlova mentioned, but maybe he doesn't have a set answer yet, which is why it's still something he hasn't confessed. Pavlova only knows because it's what he does

I was thinking about why it "not working out" (very generally speaking) is something he would think about, and I wondered what kind of relationship he would want. in an overworld dialogue, Royal Margarine tells him he must be "popular with a tall, muscular build like that." whether it's true is unknown, but Wildberry says he doesn't care about such "trivialities," assumedly being popular. if he doesn't want popularity, maybe he wants something simple?? or steady?? or maybe even straightforward. it's hard to know for sure. he wants something that's actually possible for him and his lifestyle in the kingdom. he's a busy guy who often travels away for important and dangerous business. it would be difficult to be in any kind of steady relationship when that's what you do for work. long distance isn't for everyone

to him, he cannot be with Crunchy Chip because of their duties to their kingdoms. I think it circles back to that. Crunchy Chip is the captain of the cream wolves in the Dark Cacao Kingdom, and he is close enough to the king to travel with him to Beast Yeast. he protects the kingdom every day, as well as the woods surrounding it. Wildberry is a hired bodyguard to the Queen Mother, and he has sworn loyalty to her (and the king and queen of course); he frequently travels for work and is likely gone for long stretches of time, depending. they both have very important jobs that neither wants to give up. during Cookie Odyssey, they each talk about their love for their kingdoms and their respective leaders, even making a bet about who will want to visit the other more. they exchange letters on the regular. Hollyberry herself has noticed how much closer they're getting. he knows how much Crunchy Chip values his position in the Dark Cacaco Kingdom, and he values his own position in the Hollyberry Kingdom. they don't want to leave. they cannot leave. not now, maybe not for a long time. maybe not ever, in a horrible reality

it's foolish in every way fathomable. to Wildberry, at least

[custardtartsfan]

Jason Todd head canons that have accumulated over time

many thoughts about the boy constantly rattle around my brain and i would like to share them ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ) nothing hanky panky ish for i do not like to think about that

general bullshit ᝰ.ᐟ

he doesnt trust modern technology. he has a Motorola razr. no he will not upgrade, stop asking

has VERY messy hand writing. straight chicken scratch. barley legible

smoked during his late teens (post resurrection period, he was going through it). tried quitting in his early twenties, he bought a menthol flavour geek bar but threw it out cause Roy made fun of him

it wasnt even one of the cool ones with a screen. smh

he has a weird nostalgic affection for the thrift

it reminds him of being a kid, in the rare moments that his mother was sober enough to take him somewhere. and it was nice, his mom was conscious, all was well

and he could get whatever he wanted! he wanted a toy? sure bud, its only a dollar. why the hell not?

he recently walked into a Goodwill and damn near burst an artery when he looked at the tag on a pair of pants. it was NOT like this back in his day

his hair is like wavy, like not curly but wavy. however, he has no idea how to really care for it. shits dry is what im saying

i think hes very competitive about stupid shit

not like he gets pissy about mario kart, he will race you to see who can fold their socks the fastest

largest of the batfam. vertically and horizontally. hes a beefy dude. a brick shithouse

i think hes also the kind of dude that needs to know someone very well before he could consider dating them. id even go as far to say hes somewhere on the aro spectrum

i think he has a very high spice tolerance. like youll pry his siracha out of his cold re-dead hands. he LOVES African curry (yes this one is based off me) thats like his perfect kind of spice

back to his hatred of technology, he collects cds to listen to instead of streaming

he has one of those hip disk players with the headphones. Red Hood has been seen with a walkman

also hates tv, but will watch the news willingly. he will sit down and watch Wolf Blitzer of his own accord

romantic (୨୧• ꒳ •)=:♡

remember when i said he has the handwriting of an 18 month old toddler? yea well thats a little unfortunate cause he LOVES leaving notes for his lover. when he has to slip out the window for a job in the middle of the night, he writes a little note - “had to take care of something, be back soon. with bagels. love, Jay :)” but its written so janky his lover is spending the whole time hes gone trying to decipher it

dont tell him that though, he might cry

hes not a talker particularly. words tend to come out wrong in his experience. instead, he likes gifts acts of service to show you he cares

shopping with him and youre eying a particular top for a while? guess what’s mysteriously appeared in your laundry basket

lowq doesn’t have motion though..soo it might have been Bruce card. but honestly? money is money who gaf

what he occasionally lacks in funds he makes up for in willingness to let you do whatever you want to him

he will waddle after you in sephora, freaking out the occasional employee cause holy FUCK who invited the punisher, letting you swatch whatever you want on his hand

if you’re concerned about the milk in the fridge being yuck, give it to him to taste. he’ll let you know

there is no mountain to high, no dubious forgotten leftover too unhappy looking

cannot cook for SHIT. but he loves to eat

he will mention wanting food and stare at you longingly until you go to the kitchen

hes not gonna be playing fortnite while you’re cooking though, he can chop stuff. you may not want him within 50 feet of a place where food is prepared but he will offer

bless his heart

runs hot like a furnace. probably because hes a large meaty boy

he will grumble like a pensioner when you tuck yourself into his chest at night when its cold, but we both know damn well hes gonna be giggling and kicking his steel toed boots when he tells Roy about it later

he had pretty mixed, strewing negative opinions, about his little white tuft of hair at the front. hes tried cutting it, it grew back the same. he bought box dye, it doesnt take. so hes stuck with it. and he cant say hes happy about it

until you came along, all full of love and life, telling him you loved it. you though it framed his face perfectly and suited him great. you and your fancy affection fuck you

(he was cheesing for hours)

okay lets get sad now

hes got BADD anxiety about hurting you without meaning to. its a reasonable concern, hes a big dude. and these hands dont do a lot of cradling as a rule, more beating heads in

he needs to be reassured, but would rather roll around in broken glass then swim in lemonade than let that be known. hes more of a stare at you until you sooth him

he likes to be kissed and cuddled and cared for. so what? hes only incredibly ashamed. it doesnt matter how many times you re iterate that he has no reason to be, hes a stubborn bitch

thats all ive got! i hope you enjoyed reading my real time jason todd related word association. most of these were typed in a fury on the mobile web app on the subway so..if the formatting is yucky thats up to god (-.-;)y-~~~

[yandere-sins]

Okay! But like... big male yan!omega? Big strong man who doesn't fit into any societal omega ideal! Who gets confused for an alpha because he is so imposing and mean-looking and towers over everyone in any room. Who wants nothing more than to cuddle and purr for his cute small fem!alpha. He just wants to impregnate you, give you little babies for you to protect, but him to take care of. Who is so strong that he can push you down and hump you during his heat/your rut. He uses his omega instincts/hormones to keep you close by. Bby, don't you want to provide for him? He keeps sending you distressed hormones, you need to be a good alpha and keep him happy. Be a good alpha and kiss him better, make him a daddy and let him comfort you when your own alpha instincts flair up. He will be your perfect omega, carrying you around and smooching the top of your head. He will have a ginormous nest to keep the both of you safe and satisfied

Aww, gosh that is so wholesome!! (In yandere terms) I love it!! Thanks for sparking that idea ♥

There's just so much to go off on, and we all know that omegas really wear the pants in the relationship because alphas are just so easy to manipulate. You'd instantly get concerned when you smell the drop in a stranger's mood, just because it's your nature. Yet, you find yourself comforting an unusually big and bulky omega, who immediately hugs and latches onto you as if you two have always known each other. As an alpha, you cannot leave a sulky or unhappy omega to their own devices—even if it feels bizarre to be so caught up with someone you met randomly on a night's out... You have to stay with them and protect them from other alphas that might sniff out the omega, even if the sight of you two inevitably leads to some confusion about who is who. It's quite surprising when other alphas want to get to you instead of the actual omega, but it is he who bares his fangs at them, and you are already drenched in his scent. Even so, your omega still accounts it as your win, letting you have the laurels when the other alphas scurry off in a huff. You find it almost funny, but you are thankful for avoiding a confrontation, even though you have mixed feelings about this situation.

That is until even your friends start to avoid you. They just don't want to hang around a fellow alpha that has an omega tower over them from behind all the time, menacingly. He's scaring them off, although you still believe it's unwillingly. He's an omega, no way he has bad intentions, right? You already don't smell like you used to anymore, and when they tell you to take care of your omega, waving you off with a pitiful smirk, and tell you to enjoy the mated life, you are so confused as to why everyone thinks you two are mated. However, when you confront the omega, you're immediately hit with the smell of rejection and fear. You hate your instincts for instantly reaching out to comfort him instead of continuing your questioning, telling him it's all right. You'll take care of him—just like a good alpha would. Even if you curse yourself, there's not much you can do other than to keep this omega happy. It's not his fault he looks a bit intimidating to others; he's actually quite nice when you talk to him, just like an omega should be. He might even be a bit cute, you have to admit.

