#additional tags: angst

[oldschoolfic-ds9]

Chinks

by MLomelindi, 2000

Garak battles his claustrophobia while Bashir tries to figure out what to do with him, in more ways than one.

Words: 6222, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: none listed

Characters: Julian Bashir, Elim Garak

Relationships: Garak/Bashir

Reader suggested tags (what are these?): angst, hurt/comfort

links (link broken? report it and try the archive.org alternative):

archive.org - option 1

[armenelols]

In deference to my recent bout of shitposting, have a daily reminder that Tolkien's half-elves have no happy ending and no matter what they choose, they'll still lose part of their family forever. They'll always be split between two people, neither fully one or the other, yet forced to pick one and lose the other

[theproverbialpen]

Do the Benefits Outweigh the Cost?

Summary: Zeus refuses to wrestle with his emotions as he listens in on the conversation between not one but two Poseidons. Inspired by @neal-illustrator's "Phantom Pains" comic.

Word Count: 1477

Warnings: Discussions of childhood trauma

Notes: After a month of not writing anything, Neal Illustrator posted this comic in her discord (you should subscribe to her Patreon if you're able btw it's such a lovely community) and I was struck with inspiration like one of Zeus' very own bolts. As soon as I got the notification that Neal posted this on her tumblr I got so excited, finally getting some time to post. Hope y'all enjoy this little angst piece I cooked up:

Time was a strange thing—boundless, all encompassing, and utterly inescapable. All were subject to the ceaseless passage of the seasons—neither mortals nor gods were free from its linear march. Linear, that was to say, in most cases.

Ever since Zeus and his siblings banded together all those millennia ago to defeat the Titan who had once reigned supreme over Time, they had enjoyed relative stability and peace (disregarding that one little uprising incident but, well, Zeus had dealt with that handedly). However, there were a few occasions on which Cronus would rouse ever so slightly from his imposed slumber down in the depths of Tarturus. Those were occasions when time got…weird.

Hence, the scene currently playing out before Zeus. He had felt a ripple in the fabric of reality—that telltale sign that his bastard of a father was acting up again—and had travelled to Aegae to alert his brother. He had planned for them to go down to see Hades together so that the three of them could ensure the seal was holding fast and thus found himself marching through the halls of his middle brother's underwater palace. It was in a central chamber, at the foot of a grand marble statue depicting the Ruler of the Tides, where he had come across Poseidon. Correction—where he had found two Poseidons.

The younger Poseidon was just as Zeus had remembered him, as much as a child his age could have recalled. His hair was a short bob, well on its way to becoming the long, rippling mane that defined his brother in the present day. The edges of his jaw were still soft, marked by a faint peach fuzz that would eventually grow into a well-groomed, tri-pointed beard. He wore a blue ribbon around his neck from which a gold medallion was hung, etched with his emblematic trident—the same medallion he would eventually incorporate into his belt. He still had that youthful sparkle in his eyes, eyes set upon a face that could not hide a single emotion that passed through the young god’s heart; after all, Poseidon had always had one of the biggest hearts of them all, second only to Hestia. And of course:

This Poseidon still had his right arm.

The young God of the Sea, with all his limbs and his animated personality still intact, was a far cry from the deity sitting next to him. Zeus could hardly believe he was watching the same people converse with each other. Zeus’ brother, as he knew him, was a ruthless being. He had his moments when he got flustered, sure, but Poseidon Agolotraina was defined by a coldness as sharp and piercing as the three pronged weapon he wielded. Zeus would often make light of Poseidon’s dour demeanor—as was his right as both his youngest sibling and his king—but the Thunder Bringer was no fool. Zeus was well acquainted with the rage that constantly simmered beneath Poseidon’s surface and he knew better than to underestimate the danger his brother could pose. It was a rage and a danger that were notably absent from the teenage version of Poseidon sitting on those steps, and that thought alone made Zeus’ chest tighten with a sadness he did not care to address.