You agreed to take him home when he asks you since it's late, and "you know how alphas are"—well, duh! It probably shouldn't have surprised you that when you go over to his place for the first time, there's already a huge nest awaiting you. He's not in heat—you checked that multiple times after you met him—so technically, you shouldn't have anything to fear. You aren't even sure if you want to mate with him if that had been an option, so it was better to be safe than sorry. But damn, that is one hell of a fantastic nest. The blankets and pillows are so soft, the nest smells absolutely delightful with pheromones that kept pestering your nose all night, and a purr escapes you before you can even so much but clarify you're not staying over. The sight of the omega crawling back into his nest, lolling between the comfortable sheets and inviting you in so casually as if you already belong there, makes you gulp, your instincts rampaging, making you want to join him. Society and everyone around you conditioned you to not refuse your omega. Still, even though your body resists, your hormones spiking as you feel a rut incoming, you are so proud of yourself for turning on your heel and running.

It feels like you are a complete disappointment as an alpha, though.

You can't do it! Reasonably, you know that, but your body thinks otherwise. Ruts are too painful and tiresome without a mate to take care of you, and there had been a perfectly capable omega ready to embrace you. And you left. You barely get away a few blocks before you break down, your rut so spitefully overwhelming you, shutting down all your senses, dignity, and pride, that all you can think of is crawling back to the omega and begging him to help you. But even if you want to go back, need to go back, you can't bring yourself to it. All kinds of excuses come to mind: you're not in a place to provide the family life all omegas want, he's probably just using you for his own needs, you're too young to settle with the first omega that crosses your path, and you barely know the omega at all, you two only just me! You can't just get swept off your feet by the first omega that shows you his nest! And besides comforting him a few times, it's not like you two have a deeper relationship—you two are probably not even in love it's all just hormones!

You smell him before he even comes around the corner. Undoubtedly, he smells you, too. His eyes are instantly fixated on the picture of misery you must look like as you sit there on the sidewalk. He probably hates you for refusing him, and you get scared, hoping he won't abuse his power over you. But when he opens his mouth, it's all just sounds of comfort, his arms so strong and warm as he hugs you to his chest, lifting you up. He's not mad at all, and the alpha in you is overjoyed to smell his relief and be treated gently, even if you failed him before. He keeps asking you if you want his help, so concerned with your consent and how could you hold back? You know this omega will help you take care of the rut, make you forget about your inadequacies, and make a family while you two are at it. It's what you want—everyone wants it, right? Who needs free will when you can let your instincts take over and have an omega take care of you and the family you are about to make.

His neck is so perfectly, incidentally exposed to you; how can you not sink your fangs into it, marking this omega as yours while he takes you back to his nest, back home? Everything smells so amazingly, the omega is overjoyed, and you are happy. He's grinning from ear to ear as he puts you back down into his nest, sinking his fangs into your shoulder, your thigh, the nape of your neck. You've not made yourself a good alpha to bond so heavily to, but he does it with pleasure as he starts to take care of the mind-fogging rut that overwrites all your common sense.

"You're mine now. And I'm not letting you go," he says before biting you again and again, every fiber of your being stimulated as you press into him, moaning as if you are the omega in heat. You almost forget you're the alpha, but before that happens, you flip you both around, and the omega lets you, emitting sounds and smells of delight over you taking control, praising you just like a good omega should. So you make sure your omega is comfortable before exploring his body, making sure that by the time you spread your legs, your omega is just as happy as he makes you.

And from now on, you'll do everything to keep it that way.

Just like a good alpha should.

[maenefa]

Ok, so if Eowyn wants to die in battle to avoid a worse fate at the hands of the enemy, why is it so easy to miss that??? Why does Tolkien misdirect us?

I could write a whole essay on Tolkien’s love of understatement, of meaningful silence, of “glimpses of untold stories,” but let’s focus on Eowyn for now.

Tolkien creates a suffocating bubble of silence around Eowyn. It’s brilliant and horrible and I love it and I hate it.

Faramir tells Eowyn what he thinks about her motives: “You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn…. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle.” And Eowyn doesn’t correct him! She just looks at him silently. And she declares her love for him during this scene.

Eowyn is often described as “frozen” or “cold,” and it’s clear that she has to hide her true feelings a lot of the time. Tolkien REALLY hits us over the head with the silencing of Eowyn in the Houses of Healing, when all the men are staring at her unconscious body and wondering why she was so unhappy. Eomer is positive that her crush on Aragorn was the problem; Aragorn doesn’t want to take the blame. Finally Gandalf speaks up:

“My friend, you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, being born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours.”

And then he says this:

“My lord, if your sister’s love for you, and her will still bent to her duty, had not restrained her lips, you might have heard even such things as these escape them. But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?”

Gandalf has just made the most openly feminist statement in the novel (aside from Eowyn and her “burned in the house” speech), but he follows it by saying that Eowyn has private thoughts that he cannot or will not explain. It is up to the men to decide if they want to know more. Eomer is deeply struck by Gandalf’s words and silently rethinks his entire life with Eowyn.

And then Aragorn has a truly infuriating bros-before-hoes moment: he breaks the uncomfortable silence by reassuring Eomer that yeah, maybe Eowyn’s crush on him was actually the problem after all. Just a minute earlier, he had denied responsibility for Eowyn’s despair. But he hates to see his friend, his brother in arms, feeling shamed. So he jumps in to rescue Eomer from his negative emotions. And Eowyn is RIGHT THERE, silent and unable to defend herself.

We already know that Aragorn is reluctant to know more about Eowyn’s problems. During their confrontation in Dunharrow, Aragorn dodges all of Eowyn’s attempts to make him see her point of view.

“A time may come soon,” said he, “when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”

And she answered: “All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving-woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”

“What do you fear, lady?” he asked.

Neither Aragorn nor Eowyn want to talk about what will happen to her if the enemy wins; this is why there is so much misdirection about Eowyn’s motives! Aragorn glosses over the atrocities that are likely to happen and tells Eowyn she can have a heroic last stand, as a treat. Eowyn is infuriated by his poetic vagueness and spits out this horrifying image of being burned alive—but then she fiercely insists that she is a warrior and fears neither pain nor death. She doesn’t want to perform feminine vulnerability to get Aragorn to listen to her. Eowyn is proud and dignified, which makes it especially painful when she resorts to kneeling and begging Aragorn to let her fight. As she tells Faramir, she desires no man’s pity.

I have to give a shoutout to @balrogballs, who has written about this subject extensively:

The cultural fantasy of the female victim of violence often traps women in an unyielding present tense, positioning them as symbols of sentimentality. These women are objectified and become sites of social intervention, their suffering the focal point of external pity and mourning. The narrative demands their pain be witnessed, but rarely offers a way forward, reducing them to objects for emotional consumption rather than subjects of their own story.

This is exactly what Eowyn is trying to avoid. She wants to be remembered as a hero, not a victim.

Tolkien embroiders this theme very cunningly by having Faramir give Eowyn a cloak that belonged to his mother, Finduilas, who died when he was five. Faramir thinks the cloak is “fitting for the beauty and sadness of Eowyn,” which has a deeper meaning that he probably does not intend. Finduilas is also the name of an elf maiden from the Silmarillion, who was captured by orcs and killed with a spear. In Tolkien’s work, both Finduilases exist mainly to provide tragic backstories for male protagonists. Oh, and Arwen’s name was originally Finduilas as well. To be a Finduilas is to be beautiful and passive, and to die tragically. A fate that Eowyn rages against.

(The Finduilas thing becomes even more absurdly cryptic when you recall that only Tolkien knew about the tragic connotation of the name at the time LotR was published. But he did this kind of thing!!! Recall Elrond and his warning against oaths.)

I have always wondered why Eowyn didn’t challenge Faramir when he informed her that she was suicidal because of Aragorn. Perhaps she simply wanted to put the whole nightmare behind her.

But the most painful silence, to me, involves Theoden. Gandalf reveals that Wormtongue was planning to rape Eowyn, and Theoden says nothing. Eomer grabs his sword and has to be restrained from killing Wormtongue, but Theoden actually offers Wormtongue a second chance to prove his loyalty:

"Do you hear this, Wormtongue?" said Theoden. "This is your choice: to ride with me to war, and let us see in battle whether you are true; or to go now, whither you will. But then, if ever we meet again, I shall not be merciful."

This betrayal of Eowyn happens so fast that it is easy to miss. None of the characters comment on it, and the narrative moves on. There’s something horribly realistic about a powerful man with a beloved image casually offering a second chance to a sexual predator and everyone, including the reader, being unable to process what is happening.

The silences in Eowyn’s story come from the male characters and from Eowyn herself. Theoden and Aragorn want to avoid talking about the type of violence that threatens her, and they ignore her desires. Eowyn doesn’t want to be trauma porn; she resents having to explain herself. And this silence offers readers the freedom to empathize with her, like Eomer, or to fall back on sexist explanations, like Aragorn.

[lanabuckybarnes]

“𝓐𝓹𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓐𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼.”

Your marriage to the hand of the king, Lord Barnes, is a rushed state of affairs. But consummating must be done. Even if it’s not what you desire, he makes it so.

-°❀.ೃ࿔*-

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼): Lord!Bucky Barnes x Lady!Reader

𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼): 18+ MDNI, Fantasy AU, Arranged marriage, Unhappy lady, Familial pressure/Trauma, Power difference, Praise kink, Degradation kink (for safety), Breast play, Body insecurities (M&F), Dirty talk, Oral (F), PinV, Pregnancy talk, Breeding kink probably, Overstimulation — Any more lemme know!

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 3.1K

𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Everyone can blame @delicatebarness for this. This is an old piece I wrote probably over a year ago that happened to come up in conversation, it’s edited but I cannot assure it’s good.