Typically, Zeus would have sauntered over to the pair, offered some sort of witty one-liner, and generally just have inserted himself into the situation unbidden. However, defying all of his usual desire to command whatever room he was in, Zeus found himself quietly stepping behind one of the pillars and concealing himself from view (as best someone with a form as imposing as his could). His breathing grew shallower as he strained to listen in on his brothers’ conversation, leaving him just about able to make out their exchange.

“Staring is rude,” present-Poseidon chided in his deeper, baritone voice. Zeus snuck a glance around the marble column and spotted past-Poseidon’s fallen face, embarrassment washing over his features like the tide dragging along the shore. The young god quickly averted his eyes and Zeus ducked back into his hiding place, cursing to himself when he noticed his untamed curls peeking out past the edge of the pillar. Thankfully, it became apparent that he had remained undetected when present-Poseidon spoke again. “I can’t tell you how it happened.”

Zeus heard a deep sigh before a higher-pitched voice rang out through the chamber. “I figured as much,” past-Poseidon lamented. His statement was accompanied by a subtle crack, his timbre oscillating between rich fullness and pitchy squeaking in the way that only an adolescent’s could. Fully into his own adulthood, Zeus could not help but find the sound amusing. And yet, it also caused a part of him to ache with a potent nostalgia. It was as if past-Poseidon’s four words alone had transported Zeus back to a simpler time, a time when that very voice was a grounding source of comfort. It was a time when that voice—pitchiness and all—belonged to the man whom Zeus admired the most in the world.

Being the closest in age, Zeus had spent the most time with Poseidon before the domestic embrace of family was so cruelly ripped from him. To be fair, it wasn't as if the rest of his siblings weren’t involved in his rearing. Hades was a stoic yet kind eldest brother and while the girls weren’t technically his sisters, the bonds they all shared gave Zeus a feeling of safety and serenity that ran far deeper than blood. But when Zeus wanted someone to play with, Poseidon had always been the first to volunteer. When he needed a shoulder to cry on, Poseidon’s was the first one he had found. And when their lives were at stake, Poseidon had been the one to tuck him into that secluded corner while maintaining a brave face, ensuring that young Zeus had no idea anything was wrong until it was far too late.

Zeus could still recall the feeling of being tucked securely in the crook of his older brother’s arms as Poseidon’s footsteps echoed through the eerie, empty halls of Olympus. He could still recall the warmth of his older brother’s hands wrapped protectively around him. Young Zeus had no idea it would be the last time he’d ever feel the comfort of Poseidon's right palm splayed across his back again.

“Can I ask you a question?” past-Poseidon continued, breaking Zeus from his increasingly disconcerting recollection. 

“Of course,” present-Poseidon responded.

The room fell quiet for a moment, so quiet that Zeus had to hold his breath lest he disturb the pensive stillness of the air. Then, he heard that familiar, cracking voice again.

“Does it still hurt?”

The ichor froze in Zeus’ veins as every muscle in his body went taut all at once. He imagined present-Poseidon was experiencing the same paralyzing, stomach-dropping sensation if the prolonged silence was anything to go by. Zeus could picture the Sea God's facade cracking in his mind’s eye, could almost see the surprised look that must have overtaken Poseidon's impartial expression as his older brother sharply inhaled. 

“Don’t fear the pain,” Poseidon finally answered after what felt like a millennia had passed. “The benefits far outweigh the cost.”

Zeus barely managed to hold back his snort. ‘Don’t fear the pain,’ Poseidon said, as if he had not let out a scream for their mother so blood curdling that it still haunted Zeus to this day. ‘The benefits outweigh the cost,’ Poseidon assured, as if he had not tried to overthrow the very same brother for whom he had lost that arm protecting. Through his deflective platitudes, Poseidon had left the heart of the question unanswered. Perhaps he could spare his younger self from the truth, but Zeus had seen Poseidon flinch at nothing more than enough times to know the real answer which his brother had left unspoken.

As Zeus stood in the shadow of that pillar, one hand clenched tightly into a fist at his side, he could not help but wonder—was there any truth to Poseidon’s words? Did he really not regret his decision all those years ago? Was it worth it, losing both a part of himself and the years of his youth trapped in darkness and acid, all to protect his younger brother? Was Zeus one of those ‘benefits’ that outweighed the cost of Poseidon’s choice to face their father head on?

Or were these all just hollow words meant to assuage the fears of a young god not yet marred by the trauma of their youth and the strain in their brotherhood?

Worrying about such things was beneath Zeus. With a gruff exhale, he pushed himself off of the sandstone pillar and stalked back down the halls toward Aegae’s front entrance. Clearly Poseidon was busy—Zeus would just consult Hades on his own. Staying any longer would just be a waste of time. That was why Zeus was leaving without a word.

It was most certainly not because he feared learning the answers to his own questions left unasked.

[chestersbraincell]

Oh btw for any grumbo shippers(I know I reblog a lot of the pairing because! Because they just have chemistry dang it!!), be it platonic or otherwise, I just came up with a little side plot-point that could work if you tweak around some of the timing between the two.

Imagine the reason why Mumbo is greying is because he’s secretly working at Mined!! To rescue Grian from the liminal hell he resides in!!!

[sinvulkt]

Hi! Bringing in two new angsty concepts for the fanfiction (and fiction) world: Wet Marshmallow and Shredding Fangs.

💧Wet Marshmallow💧

Now, wet marshmallow is a term I've been using for a while. It looks to be the most popular type of angst (and incidentally the type I like the less, rip XD — which doesn’t mean it can't be good quality). It's a softer kind of angst, closer to hurt/comfort than anguish. It tend to follow the tropes of self doubts, low self esteem, depression... feeling like you deserve whatever pain the world throw at you in a 'lean the other cheek' way, and turn it into 'selfless martyrdom'.

It is more a creature that seek pity and compassion, and bow down low in order to attract both — making the audience empathise with their suffering. "Poor little meow meow" is typically a wet marshmallow phrasing in my eyes. 

It is the angst of the stereotypical 'victim'. Sobs, crying, fever, searching hug and comfort... 'wet marshmallow'.

🧊 It is melting water.

⚡️Shredding Fangs⚡️

For shredding fangs angst, I just came up with the term! I was looking for something that could clearly differentiate it from wet marshmallow. It is one of my favorite types of angst, but is a lot less popular because less moral and harder empathise with. It is harsh, cutting, angry and hurting. It will bite, and hate itself all the more for it (possibly in denial). It is the will to fight, the snarling confidence to push forward no matter what. There is the notion of a powerful will being broken into shards. It is a cornered injured beast who would attack anyone and everyone in the hope it would give it the power to scale walls. Shredding Fangs is suffering turned into anger, anger turned into power (thus is the way of the dark side—). For another parallel, that would be 'selfish martyrdom'. The self hate can be as present as wet marshmallow, but it enpowers instead of declawing.

"I am already so deep in the abyss that as long as I achieve my goal, I can sink in deeper — since there is no going back."

Despair turned into a weapon to wield against everyone and itself, basically. Cutting the care out of your own heart using the pain (even though it will always linger through the denial), or lashing out to the person you never wanted to hurt through loss of control. 

It is the angst of the 'bully that won't or can't stop'. Burning, moving, tearing everything appart in an effort to escape the screaming anguish... 'shredding fangs'.

🔥 It is wrecking fire.

---

Offer for a third subtype of angst, the bittersweetness (emphasis on bitter) with pain written so raw, it make the audience want to scream. Grief and despair and hurt so *full* it drown everything else. (I love that too. It's an anguish similar to a headache scratching at my mind but I love it). I don't have any name for it yet, as it tend to be more 'did the author manage to convey graphically to the readers all the psychological violence going on' skillset than a trope. Facts can't bring it forward. Only the way of writing can.