The first flutters of snow were a comforting sight, your first reminder of home. You watched as they rested against the windowsill, thoughts of your family plagued your mind. Your sisters; they were all off on their own, betrothed to lords around the world.

Nights like this, you would cuddle around the fireplace under the thick fur blanket, your father recalled stories of wars fought in the past. Although, as his mind faded they became choppy and would mix with other memories.

Despite that, you found comfort in them. They brought you peace and serenity in an otherwise torn country — but your father’s words would not comfort you tonight. You curled further into your robes, wrapping fur-lined arms around your body; you blinked back small tears, determined not to let anyone see you vulnerable.

Your betrothal had been rushed; all you had ever dreamed of was marrying a nobleman and bearing his heirs. You and your mother had sat in the wee hours creating the perfect wedding you always hoped you’d have. The threats from the East had your family and his up in arms, tearing your ideal marriage to shreds.

The reception was small in comparison to most noble ceremonies; your families and the priest in attendance. At least the after ball was nice, you guessed.

Lord James of House Barnes, the hand to the future king and now your husband. He seemed sweet from the handful of times you’d met him — quiet and cold but he always offered you a brief smile or soft words. He brought you under his cape and celebrated the joining of your families which led to here.

The fire had been stoked for a while before you were escorted to the lord’s room, a thick robe for you to change into folded neatly beside a jug of fresh wine. With a promise of the Lord’s presence soon, the guards left you to view your candle-lit room.

You weren’t a silly little girl anymore; you knew what was expected next. A marriage was always followed by the consummating ceremony. Whenever your mother brought it up you brushed her off. You would take it in your stride, after all that was your duty. But as you stood as still as the air in the room, your nerves fluttered to life. You weren’t ready, you had no clue what to do and you were scared Lord Barnes would simply take what he wanted, discarding you after. Perhaps that would be easier to deal with.

“Homesick, my lady?” his voice sounded from across the quarters.

You turned to look at him; his long hair pulled from its loose bun, curling atop his shoulders, his dark coat had been shed leaving him in only a starched shirt and pants. His blue eyes, though almost invisible in the dim light, twinkled.

“A little my lord.” You spoke, your voice trying and failing to sound confident. Your fingers drummed against your arm as you teetered your weight on the balls of your feet. Your antsy movements did not go unnoticed by the lord’s perceptive eyes. He stepped forth, making his movements slow and cautious, ensuring he didn’t spook you with a pace and swiftness you knew he had. You appreciated that.

“Tell me wife, why do you shiver not from the cold but my presence?” His large, war-torn hands held your upper arms in a loose embrace, thick fingers squeezing the flesh. You may have feared the intimate touch to come but his hands held nothing but comfort.

“The ceremony my lord.”

He tut, his plump lips falling to your ear to kiss it softly before trailing down the length of your neck, his hands soothing over the plum fabric of your robe.

“None of that, my dear, I am your husband now and I really hate the formalities where they’re unneeded.”

An apology weighed on your tongue as his finger hooked under your chin to meet his gaze, but the flicker in his eyes had you forgetting basic human functions.

Lord Barnes was ridiculously handsome. You’d heard the jealous whispers of the rats teeming the palace because of his gifted looks.

‘He has drawn the shortest straw.’

‘Do you think after he has warmed her bed he will come to warm mine’s? A prudent little thing like that doesn’t know how to keep him full.’

Comments about your body and appearance cut you deep. You began hiding away in your chambers and, when your presence was a must, you donned thicker garments. James had never uttered a word about his distaste for you, yet you were sure he thought of it too. You were only by his side for politics, once you gave him an heir your body would be unusable to him.

“You think too much,” The young lord murmured through a huffed laugh, breath misting ever so slightly. His laugh; airy and dripping in honey was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard.

“I’m sorry, my L—”

“Ah ah,” his finger flicked the tip of your nose gently, playfully reprimanding you. “I will punish you if you say it again.”

“I’m sorry…husband.” Your body stiffened at his teasing words. You knew they were weightless, merely a prose in the wind, yet the thought of him dishing out a punishment in any way set you on edge.

You let him turn you to face him, his hands cupped your face, tilting your head back until you were in the perfect position.

“Much better,” he praised. Then his lips fell on yours, a groan bubbling up his throat as his tongue slipped out to trace at the crack of your mouth, seeking entrance. But you didn’t know, you had never kissed a man other than your father, on his cheek, this was well out of your comfort zone.

James retreated, a look in his eyes that you perceived as disappointment or dissatisfaction.

“I-I’m sorry, my Lord, I don’t—” you stuttered but he silenced you with another soft kiss.

“You should have told me, my love.” It wasn’t disappointment swirling in his ocean-blue orbs. It was guilt, mingling with an untamed amount of love.

“We will take this slow for you, my lady. The night is young and I wish to make a good impression on you.” He gripped your hands, bringing you both to the pelt covered bed. You let the thought of just how much of a great impression he’d made already melt into the wrinkles of your brain.

The backs of his knees clashed into the deep mahogany, halting his movement. You hadn’t realised, mind wandering away from you again like it always had, and you tumbled into his solid frame.

He barely moved, a quiet grunt the only evidence you had made contact with him at all, beside your dainty hands splayed across his dark undershirt.

“Have you never felt a man’s touch before, love?” He questioned, the back of his fingers ran down the side of your face, over your racing pulse point before falling just short of the dip in your robe.

“N-never.” Your cheeks flushed, the need to hide yourself, melt into the floor, rushing to the forefront of your jumbled mind. Before you could, he caught your chin again in a calloused palm, tilting you back up to meet deep blue eyes, judgment never once passed over them.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” If you weren’t blushing before you definitely were now. His laugh at your reaction dulled the embarrassment in your veins.

“It is not something you have to be embarrassed over, we all do it. I did it—a lot.” James’s smirk turned into a full face splitting smile at the sound of your giggles. God they were mesmerising, he wanted to collect them in a flask and drink them down whenever he was too far to hear them with his own two ears. A flutter of butterflies bloomed in his stomach. How had the love bug struck him down so quickly?

“I have.” You answered simply.

“Teach me.”

You blinked up at him, confusion marring your soft features. “Sorry?”

“Show me how to make you feel good. Take your time undressing, and when you are ready I’ll make you feel good.”

Lust darkened James’s stare, making you feel already bare in front of him. Yet he made it known silently that it was still your choice, letting you know that if you refused he would end it right then and there. The men that waited outside for the sounds of a successful betrothal evening would have an issue but they could be dealt with quickly. Nothing a meeting with the broadside of your Lord’s blade couldn’t fix.

Your nipples pebbled and breath bated at the realisation that for the first time in a long time you could decide your own end. You pondered for a moment, eyes tracing the lines of stone beneath your feet but the idea of your new husband watching you pleasure yourself, teaching him about your body, had you aching between your thighs.

You nodded, stepping back. James rested himself on the bed, weight on his hands. His eyes stayed on your face, studying for any sign that you weren’t doing this for you. He would hate knowing that you were giving yourself up to him out of obligation, not love. He found no such emotion.

You moved your hands slowly, fingers dusted over your clavicles before they slipped beneath the mauve robe. Each shoulder fell from your body, collecting in the crook of your arms as if to tease the man you faced. But just the sight of your bare throat and sternum arose a twitch in his nethers. You reached for the black tie holding both sides together, undoing the knot with a flick of your wrist — the fabric fell from your breasts to the floor in a pool of purple.

His eyes fell instinctively to your hardened nubs, his mouth dried as he gaped, like a fish out of water. You were stunning, Aphrodite amongst a school of pretenders. James followed your curves but each of them led back to your twinkling eyes.

“Enchanting,” he breathed, not missing the way you preened, like you had never been told it before. How dare they? This world had been so cruel to you, liars and leeches feeding off of you to make themselves feel better. It wouldn’t happen again. He made a mental note, letting himself get distracted from you for merely a second, to ask you for a list of names.

“You think?” You gazed down at yourself with wavering uncertainty. It made James’s heart clench.

“I know.” He stated firmly.

“I feel beautiful in your presence.” You said, chewing on your lower lip, confidence had begun to sprout. You moved your hands up your body, cupping your full breasts. You squeezed gently, a soft gasp ricocheted around the quiet room. James watched on as you almost struggled to handle your own body. He’d have you taught soon enough on how to make yourself as good as he made you.

“The things I would do to your body, angel.” James growled. unable to resist the throbbing of his cock, he palmed himself over his loose breeches.

Maybe it was the way he looked so uncontrollable at the sight of just your breasts or, the way his pupils had blown so wide, hiding that unique ocean colour because of you, that made you so willing to give everything over to him. Let him take what he wanted.

“James,”

“Yes angel?” His husky drawl battered at your stomach.

“I’m ready.”

He paused for a moment, making sure he heard you correctly. Then he wasted no time, bouncing from the bed and meeting you in a single stride. His lips smashed into yours, teeth clattering together but the pain dull compared to the desire you felt. His much larger hands smacked yours from your tits, replacing them with his searing palms, their roughness delightful against your nipples. Only when there was no air in your lungs did he part, peppering featherlight kisses down your front until he kneeled at your feet, his head level with your navel. A lord, on his knees for you, enthralled by you.