[queer-omens-in-the-archives]

I was dreaming of the wind

Relationship: Mello/Near Rating: T Chapters: 1/1 Words: 1,485 Series: sweet atonement

Near wakes up and Mello is not here. (Set roughly a year after the events of sweet atonement and please don't follow me into the sun.)

Tags: Multiplicity/Plurality, Near's Mello Introject, Dissociation, Difficulties in Inner Communication, (and resolution thereof), Traumaversary, Grief, Lucid Dreaming, Post-Canon, POV Near | Nate River

[read on AO3]

[chrrywvea]

a serotonin boost for today:

✨️imagine married lokius at a christmas market✨️

(or: my brain going haywire at 4 am for these two idiots & leaving me with this half fic half imagine-ramble-story thing)

mobius obsessing over all the little trinket shops

like immediately upon their arrival, he's over the moon

loki detests all the masses of people but nearly melts when he sees how mobius lights up

he does enjoy it later on as well, very much even

sharing mulled wine

butterfly kisses & red cheeks (loki i'm looking at you)

mobius wears the scarf loki made for him for his birthday (personal hc of mine: loki can crochet & knit insanely well)

mistletoes, so many mistletoes

snowflakes in loki's curls make him look even more mesmerising (mobius stop staring please)

mobius gets fairy lights for their apartment

loki shields his tiny husband from all the people bumping into everyone (inspo from the cutest gay couple i saw at the christmas market yesterday thanks guys♡)

they try out all the different food stands together

(since christmas markets tend to have lots of nordic food loki gets to teach mobius about his favourite dishes at home when he was a child)

mobius loves listening to loki anyway, no matter the topic, but hearing him speak so freely of the good aspects of his childhood always warms his heart

they search more quiet spots for breaks when they both get a little overwhelmed

loki sings (though this time only for his husband)

holding hands in each others coat pockets & hand kisses to warm cold skin up

beanies

they try on all the beanies in the whole market (mobius puts them on loki who eventually just surrenders to it)

in the end loki buys them real silly, matching ones (if any artists want to draw this, by all means, go ahead! i'd love that so much but i have zero talent when it comes to drawing)

loki drags mobius to the ice rink, the only thing he's weary of since he's never been ice skating before - but loki is there to help!

he's a pro at it, frosty heritage and stuff

yes i believe frost giants can ice skate really well shush

lots of laughter and banter ensue with mobius attempting to stay upright

the waist hold™ is now reversed to prevent mobius from falling on his butt

but honestly they were gonna be close anyway so

touchy touchy

mobius gets the hang of the whole ice skating ordeal and loki cheers him on when he manages one round around the rink on his own

though he completely rams into loki's back upon his return

when they tire out after a while they get more food, sit around one of the nearby bonfires and cuddle

star gazing when it gets dark & planning for christmas eve

they both sneakily buy gifts for one another when the other's busy with something

mobius gets a little tipsy

too many samples at the liquor shops oops

+ i might add more if anyone likes this but this is what came out for now, enjoy :-D

[dirt-grub]

Amv. Choose

[c1trvswrites]

-> She Smelt of Dead Flowers...

The ripples of Gabriella's death just started to hit Miguel's shores.

read on ao3 ->

RELATIONSHIP: GEN, N/A, Gabriella and Miguel O'hara

STATUS: completed

TAGS/WARNING: Child death, character death, angst, character study/analysis, language I think, hurt no comfort, violently un-beta old crappy writing)

Gabriella smelt of the outside and the earthy tones of the dirt and grass. Always has.

Especially in the summertime where’d she spend hours and hours just out there, always coming back with a fistful of trinkets and an even more fistful of cuts and bruises. But it was all in a day’s work for a child her age.

How Miguel would lavish whatever she brought back to him like a crow gifting an old friend something new it found- from rock and marbles she just found pretty that day to old vintage pieces of jewelry.