“You are a godsend…” he praised, his mouth securing around one of your breasts drawing a pleasured cry from you. “I will pray every night, thanking the gods for gifting me, a lowly Lord, with you.”

“Please James—” you begged, fisting locks of raven-toned hair.

“Yes, my love, call to me.”

“Would you like me to touch you here? Where you are weeping. She is begging for attention.” You choked on a gasp as he whispered, a hair from your hooded clit, his hot breath fanned over your slit.

“Please,” that word had become your new mantra. A prayer that seemed to get you anything you wanted.

“Good girl.” His mouth descended upon your folds, suckling everything they had to offer. His thick tongue dipped lower, into your untouched hole then up to press against your pearl. Your moans urged him along. Using his tongue as a distraction he slipped a thick finger into you, groaning at how tight you clung to the lonely digit.

“Gods, you weep for me. Do you like it? Your husband, on his knees for you, licking your cunt, hm? Making you feel good?” His second finger joined the first, stretched you out. With expert precision he found your internal pleasure spot, his fingers curling inwards — making you see white.

“Ohh James!” You cried. You were dizzy with pleasure, lightheadedness so strong you would have fallen if not for his iron grip on your hip, keeping you stable.

He listened to the messages your body sent out into the room; he clenching of your walls, your voice breaking. You were close.

“You feel that, my lady, the knot tightening? Don’t hold it back, let it snap.” He doubled his ministrations, humming against your clit and fucking his creamy fingers into you with abandon. Your eyes squeezed shut and your walls clenched his digits so tight he could no longer move them. A shrill yell rips from deep within you as your body jerks, reacting to wave after wave of almost unbearable release. He moved the best he could, his tongue licking you gently, the pads of his fingers rocking against your g-spot until you pulled away in overstimulation.

Collapsing in a heap of sweat stained skin, James was quick to scoop you up into his arms. “You did so well angel, so good for me.”

He kissed all over your blushed skin. It was an odd feeling, so close but so far away from everything, you had never felt anything like it, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you clung onto your husband for dear life.

The ladies of your own home often commented about orgasms and how mind numbing good they felt when you got the chance to experience one. This must’ve been it, you couldn’t have imagined a feeling more intense than now.

It was James’s cock twitching against your naked thigh that pulled you from the floaty space you rested on. Realisation set in. He had made you feel good, forgoing his own pleasure. You wanted to give him it all.

You clambered up until you met his eyes. “Take me, James, make me yours.”

“Are you sure, my love?”

“More than anything,” you reaffirmed. The loss of his warmth felt weird, your body arching up to meet him.

He laughed at your desperation as he shed the last of his clothes. His skin glowed under the dull firelight, drawing attention to the amount his body had endured through decades of war. Scars and stabs from blades, burns, and bites decorated his body. They were his biggest insecurity. One time in his life he had beautiful silky skin without a blemish in sight, after the battles he faced he returned with more scars than he could tell the stories for.

He flinched lightly as you traced the one above his heart, a stab almost fatal to him. You shuddered, thinking of a life without him brought about great sadness that clawed at your insides.

“They are ugly.” he brushed your hand off of it, lacing your fingers with his, but you shook your head.

“I think they make you look rather handsome.”

Now it was his turn to blush. He buried his head into your chest and slapped your thigh teasingly.

“I love you.” It slipped so easily from his mouth that he barely noticed it, but you did.

“I love you too, my Lord.” You said, your breath hitching as his thick cock ran through your folds, stopping at the dip of your hole and pressing in slowly.

“I told you I’d punish you for that,” James queried a brow at you, you only smirked in return.

“So do it.”

Any more teasing words died on your tongue as he split you open around him, settling deep within you. He stayed as still as stone letting you adjust to him before fucking into you slowly.

“Feels so good—so tight, angel. Can’t wait to fill you with my seed—fuck! Have your belly with our kids, our heirs.” He moaned loudly, picking up the pace. You nodded frantically, focusing on only the pleasure between your legs and his filthy words.

Your walls clenched, the head of his length brushing that spot he’d treated so well earlier. Your orgasm approached quicker than you would’ve liked, giving you only a small warning before slamming into you full force.

“Ohh fuck—” James cried out at your tightness, thrusting sloppily into you as his own orgasm took him by surprise. He took your mouth, muffling his moans with it. He spilled so deep inside of you, coating your fluttering walls. Your mind took a second to think of how easy you'd take if James made you feel this good every time he wanted you between the sheets. But those were thoughts for the future, for now you wanted to bask in the present with your new husband.

He moved slowly, picking you up with ease and bringing you both under the sheets and the throw over pelt.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked, peppering kisses along your collarbones.

You shook your head, he’d done anything but hurt you, he’d awakened your soul, quelled your fears. When forced into this betrothal, you were afraid that the man you’d marry would be like most of the lords around the world, taking what they wanted whenever they wanted. James showed you different.

“That’s good,” he sighed before kissing your lips gently. “Get some rest angel, I am not done with you yet.”

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Thank you for reading~

[torchwood-99]

Can you please develop more on what in your opinion makes Éowyn originally doomed by the narrative? I agree with the idea, I'm just curious as to what traits or parts of her narrative makes her doomed according to you!

In her first scene, she comes across as almost spectral.

First time we see her, she's stood in the shadows behind a decaying old man and his creepy, snake like advisor. Her nickname, the White Lady, conjurs images of phantom "white ladies", which are staples of supernatural mythology, and are usually found in rural places, and are associated with tragic histories and unrequited/doomed love.

When she is dismissed, she leaves, she doesn't speak, but goes silently from the room, and she passes judgement on those she passes. She looks on Theoden with "cool pity", and recognises the power in Aragorn. A pale, voiceless, woman, dressed all in white, passing judgement on those before her, before silently gliding from the room, like a wraith or spirit.

To further reinforce the ghost like imager, she is cold; "thought her fair and cold, like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come into womanhood." She looks on Theoden after his recovery with neither joy or love but with "cool pity".

Whereas warmth usually holds connotations with life, the cold conjurs images of corpses and the grave. Even the use of "spring" in her description, a season associated with life, birth and new hope, is described as "pale". The combination of "spring" (life) and "pale" (death), conjures an image of something that is at once living and dead.

A lot of our view point characters look on her with unease. She is repeatedly described as "stern", and the only time that stern façade cracks is when she shows emotions that are discomforting for other characters.

Her hand shakes when she serves Aragorn the cup, and Aragorn senses her attraction and is deeply concerned about. The intensity of her desire, and Aragorn's unspoken unease, makes for an aura of discomfort and dread.

The only time Eowyn shows "life" is when she's trembling with passion for Aragorn, a passion unrequited, or when her eyes are sparkling with visions of war and death.

The first time her stern face truly cracks, and she lets the feelings show, is when she breaks down in tears, begging Aragorn to let her ride with him. She's either frozen or weeping.

Everyone who observes this is deeply distressed. They find it painful to watch a proud and stern woman break down in tears and beg, a sensation the reader shares with them.

Aragorn himself is deeply pained and troubled by his concern for Eowyn. 'Only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.'

Aragorn later admits in the Houses of Healing that his concern for her haunted him after their parting, and that nothing caused him so much fear on the Paths of the Dead as his fear of what may come to her.

In the same chapter, Aragorn likens her to a lily. Lilies themselves have connotations of death, and also harken back to Elaine, the "lily maiden" who died of heartbreak after being forsaken by her love, Lancelot.

So Eowyn is a figure of death, despair and tragic love. She is white, cold, lily-like, and is looked on with grief by many who perceive her. And not just grief, but discomfort. They don't just notice her distress, but are distressed by her.

When Merry meets her, he notices she seems to have been weeping, an image that is uncomfortably at odds with her stern manner.

Even Theoden, who cannot be credited with being that tuned in to Eowyn's feelings, notices she is unhappy, asking her how she is, and commenting twice on her obvious distress.

When Merry meets her in her guise as Dernhelm, he shivers, because he feels he is looking at someone with neither hope nor will to live. Their journey to the Pelennor passes in silence. Eowyn is a solitary figure, cut off from all those around her, riding to her death.

This culminates in Eowyn laughing at the Witch King, who brings despair to all who face him, because at this point she has literally nothing to fear from him.

The scene in which she faces him is written as a death scene. She fights him valiantly, but his destruction seems to be her own, and the consequences of her apparent death (Eomer's reaction) are severe.

Her tragedy appears compounded when Theoden bids her farewell, unaware she was with him the entire time, which rather sums up his fond, yet blinkered attitude towards her. She gives her life defending the dignity of a man, who is only half-aware of her existence.

Eowyn is mourned. Eomer rages against the heavens at her passing, and the riders of Rohan speak of their regret that she followed them without knowing. She is carried alongside Theoden, and it is only Imrahil's sharp perception and respect for her beauty that causes him to notice she is still alive, taking them all, and us, by surprise. Up until this point, Eowyn has been doomed, and she seems to have met her doom, heroically so.

But there's still a spark of life in her, still a weak breath in her lungs, and that's enough for her to be saved, and taken to the Houses of Healing. It's just a faint sign of life, barely noticeable, but it's life, which means there's hope.

As we look into Eowyn's mindset, we begin to see why she is such a tragic figure.