As Miguel packed away the last pieces of cutlery he peeked over his side only to be met with a tug from someone one-third of his size trying to get his attention. “Hi mija” He kept his voice quiet and gentle, glancing softly. “Ready for dinner or still got a couple more minutes of outside left in you?” Drying off his hands he patted her head and wiped away a piece of grass stuck firmly to her face. Making sure to sneak in a quick pinch.

“Nuh-uh, I’m starving.’

“Thought so, you’ve been out there since five,” He chuckled while wrinkles fading in at the corners of his eyes. “Alright go clean up...Pilluela” Sneaking in the last part he snickered hearing Gabriella turn the corner and shoot ‘hey!’ from a distance.

The soft glow of the kitchen lights cast a warm ambiance as he carefully set the dinner table. The aroma of a home-cooked meal wafted through the air, creating an inviting atmosphere. Tonight was just like any other night- just him and his daughter, the quiet comforting in the midst of the night.

Miguel unfolded the freshly laundered tablecloth and laid it out, smoothing the fabric with a satisfied hum. The table, a simple yet sturdy little one, had seen countless dinners (after all he stole it from his mom when he moved out), each mark adding to the collection of memories, arguments, and silence. Tonight's dinner promised to be an exception. Glad it's been one for eleven years ongoing.

He reached for the set of mismatched but dearly loved plates, the clinking of cutlery echoed in the room as he carefully placed the utensils in their designated spots. Miguel took a moment to admire the arrangement.

The pièce de résistance was the centerpiece—a small bouquet of wildflowers gathered from their garden. If you were to ask him a couple of years ago had thought simple things like this were bullshit, but with age, he couldn't help but find beauty in the every day, and these flowers, with their vibrant colors, added a touch of nature to the table. He adjusted the arrangement until he was satisfied, the flowers now standing tall in a simple vase.

With the table set, he moved to the kitchen to check on the final touches of the meal. The savory aroma of roasted vegetables and the sizzle of a pan hinted at the culinary delights awaiting them.

As he returned to the table, Miguel couldn't help but smile at the anticipation of sharing this moment with his kid. He imagined her reaction when she walked into the warm, fragrant kitchen, greeted by the sight of her favorite meal. It wasn't just about the food—it was about the connection, the shared space, and the simple joy of being together.

Stage set.

Gabriella peered around the corner rushing once she got a hint as to what was being served tonight.

As they both got settled they talked about their day, just like they always did, always nothing eventful. But still very much appreciated, kinda like routine.

Miguel could never place where this conversation started but he could remember when it picked up.

“¡Ándale jefazo, dame permiso de ir a la fiesta!”

“Ni hablar.”

“But-”

“En absoluto.”

Playfully she sucked her teeth knowing that that was gonna be the answer no matter what “How come you never let me go out? If I become a socially awkward creature it’s your fault!”

“Uh, you went out today?”

“I mean like with other people, y’know?”

“Well I don’t really like your friend ‘y’know?’ He rolled his eyes and briefly smiled before speaking up again. “Now pass the butter.”

Gabriella mumbled something about him not liking any of her friends before fulfilling his request.

His hands moved along the sides of the knife slowly as he sliced into the perfectly browned loaf of bread. After that, it was the usual dinner talk, life, friends, work.

It was always the usual with them, and that was great. Their conversations were like shooting fish in a barrel, they flowed without needing a whole lot of effort or force, like second nature. That was the great thing about having a child, something unplanned but worked well. A sense of responsibility wrapped up.

That’s why when conversations began to slow down to a sharp halt one day it took him by surprise.

One day she was there one day she wasn't. but that's just how life goes right? She was gone, and he was left behind wondering where he stood.

All of a sudden those usual conversations conversation with her were switched out with visits to a funeral home.

Various packages, floral arrangements, and burial options, but Miguel’s mind floated in a sea of detachment.

Until one morning he woke up and felt raindrops hit the crown of his head.

The air in the cemetery hung heavy with a mix of grief and reverence as Miguel huddled around to bid his final farewell. The somber melody of a distant hymn provided a melancholic soundtrack to the scene. Under the overcast sky, a lone casket, adorned with flowers, rested over the open grave.