The first time she is addressed by name, she is being sent from the room. Her orders to take charge of the people of Rohan, which should be something of an hour of triumph and honour for her, feels almost insulting, in how her uncle would rather throw his crown to the people to take for themselves, than name her as an heir after Eomer, and then forgets she is even a part of their house, until Hama reminds him.

Our final scene of Eowyn in Two Towers is of her as a solitary figure, left alone to guard an empty hall, watching as the men ride away beneath their sparkling spears, a striking contrast between the camaraderie and fellowship we witness between the men riding out together.

That Eowyn is loved and respected by many, as revealed by Hama and her ability to safely lead the people to Dunharrow, despite their reluctance, compounds the tragedy, because she is not entirely alone and overlooked, but the people she wishes to been seen by, the people she holds in esteem, Theoden and Aragorn, rejects. Theoden, unthinkingly, by forgetting her worth until it is spelled out for him, and Aragorn in being unable to accept her love, or her offer of service.

Eowyn's driving conflict, the one that seems central to her character, is not even with the villains who everyone else is banding together to fight. She is part of that fight against them, but her personal struggles stem just as much from her conflict with her own family, her own people and her own society, as they do with the threat of Mordor. Victory over the Mordor does not necessarily mean victory for her, we know for Eowyn to be spared her doom, she can't just be rescued from the enemy that everyone else is fighting. She is trapped, caged, and would rather ride out and die, than live to see herself fade.

“What do you fear, lady?" [Aragorn] asked. "A cage," [Éowyn] said. "To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.”

That whole exchange between Aragorn and Eowyn reveals that above all else, beneath her stern facade and dreams of valour, Eowyn is absolutely seething. She is burning up with rage and frustration, and it is not just her enemies she is raging at, but her allies.

Her narrative starts to turn in the Houses of Healing. Not only is Aragorn able to bring her back to life, but it's clear that despite her unhappiness, Eomer's love for her is still a comfort and a source of happiness. When she wakes up, her first words are joy of seeing her brother there. For a character who until this point has been a figure of sorrow and loneliness, for her to speak so instinctively of joy at the presence of another is momentous.

This joy seems well justified, as not only do we witness the extent of Eomer's love, we also see a change in Eomer, and his perception of his sister.

Her sufferings, and the causes of her sufferings, are finally acknowledged. But they aren't acknowledged as some ephemeral, intangible thing, caused by a broken heart and some vague sense that she's just "doomed", but as the result of a set of specific circumstances that naturally caused her great feelings of despair and hopelessness. Eowyn isn't tragic because "she's Eowyn and she's doomed", but because of Grima's manipulation, and the constraints inflicted on her because of her sex.

That Gandalf compares Eomer's lot to Eowyn's, and points out to Eomer the freedoms and opportunities he had which she did not, further emphasises that it was Eowyn's circumstances that made her so tragic.

Eowyn wasn't "just doomed" and Eomer wasn't "just not doomed". Had their roles been reversed, Eomer could have ended up in similar straits.

Eomer hears this explanation, and a change occurs. He looks on Eowyn differently, and starts rethinking their whole lives together.

In the causes of her suffering being recognised, there is now some hope for her recovery. Her "ailment" has been "diagnosed", and it's much easier to find a "treatment" and a "cure", when there is a "diagnosis". There's a practical solution to Eowyn's suffering, and the person closes to her is brought one step nearer to seeing it.

Eowyn remains in the Houses of Healing, something she sees as frustrating, unnecessary and pointless. She doesn't want to live, she doesn't expect to heal, she thinks herself fit enough to ride and die, and that's what she wants to do.

Eowyn still sees herself as doomed by the narrative, but the narrative and the cast no longer see her as such. She is kept in the Houses, she is encouraged to rest and to heal, she is encouraged by Faramir to have hope, and gradually she starts to thaw.

She also becomes more gentle and vulnerable. Her youth is dwelled on, and her former concerns about living forever in a cage for a moment lapse as she focusses on a more trivial worry that Faramir thinks she's childish. When she scales down her request from permission to ride to battle, to be allowed to walk the gardens and look east, she speaks as a "maiden, young and sad."

In becoming more vulnerable, she becomes more approachable. She is no longer the ice maiden, a spectre, but a living person, with worries large and small, and Faramir is able to smile at her and offer her consolation.

The requests she makes during her "thawing", to look east and not be confined to her bed, signals a slight, perhaps unnoticed by her, return to hope. East is, as Faramir remarks, where their hopes lie. In looking east, she is looking towards hope. Furthermore, her second request, to not be confined to her bed, is something that Faramir can provide a practical solution for. She can have a chamber facing east, and she can have freedom to walk the gardens.

He almost speaks to her like a conciliator, or a negotiator. He talks her down from asking for death, to having a chamber looking east, and freedom to walk the gardens and take in the sun, in return to her agreeing to 'stay in this house in our care, lady, and take your rest," . That he phrases it gives the sense she has agency, he isn't saying "you will stay, and you will have a chamber that looks east, and you will walk in the sun", but instead he says if she agrees to stay, this is what they can do for her.

Therefore, the choice to stay, the choice to walk in the sun, the choice to heal, is put back into her hands, and in accepting Faramir's offer, she accepts the chance to heal.

Both Faramir and Aragorn are struck by pity when they meet Eowyn, but Aragorn's pity makes him hold her at arm's length. He maintains a distance between them, he turns from her and rides away. When he does try to "reason" with her, he only makes things worse, twisting the nail into Eowyn's frustrating circumstances.

Faramir feels pity for Eowyn, but he also feels kinship. She isn't some strange, removed creature. He doesn't look at her and see someone who is doomed. Nor does his treatment of her isolate her, as the treatment of so many others have.

He speaks of the pair of them as a unit, right from the start. He notes that both of them are "prisoners" of the healers, he tells her that both of them will be able to fight the end, if it comes to them, if they rest, and that the hours of waiting are something both of them must endure, and that both of them have passed through a shadow, and in from kinship, he expresses a belief that he might find comfort in her presence.

Eowyn's isolation and lack of agency are key causes in her despair, so it is understandable how this man, who makes efforts to understand her, to get to know, to befriend her and to make a connection with her, is such a balm, and manages to cause such a turn around in her arc.

Through her friendship, and later romance, with Faramir, she opens up, and arguably becomes more emotionally resilient, neither freezing her emotions, "cold and proud", or breaking down, weeping or begging. She shows uncertainty and fear in more moderate, casual ways, instead of pushing them down until they burst out of her.

However, she is still Eowyn. She is still proud (Faramir describes her as looking queenly), she is still proud, strong willed and sharp tongued. Even in her happiness, when she agrees to marry Faramir, she teases him for his people's snobbery, and she refuses the Warden's attempts to "release" her into Faramir's care, by instead asking to stay at the Houses of Healing.

She doesn't go from Ice Maiden to Fragile Flower. Instead, in grasping her future by the hands, in choosing for herself what she will do and where she will go, in deciding her own fate, her own role (that of healer), she shows that she is as strong willed as ever, and Faramir, who re-iterates twice; when speaking of his plans to marry her and go to Ithilien with her, that they will only do so if she is willing.

Eowyn also makes it clear to Faramir that while she will return to him, she has other duties and priorities that will keep her. That is, the rebuilding of the Mark. She has to go, she will come back. A striking contrast to her first introduction, when Eowyn is told "go", then told "stay", as it pleases those around her. She now has freedom of movement, she now chooses when to go, when to stay and when to return.

That Eowyn speaks of how she must go back, must look on her country and help her brother, also indicates that Eowyn sees her own worth and importance. She values herself and feels valued.

At Theoden's funeral/Eomer's coronation, Eowyn plays an integral role in the ceremonies. She presents Eomer with a golden cup and gives the signal for the cups to be raised to drink to the new king. This in itself indicates the esteem in which Eomer holds Eowyn. However, she has arguably been a cupbearer before, and it hasn't been a role that has brought her much joy. While it is a position of prestige, and shows she is a valued member of the household, it's not enough. Luckily, here, she isn't just there to oversee the celebrations of others, but to be celebrated herself.

Eomer ends the ceremonies by announcing her betrothal to Faramir. His justification for doing so is because of Theoden's love for Eowyn, which he uses to argue that Theoden wouldn't begrudge Eowyn's announcement being made at his funeral. He also notes how great the gathering before him is, greater than has ever been seen before. That Eomer wants to announce his sister's happy news before such an assembly, speaks of how much he wants to honour her.

Eomer certainly appears to have taken Gandalf's words on board. When he makes the announcement of Eowyn's betrothal, he says that Faramir asked for her hand, and Eowyn granted it, full willing.

He doesn't say anything about whether or not he gives his permission, (as her king and head of family, he probably was asked, but considering Eowyn and Faramir made their plans to wed with total confidence, you get the impression this was a matter of form, they were going to marry, Eomer disagreeing would be a complication, not a defeat), but instead emphasises how Eowyn has agreed to marry Faramir, full willing.

The final image we have of Eowyn can be a foil of that image of we have of her at the end of her first chapter in Two Towers. Once more, she is bidding farewell to a loved one as they depart Edoras. However, this time, she is embracing Merry before he leaves. She gives him a gift, that speaks of the bond of friendship that is now between them, and a remembrance of the time they rode together to battle, comrades in arms.