No one there to stand in a circle around the burial site, Miguel opted to grieve in private, and a sense of sorrow gripped his throat as he heaved. The priest, his words a comforting murmur, but useless to Miguel— spoke of the Gabriellas’s life—a tapestry woven with moments of joy, struggle, and the quiet beauty of everyday existence. Tears glistened on his face through shut lips.

The pallbearers, their movements deliberate and respectful, approached the casket. Each one placed a hand on the polished wood, a final gesture of solidarity with the one they carried. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, they lifted the casket and began the solemn walk toward the waiting grave.

The procession moved with a measured cadence, the weight of the moment evident in every step. Miguel’s eyes cast downward as they navigated the uneven ground of the cemetery. The sound of soft sobbing intermingled with the rustle of leaves overhead. He didn’t even recognize those sounds as his own.

As the pallbearers reached the edge of the grave, they carefully lowered the casket. The gentle descent seemed to echo the finality of the moment, a profound silence settling over the assembly. She, once vibrant and alive, now rested in the quiet solitude of the earth.

The priest offered a final prayer, a poignant farewell to the departed soul. A lone violinist, positioned at a distance, began to play a mournful tune, its haunting melody weaving through the air.

The casket, now nestled in its final resting place, a should be symbol of closure. Miguel hovered over and stepped forward with a fistful of soil and even more fistful of cuts and bruises to toss handfuls of soil onto the casket—a ritualistic gesture marking the return of Gabriella to the embrace of the earth.

As the first clumps of soil fell, a hushed stillness enveloped the scene. The quiet thud of earth against wood resonated like a heartbeat, a rhythmic acknowledgment of life's cyclical nature. Gabriella, in her eternal repose, became one with the earth.

Gabriella smelt of the outside and the earthy tones of the dirt and grass.

Always has.

[industria-adastra]

[PMMM] - Ideal Heaven (Let's become one in mind, body and soul)

Summary: To her, to love, and to act upon that love, was a very simple thing. Because there were exquisitely ugly beings in this world. Because she always knew best. And because she loved anyone and everyone, and because she knew anything and everything…

Kriemhild Gretchen’s love was overpowering, because she only wanted what was best for those whom she loved.

And Kriemhild Gretchen loved humanity.

-

L-O-V-E L-O-V-E

(Listen to me)

Note: I am held in a chokehold by Vampire Knight rn (It literally rearranged my brain chemistry as a kid) but it doesn't mean I can't write for other fandoms. Like PMMM. And for MadoHomu (kinda) Listen to DOKUZU by Nakiso for a better feel?

------

Today, like every other day, was quiet. Below, the people rushed to get to their destinations, eager for another day of heaven. As always, their hair was perfectly styled, and perfectly coiffed. Their buttons shone and their eyes were glassy. 

The sun shone brilliantly, the sky was a perfect blue, and the flowers were blooming—just like every other day. Nothing was out of place: the floor was as polished as a mirror, and the air was as clean as could be. Together, they breathed as one in unison; the air cycling through to be used again and again. 

No one was sad, no one was angry. There was no suffering to be found in the empty expressions of her most cherished denizens. Mercy had been given freely, and the consequences had been clear to see.

The birds above in perfectly formed, perfectly trimmed trees sang in pitch-perfect harmony, and Kriemhild Gretchen was happy. 

So, so, very happy.

It was a joy only amplified by the peace of the people. 

She could feel the happiness of the people—a stagnant emotion like tar. It enveloped every one of them, coursing through their veins and pumping within their hearts. Subsuming them all to elevate their happiness to new heights. Their happiness fed hers, and so out of kindness she fed it right back to them, over, and over again—a negative feedback loop that would never end. 