Compared to her formal parting from Theoden in Two Towers, this parting is full of warmth and intimacy. She and Eomer both hug Merry farewell, and when Merry leaves, Eowyn is left with both Eomer and Faramir, the two people she loves best, Faramir himself putting off his own duties in Gondor, to be near to Eowyn as she does her duty in Rohan.

Even the parting of Eowyn, Eomer and Merry, which could be a sad thing, is softened with Tolkien concluding "and so they parted for that time".

Their parting isn't forever, it's just for the moment. They will see each other again. Compared to the jarring juxtaposition of the brotherly army riding out, to Eowyn left alone to guard an empty hall, which created a sense of dread and foreboding, the final lines here at this parting fill us with warmth, with them all embracing, and leaves us with a promise that this parting isn't forever, and that the friends will all be reunited soon.

So, to summarise, Eowyn at first appears "doomed by the narrative." She is cold, stern, ghost like, and carries an aura of tragedy and dread.

Her doom she seems to carry through to fruition, and she is mourned accordingly, but the smallest spark of life remains in her, and in the causes of her despair being acknowledged, in the people in her life reaching out to her, making an effort to understand her, and in her and those around her making practical changes, the characters actively defy the narrative that has apparently doomed her, and together, through their combined efforts, Eowyn escapes her fate

Eowyn feels hopeless and trapped, and the people around her struggle to relate, and in fact many of them contribute; some un-knowingly, some knowingly (fucking Grima), to her depression. It first looks like a force greater than herself (the narrative) is causing her despair, and it cannot be overcome, but will instead lead to her destruction.

But actually, there is hope, and there are practical measures that can be put into place, to help her overcome her despair. Medical treatment, a support network, and a greater understanding from herself and from others of what she is going through, enable her to defy the narrative and find happiness.

[azfellandco]

It's about Crowley bearing witness to Aziraphale's desire, about the way that desire is animal and visceral and enormous and terrifying*. And about how Crowley sees that and wants it. Crowley offers the ox rib and watches Aziraphale eat because eating provides them no sustenance, it's purely for pleasure, sensual, selfish. And Crowley introduces Aziraphale to this, and thousands of years later still takes obvious pleasure in feeding Aziraphale, in watching him eat. In watching Aziraphale's pleasure.

And I think it's significant the things we see Crowley put into his body in s2, and why: six shots of espresso, as something bracing before seeing what it is that made Aziraphale call him in his "something's wrong" tone; whiskey, because he has to give Aziraphale some bad news; wine, because they "might as well get comfortable" during the storm coming down on Job, after Aziraphale learns that Crowley is actually pretty unhappy with Job's suffering; and poison, to dispose of it so Elspeth (or Wee Morag, I've fogotten which is which) doesn't die. Crowley doesn't take Aziraphale's "something that calms you down", only consumes things that not only don't bring him pleasure but are an attempt to prevent pain. Crowley, who introduced Aziraphale to this important physical, sensual, selfish pleasure, denies it to himself. He denies himself the eccles cakes, he denies himself partaking in food, and he denies himself Aziraphale.

And we see throughout the rest of the season other things he's denying himself: the comfort and safety of a home in the bookshop in favor of the mobility and ready-made escape of living in the Bentley, the surety of saying what he really means during the confession. He cannot bring himself to admit what he wants, that he wants. Gabriel and Beelzebub "going off together" is not what he wants. He wants Aziraphale, but he doesn't say that, because he's never, in the years and years and years we've seen this season, let himself want or be seen wanting. "Going off together" is as close as he can get to speaking it. "A group of the two of us" is as close as he can get. So he has to watch as Aziraphale leaves and takes his pleasure in the world with him.

[novaursa]

Here's my request if you'd be so kind:

Trueborn son of daemon targaryen is furious when he hears of his uncles plan to marry rhaenyra to laenor(mainly because he knows it'd be an unhappy marriage).

So before the wedding can commence he spirits her away to dragonstone(she goes with him willingly)and they get married

Explicit 18+

Please and thank you

No King but Her

Requests are closed

- Summary: You steal the Realm’s Delight and make her your wife of fire and blood.

- Pairing: cousin!male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial @literaturedog

The moment you heard the news, it was as though dragonfire tore through your veins, searing every thought, every breath. Your uncle’s voice—smooth and placating—still echoed in the great hall, recounting the plans with the smugness of a man who believed he had done right by everyone. Laenor Velaryon, he had said, a worthy match, noble blood, a unification of Valyrian lines—As if that mattered. As if Rhaenyra’s heart, her joy, her freedom, meant less than the appearance of union and politics and silk-clad alliances. You had barely waited until the council had finished before storming from the hall, your fists clenched and jaw tight.

You knew Laenor—kind, yes, but he did not want her. And she did not want him. Theirs would be a marriage of mutual deception and quiet suffering. You had seen it in her eyes when she sat through the council’s talk, her fingers picking at the threads of her gown, her mouth drawn tight. And you knew her better than any man living. The way she smiled only for you, how she turned to you when the court’s weight grew too heavy. The way she once said your laughter made her feel like she could fly without her dragon.

You found her in the gardens later that evening, cloaked in twilight and melancholy. Her silver hair caught the dying light like woven starlight, and for a moment, you simply watched her, memorizing her profile—how her eyes searched the horizon beyond the water, as if trying to find something that could save her from the fate your uncle was crafting for her.

“He means to marry you off like cattle,” you said quietly, stepping forward. Your voice trembled not with fear, but fury. “To a man who will never love you. Who cannot love you the way you deserve.”

Rhaenyra turned, unsurprised to see you there. She always seemed to know when you were near. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. Instead, she studied your face—your anger, your restraint, your heartbreak, all of it barely held in check.

“I know,” she whispered. “But what choice do I have?”

“You have me,” you said. The words left you before you could stop them. Bold, brash, damning. “Come with me. Leave all this behind. Let them rot in their silk and lies. Let us go to Dragonstone. Let us be free.”

She stared at you, wide-eyed, her breath catching. “You would do that? For me?”

You stepped closer, close enough to see the uncertainty flicker behind her defiance. You cupped her cheek gently, your thumb brushing beneath her eye. “I would burn the world before I let them chain you to someone you do not love.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then, slowly, beautifully, she nodded.

You fled under darkness, your dragons cloaked in the stars above and the hush of waves below. Vermithor's wings split the sky like thunder, and Syrax flew just behind. You did not look back at King's Landing, at the Red Keep that loomed like a prison. You held tight to Rhaenyra’s hand as she rode behind you in the saddle, her arms wrapped around your waist, her cheek pressed to your back. You felt her tears soak through your tunic, and you knew they were not from sorrow—but from the rush of freedom.

Dragonstone welcomed you with ash and wind, the skies churning with stormclouds as if the ancient seat itself felt the weight of your rebellion. Maester Gerardys looked at you with wary eyes as you ordered chambers prepared. Ser Steffon Darklyn, sworn to your House, said nothing, only nodding once with a ghost of a smile when she stepped onto the stone bridge with you at her side.

In the flickering candlelight of the great hall, you turned to her once more.

“We’ll marry here,” you said, voice hoarse. “Not for power, not for politics. For us.”

Her eyes searched yours, and when she smiled, it was soft and aching, like she had waited years for this moment. “And if they come for us?” she asked. “If they send knights, or dragons?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Let them come. I have no fear left in me—only fire. I will stand between you and all the world, Rhaenyra. They will not take you again.”

She reached for you, her hands sliding into yours, delicate but steady. “Then let us be bound in fire. Not the fire of war, but the fire that lives in us. In our blood.”

You kissed her then, not with hunger, but with promise—with every ounce of devotion that lived in your dragon-forged bones. She melted against you like she had always belonged there, like the gods had crafted you for her alone.

And in the shadow of the ancient mountain, beneath the eyes of old dragons carved into stone, you began to prepare the vows that would bind you both—not as pawns, but as equals. Not as prince and princess, but as two souls who had chosen one another against the world.

You would wear no crown, take no seat of power—so long as you had her. And she, it seemed, had chosen the same.

The Valyrian words still clung to the air like incense, thick and ancient, echoing from the high stone walls of Dragonstone’s shadowed chamber. You stood facing her beneath the black arch of the dragonglass altar carved with writhing dragons and fire. No septon presided, no bannermen bore witness. Only the old tongue, the blood oath, and the way her eyes met yours—dark and burning like embers that refused to die.

Your fingers still tingled from where they had pressed against hers, palms cut open with a ritual dagger and bound together with a crimson ribbon soaked in your mingled blood. dragon does not bow. Not to kings. Not to councils. Not even to the gods. You had claimed her by flame and flesh, and she had claimed you in turn, her voice firm when she said your name, her gaze unwavering as she swore herself yours.

Now, alone in the chamber that overlooked the sea—where waves pounded like war drums against the cliffs—she stood before you, lit by the firelight of the hearth. Her silver hair shimmered down her back, wild and unbound, her ceremonial robe slipping from her shoulders in silence. You watched it fall, your breath catching in your throat, not just at the sight of her body, but at the sheer power of her—the heir to the Iron Throne, standing proud and bare with nothing but defiance and desire in her eyes.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, her voice husky, teasing.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” you said, stepping closer. “Of you like this. Of us. Not as pieces on my uncle’s board. But as we are now. Free. Together.”