There was no sorrow, no malcontent, and certainly no monsters here. She’d cast the light down, swallowed the darkness and gave priceless salvation. Ugly things did not exist within Kriemhild Gretchen’s world, for neither was there a place for them, nor were they ugly anymore after her mercy. Only beautiful things existed within Kriemhild Gretchen’s world, shining gloriously as a testament to all the good she wrought with her mercy. Because from beauty came rapture, and from rapture came euphoria. 

Euphoria meant happiness. Euphoria meant that nothing, nothing would ever colour her pristine world with dreadful, filthy despair again.

Their hearts beat together as one, steady, steady—light and free—and Kriemhild Gretchen knew that all was well.

(But down, down, down, deep below the surface, she could hear that irregular rhythm, all out of sync. And yet—

The world was perfect, perfect, perfect. Trees swayed gently, the vibrant colours dulling further and further as Kriemhild Gretchen dove deeper and deeper within her perfect world.

And yet still, opening the doors, travelling down the path within her steel-cage heart, she found a single blemish. 

Not on her, of course. Kriemhild Gretchen was the perfect being who loved all. Her love brought salvation, but salvation had to be wanted. And yet, she supposed she could not blame this blemish within her. For it was that spot of corruption that taught her of the idea of “love”. Love, which was encompassing and all-powerful. Love, which she could take, take, and take.

A love that centred only on two.

For some odd, odd reason, warring with a part of her that screamed to purify that corruption, Kriemhild liked that spot within her. Somehow, she preferred her that way, imperfect and so lovely on her own—her little crow in a sea of doves. 

That Girl was so strange. Some days, she wept. Some days, she screamed. Some days, she was almost just content—just enough to sink into Kriemhild’s loving embrace, staining her lovely, lovely skin before yanking herself out. A pretty little bird with contradictory feelings and actions.

Unbinding the chains, Kriemhild Gretchen gently pushed open the doors. Of course, not before ensuring her mask was picture-perfect. In earlier times, in her haste, Kriemhild often came in with the wrong shade of pink, or an unfortunate melted mess of some poofy pink dress amalgamated with neutral beige, or even with hair all too long and ribbons all too mismatched. She even practised her expressions too, moulding her “face” to suit those flashes of images of that other girl. 

That being said, all those failures still wrought better behaviour than when she came in as herself.

Passing through those doors as if gliding on air, the Witch of Salvation beheld her one and only sinner. There she lay, sleeping on a bed of soft silk and flesh, eyes closed and her hands clasped over her chest. Kriemhild thought a delicate little crown might suit those elegant features, to complete this image—her own little sleeping beauty.

Slowly, slowly, Kriemhild crept closer; hands outstretched from the walls, closer, closer. She admired the black dress contrasting the pallor of her skin, head tilted as she stared. Yes, the Witch thought. Black truly did suit her slumbering doll.

Closer, closer, closer. Her hand moved to brush lightly against that girl’s cheek. Carefully, Kriemhild willed herself to simply grow out of the bed instead, painting legs on either side of the girl. Hands moved to open the crossed palms on her chest as the girl sunk deeper and deeper into slumber. Kriemhild went down, down, down, pressing her ear against that irregularly beating heart.

Thump, thump, thump. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

A wonderful, sublime sound.

Fingers reached to trace a line from her jaw to her heart, talon-like nails skimming over the unprotected flesh of her neck—lamentably marred by a singular, savage bite. One hand slid between raven black strands of hair, tensed, waiting.

And then Kriemhild yanked. 

The girl’s eyes snapped open in pain, shiny, dulling amethyst meeting with Kriemhild’s own brightly pink ones. At that, she grinned, ecstatic to see her most beloved sinner singularly focused on her. (What a terrible harbinger of salvation she was, having favourites. But then again, did prophets and apostles not exist?) 

“Helloo~ Good morning!” Kriemhild’s hands moved to roughly cup the girl’s face, nails pressing on delicate skin. Her torso moved forward until their noses were only centimetres away from touching, still keeping that manic grin on her “face”.