Rhaenyra reached for you, her fingers working at the clasps of your tunic, dragging them open with purpose. “Then stop dreaming,” she breathed. “Take me.”

You crushed your mouth to hers. The kiss wasn’t soft. It was fire meeting fire—your teeth grazed, your lips bruised, your hands gripping her hips like she’d vanish if you let go. She tasted like blood and smoke and something sweeter, something hers. She clawed at your shoulders, pulling your tunic down your arms, exposing the heat of your skin to the chill air. Her nails scraped your back, your neck, as if trying to mark you with every pass. You were no gentler, your hands roaming down her sides, her thighs, her breasts—memorizing the shape of her like you were afraid the gods would take her from you by morning.

She pulled you toward the bed without breaking the kiss, her laughter low and breathless against your mouth. You laid her down like a conqueror laying claim to the last kingdom, but she pulled you down with her, rolling until she was above you, her hair falling around your face like silver flames.

“You think you’re in control?” she teased, grinding her hips down until you gasped.

You answered with a growl, flipping her beneath you in one fluid motion, your hand tangling in her hair, your other braced beside her head. “We are dragons,” you said through gritted teeth. “There is no control. Only fire.”

Then there were no more words—only gasps and moans, the creak of the bed, the crackle of the hearth. You worshipped her body with your mouth, your tongue trailing down her throat, her chest, between her legs where she shuddered and arched, her hands clutching at your hair. She was wild beneath you, her voice ragged as she begged and cursed and praised you in Valyrian, in Common Tongue, in unintelligible breath.

When you finally pushed into her, it was like falling into a star. Her cry tore from her lips, her legs locked around your waist, and you moved as if you were both forged for this—deep, rough, unrelenting. She met you thrust for thrust, her hands digging into your back, your shoulders, as if trying to tear you open and climb inside your soul. You bent your head to her throat, biting down gently until she gasped and writhed, dragging her nails along your ribs.

Her lips brushed your ear. “I want to feel you even when you're gone.”

“I’ll never be gone,” you growled. “You’ll never be alone again.”

You came together in a frenzy of heat and moans, her legs trembling around you, her body arching off the bed as your name tumbled from her lips like a spell. You collapsed against her, your chest heaving, her arms winding around your shoulders, dragging you against her heartbeat.

The silence after was broken only by the sea beyond the windows and your breath slowing in unison.

She whispered against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone. “They’ll never forgive us.”

You smiled into her hair, tasting salt and silk. “Then let them choke on their forgiveness.”

And in that bed, with her curled against your chest and the storm rising outside, you knew the truth of it—this was not the end of the world you knew. This was the beginning of the one you would build with her. Burned into existence by fire, and forged in the heat of your love.

[steddieas-shegoes]

if you fall, i will catch you

for @steddielovemonth day 2 using Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

rated t | 855 words | no cw | tags: high school, prom, slow dance, flirting, open ending but assumed getting together

🪩🕺💃🪩🕺💃🪩🕺💃🪩💃🕺🪩

Prom is stupid.

Steve didn’t even want to come. He didn’t have a date and nothing is more embarrassing than showing up to prom alone. Even the nerds come as a group, dancing and laughing together.

His mom made an appointment for his suit fitting and he couldn’t really explain to her that there was no need. She still thinks he and Nancy are on track to be married when Nancy graduates high school. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he’ll probably die alone.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. He’s probably not gonna die alone.

But he may die unhappy, and that’s worse.

Most of the music hasn’t been terrible so far, at least. Only one slow song played and no one seemed interested in dancing to it.

Steve’s a fucking wallflower at his own prom. He never saw this coming.

He figures he could probably escape within the next few songs, no one would even notice his absence. He makes a mental plan to wait until one of the parent chaperones walks back to the other side of the room.

Then he’s off.

He manages to escape to the hall behind the gym, the one that leads to the auditorium and drama class, not the main building of the school. No one should be back here. It’s the perfect escape route.

“Never thought I’d see the day when King Steve is trying to escape prom,” a voice says from the end of the hall. The music from the gym is echoing in here, but the voice is much louder. It’s familiar, too. “Miss Wheeler too busy with Byers to dance?”

It’s Munson. Steve sighs.

“Why are you even here?”

“It’s my senior prom, too! Or should those of us not graduating not be allowed?” Eddie walks closer and Steve sees that he’s actually dressed up. It’s not a designer suit like he’s been forced into, but it’s nice. Eddie looks…nice.

“Wait,” Steve registers what he actually said. “Not graduating?”

“Yep. Apparently quadratic formulas are crucial to my development and I cannot enter society until I understand them.” Eddie kicks his foot across the tile, leaving a scuff mark from shoes that have probably been waxed beyond necessity. “And I guess dissecting a frog and turning in homework may have helped.”

“But aren’t you pretty smart?” Steve thought he was one of those dungeon dweebs like Dustin. Dustin’s the smartest person he knows, without a doubt, kid or not. He thought all the nerds who play that game were like that.

“Sure, I’m smart enough,” Eddie scoffs. “But I don’t play by their rules. I forget to do homework. I argue.”

“But if you know the stuff, they can’t fail you.”

“Ah, but they can. I don’t have the Harrington name to convince them to change a D to a C. It’s all good. Everyone expected it.”

Steve’s brows furrow, forehead creasing as he thinks about how many things people expected of him that won’t happen.

“Just because people expect it doesn’t mean you have to give it to them,” he says.

Eddie’s eyes widen and he seems shocked by Steve’s words. But the shock wears off quickly. Steve wonders if he imagined it.

“Right you are! Very wise words from the king,” Eddie bows dramatically.

Steve laughs.

Eddie glances up, tense until he realizes Steve’s not laughing at him, just at the entertainment. He stands straight and holds out his hand.

“I do believe such wise words should be repaid with a dance,” Eddie puts on a fake British accent, nose pointed to the sky, smirk playing on his lips.

Steve thinks this must be what it’s like to be charmed by someone.

“A dance?” Steve asks. “Here? With me?”

“It would be my honor,” Eddie loses the accent and turns his head back down so he’s looking right at Steve’s eyes. “Miss Lauper wrote this song just for us, after all.”

Steve’s confusion grows until he hears the song coming from the gym. He can only imagine how awkward it must be in the gym while some couples slow dance with chaperones watching their every breath. He reaches out and takes Eddie’s hand.

“The honor is mine, sir Munson,” Steve tries for an accent like Eddie had previously, but it falls flat.

Eddie pulls him close, but hesitates before he puts an arm around his waist. Steve feels breathless all of a sudden, like they’ve rocketed into space and he forgot one of those astronaut suits. He nods, giving permission for Eddie to take the lead.

When Eddie pulls him closer, they’re almost flush against each other.

Steve’s heart is racing.

“I didn’t know you were weird,” Eddie admits quietly. It sounds a lot like admiration. He’s swaying them back and forth gently, and Steve finds it’s easy to lose track of everything but the way Eddie’s hands rest on his body. “It’s nice to see you, Steve.”

It’s a lot more than what it sounds like.

As Cyndi Lauper plays, Steve wonders if this is how his prom was always meant to be spent: in Eddie Munson’s arms, falling.

[sageshouldknowbetter]

Lumon as the abusive mother. The building shaped like a uterus. (“I understand you’re unhappy with the life you’ve been given.”) Wire mother/cloth mother in their commercial. “Lumon will always protect and provide.” Creating their employees — waking them splayed out on a table, helpless — to give what Dan Erickson called “a sense of being born to the company.” “Milchick’s a nice man. He can’t always be nice like that.” Controlling realities. (“But eventually, we all have to accept reality. So here it goes.”) Building a chokehold of perfect pastel power based on shame and fear. “I’m afraid you don’t mean it. Say it again.” Covering up inflicted injuries with comedic explanations and little treats… because we don’t want people getting suspicious, do we? “What I just did was something I knew that you could handle and grow from. It was very painful for me. I hope that you’ll let it help you.” Rapidly oscillating between artificial comfort and breaking you into pieces. Lying. Infantilizing. And never dropping the smile. (“I am a person. You are not. I make the decisions. You do not.”)

Outies as the absent father. Only present for a single moment in the act of creation and never relied on again. (“The point is that Mark made a decision.”) Initiate the birth of a human consciousness for convenience — and then refuse to take responsibility for it. (“And that decision was controversial, ethically and socially.”) Portrayed as the ultimate authority and final word, but hold no actual power. Lied to. “I know your innie will be sad to have missed a day.” Fantasized about by the human consciousnesses they’ve created. “I like to think my outie lives on, like, a riverboat.” Trusted as rescuers — powerful. (“Well, we get her to the south stairwell… I’ll go with her… and once we’re out the door, my outie will know what to do.”) But are truly beaten down by life and don’t have all (any) of the answers. (“I don’t know. That’s his problem.”) They can’t BE there, but they can live on both in their creations’ skin and behind their eyes. “You carry the hurt down there too. You just don’t know what it is.” Want to stay away… yet cannot help but be curious. (“Like, you could get married and have kids, and just forget they exist for eight hours every day, for your whole life. That doesn’t mess with your head?” “I think for some people… that’s the point.”)

Innies as children. “Innie” — diminutive of “infant.” (“Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world.”) Petey’s first memories of Lumon coinciding with his fifth birthday. “Then again, you’ve been severed for two years, right? So your innie really is still just a baby.” Referred to with first name and initial… like little kids in a classroom. (“None may atone for my actions but me, and only in me can their stain live on.”) Have no say in how they dress, eat, or live their lives. “You brought him into this world without his permission, based on your own desire for emotional convenience.” Mark in the Grand Central pop-up being made to stand in a corner as punishment. (“I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands.”) Thought to be pacified with claymation. Cartoon mascots. Little treats. “Are you mad at me?” Not considered human, because if they’re human… how can we sleep at night? (“All I can be is sorry.”) Horrifically abused, but cannot leave their abuser, because they are unable to survive without them. “Well, since this perceptual version of you only exists at Lumon, I mean, quitting would effectively end your life.” Unable to ask the outside world for help. “They’ll all be Kier’s children.” Broken again and again… and always for. Their own. Good. (“And that is all that I am.”)

[thesvnandthemooon]

Hi can I be secret anon...🩰 Been on wp👀 but how do you think Natasha would handle the post-partum of r. The aftermath of pregnancy, being mentally unstable, insecurities which is actually already present during the pregnancy itself but much worse this time. The times where r just cannot handle Niko's blue phase.

warning: this discusses body image issues, (postpartum) insecurities, weight gain, mental health

ohh another wattpad reader 👀 welcome!

best believe natasha would be the most supportive girlfriend (at least once she was committed lol), but especially during those postpartum trenches.

→ switched up the way i do these things a little because i think it might make it easier for me; i wasn’t happy with the previous style and this one is more similar to how i usually write. i also decided to switch to using present tense for these, as i do with my ‘normal’ fics

˙⋆ body issues ˙⋆

insecurities are hitting you hard. pregnancy changes the human body in so many ways, but the physical proof is the most tangible one. natasha catches you in front of the mirror more than once, poking your softened stomach and staring at stretch marks and looser skin. she knows the look in your eyes too well by now — that look of silent frustration, of disappointment, of unspoken unhappiness.

you aren’t used to this. it took you a while to get used to your growing baby bump, and now that it’s gone, you’re forced to get used to another change. she watches you try on a pair of jeans that used to fit you perfectly before the pregnancy. but now, you barely manage to get them halfway up your thighs.

“babe?”, natasha mumbles. you bite your lip, then peel off your jeans and throw them aside. “love.”

“what?”

“come here.”

you shake your head. you’ve been shying away from her touch for a while now. even during your pregnancy, it rarely was like this. but when insecurities flare up and combine with baby blues and exhaustion, the result can be overwhelming.

natasha, for once, has been forced to take life serious. no stupid jokes, no half-assed attempts at doing something. she needs to do this parenthood-thing right — and she wants to do it all right. every aspect. including taking care of her baby’s mom.

she walks up to you, slowly. you wrap your arms around your upper body. she wraps hers around you as well, shielding you from your own judgement. her lips press against your cheek, your neck, making their way down your body.

it’s been a while since you slept with each other, too, but that’s not what she’s trying to make up for. she just misses touching you, in any way she can get.

“i know it’s hard”, she starts, gently covering your stomach with her hands. you make an uncomfortable noise and almost push her away. “nuh-uh. wait.”

“nat, i don’t-“

“but i do.”

you look at her in the mirror. she raises her eyebrows, hands pointedly rubbing your stomach.

“you carried my son in there for nine months”, she says. “your body gave me niko. there’s nothing more beautiful.”

you swallow, giving her a defiant stare. natasha swiftly spins you around and starts caressing you all over, palms running over your sides and arms and thighs. her lips follow. no stretch mark is left out.

afterwards, she spends half an hour picking out an outfit with you that fits and makes you feel good. natasha’s an absolute expert in that field, obviously. she knows exactly what looks amazing on you (everything, in her eyes), and you leave your bedroom feeling at least a little better.

˙⋆ too tired to function ˙⋆

everyone knows that having a kid basically means not sleeping enough for the upcoming next years, but you didn’t think it’d be that hard.

you have a newborn who wakes up three times every night. you have to breastfeed. you’re exhausted from everything changing within a matter of days. plus, you have classes. you don’t want to drop out, so all you can do is take a few weeks off (the recommended 6-8 weeks) and then hope you’ll survive this lack of sleep.

you don’t know how you make it through this period, honestly, but natasha definitely does more than enough to help you. she creates a night schedule. she wakes up early to carry niko around campus, just so you can sleep in. but somehow, it still doesn’t help. you still pass out randomly during lunch, while watching tv (not like you have much time for that), during car rides. she starts skipping practice so she can take care of the baby while you nap, and even gets benched for a while.

still. doesn’t. help. even when nat’s the one doing the nighttime feedings, his crying still wakes you up. you’re walking around like a zombie. you barely have the energy or time to do anything for yourself. natasha starts doing it for you — like your skincare, which you neglect for a good week. she appears in the bedroom one evening, while you’re nursing, and sits down next to you with a bunch of products and a little bowl of water.

cue her washing your face. putting serum on your skin. applying chapstick. dabbing her fingers in moisturizer and patting it into your cheeks. you aren’t less tired by the time she’s done, but at least you feel less miserable.

at nights, you look exhausted even getting up to get niko from his crib. once nat clocks that, she starts doing it all for you. getting up, bringing niko over, unlatching your nursing bra and positioning the baby. it becomes a routine, and you don’t even have to open your eyes.

baby fusses. nat’s up. something tiny is latched onto your chest. she burps him, too, and only then goes back to sleep.

˙⋆ baby blues ˙⋆

postpartum hormones are a bitch, and you find out about that as well.

tears, constantly. over the most random things — niko outgrowing his first onesie, a cup of tea you forgot on the counter, some ad with a baby in it. the waterworks are constant, just as bad as during the height of your pregnancy mood swings, and natasha’s panicking. a joke that’d usually make you laugh ends up making the tears worse.

she tries her best, though. she lets you cry on her chest for hours if you need it, she still tries to find the right kind of humor that’ll make things better, she listens to whatever you have to say.

feeling too much isn’t the only issue, though. sometimes, you also feel too little. you feel empty, drained, unfit to be a mom and handle all of this.

it makes you feel guilty. you’ve got everything you could want, after all, so why are you this ungrateful? why do you not feel happy?

you’re scared of telling nat, but when you do, you suddenly feel better. she listens without judgement, she holds you, she shuts up for once. no stupid jokes, no humor used to cheer you up. she encourages you to eat, and sleep, and go on walks with her.

she knows what makes you happy, too. not much helps with baby blues, but there are a couple things that coax a smile out of you anyway. even if it’s just your favorite snack or a new necklace — it makes those few weeks easier for you.

˙⋆ the reality of parenthood ˙⋆

stitches? natasha gets a cooling pad and painkillers.

sore boobs? warm baths and gentle massages (she’s lying if she says she’s not profiting from those as well).

cramps? tea and heating pads.

you’re basically royalty. you did not only get the campus’s biggest fuckboy to commit, but she’s also worshipping the ground you walk on.

sex is definitely not in the cards for a while. your stitches need to heal, and so does the rest of you. the first time you try, you start crying. not because you don’t want to — it’s been two months, and you need her like a drug at this point —, but because everything is still fragile. the insecurities are still hitting hard and you’re simply overwhelmed.

natasha doesn’t question it. she kisses you, rolls off and holds you close all night.

intimacy in general takes a back seat. everything you talk about is baby-related. everything you do is baby-related. maybe you’ll talk about classes, or aching breasts, but that’s about it.

natasha’s solution? date nights. nothing too big or exhausting, just sweet and romantic enough to remind you that you aren’t only parents, but partners as well. she makes sure niko is fed and asleep by the time you’re done freshening up, then you order takeout and cuddle up on the couch. bonus points for clay face masks, candles, roses and a bottle of sparkling apple juice (because alcohol is still a no, obviously).

then, there’s the overstimulation. being stuck in your apartment almost constantly, with a crying little infant and a messy living room, always something to do — it becomes too much. you snap sometimes, and when you do, natasha quietly gets niko and leaves the apartment. she knows the telltale signs already, and whenever she notices you rubbing your temples or exhaling in that one specific way, she quietly leaves so you can breathe.

once you start going to classes again, different things make you struggle. breastfeeding in public makes you nervous, so natasha sits in front of you and acts like a human shield. she meets you every hour and a half, so you’re not as uncomfortable, until you’re so used to it that you don’t give a fuck anymore and whip out in a lecture hall full of 200 students.

˙⋆ the little things ˙⋆

buys you things that she knows will make you smile. flowers, decaf iced lattes, magazines, new blouses (with buttons for easier access).

keeps your hoodies in the dryer for a few extra minutes so they’ll be warm and nice.

sticky notes and risky snaps. romantic one liners and full on nudes. might seem unnecessary, but it makes you feel normal, and that’s good.

carries you around. from the bed to the couch, then later back to bed. too tired to shower? no problem, she’s got you. she’s helping you undress and washes your hair.

kisses your stretch marks because she means it. you get flustered — she doesn’t care. she’s kissing every last one until you feel good.

always checking in on you. asking if you’re okay, if you want to go for a walk. texts wanda or daisy so they can babysit while you can have some alone time together.