“M— Mado…ka?” Her poor darling slurred, still ever so out of it. But it was oh so adorable, and all Kriemhild wanted to do was eat her, swallow her down, and meld the two of them until she stopped calling her by the wrong name.

But Kriemhild Gretchen was salvation and mercy personified, so instead, she giggled—a soft, tinkling sound that would reverberate within your ears. Over and over again. She wasn’t angry. No, no. Her little birdie just needed a little…reminder.

In low sotto voce, she responded, “Silly… You know that’s not my name, don’t you?”

And then, a kiss, for the pretty princess. Soft but intent, leaving no other option than for the spell to be broken. Kriemhild’s hands fisted black hair, entangling it within her fingers. The scent of roses filled the air. Then she drew back, watching the fog recede from those purple eyes. 

“What’s my name?” Kriemhild calmly asked, seeing sparks flickering once more. The girl didn’t answer. The walls pulsed, contracting flesh and bone. Once, twice.

Thrice.

“Come on, I’m quite sure you know it by now, don’t you? I believe you’re smart enough to remember something as simple as that, right? Come now, say my name.” Kriemhild’s voice was poisonously sweet, a sign of her waning patience. Even a being as magnanimous as her was bound to have a limit to patience. Especially when it came to her name. 

Eyes more red than pink bore down at the figure beneath her. She could hear that irregular heart, fluttering its wings like a hummingbird.

“My name, Dear.”

The girl’s eyes darted around, searching for something Kriemhild couldn’t see. Didn’t she know there was nothing here but Kriemhild and her? Nothing else but the two of them (forever, forever, forever). A small, pink tongue quickly swiped at chapped lips, before a light, airy voice came out. “Kriem—” She paused, taking a small glance at Kriemhild’s current, waiting expression. “Kriemhild Gretchen.”

As always these days, her words came slow, not quite the sharp blades they once were. It was indeed a testament to Kriemhild Gretchen’s own mercy and patience, to wait as long as she could. But the reward at the end was always worth it.

“Good girl!” Kriemhild was as quick as always to hand out praise, arms wrapping tight around a thin torso before she squeezed with suppressed euphoria. Little laughs trickled out from her mouth, muffled only by the fact that her face was pressed against the girl’s chest—deforming as it was right now. Minutes passed by before Kriemhild deemed herself safe from melting before her raven’s eyes.

Once again, her hands moved to cup her little birdie’s face before she spoke. “You’ve been becoming more and more of a good girl these days, you know? Before, it would always take such a long time for you to remember that I’m. Not. Madoka.” White noise hung in the air, buzzing with an intensity that only grew and grew.

Her name was Kriemhild Gretchen.

The girl only ever called her “Madoka” when unprompted.

Yes, Kriemhild Gretchen was mercy personified. Yes, she was the most perfect, pure being in this corrupted (now violently cleansed) world. Yes, she only ever did her best to turn this world into paradise. But Kriemhild Gretchen did not share.

These people, this girl most of all, were all hers, hers, hers.

(Because she loved her, and her little birdie loved her too but only through a mask, no matter how inelegant and diminutive it was. Kriemhild Gretchen loved with a ferocity that belied an all-consuming desire for her beautiful raven to love her madly, truly—to allow Kriemhild one day fully swallow her whole, subsuming her so she would never, ever leave. Never, ever cry once more. Kriemhild Gretchen loved this pitiful sinner of hers and no one would take her from Kriemhild.)

It took her much less time to notice the blood leaking from the girl’s nose, eyes, ears, and mouth. This time, she didn’t even have to be told by the drip drip drip of crimson life. Kriemhild shifted in the girl’s lap, noting the subtle wince at the changing weight. She must’ve twisted and broken her legs again.

Gently, Kriemhild wiped away the blood nearing those soft lips, smearing it on her knuckles and her raven’s fine-boned cheek.

What a pretty picture.

She kissed her again.

“You know you’re mine for all eternity, right?”

Her caged bird did not respond.

----

Once, she held in her heart an ice-cold body, perfectly preserved in all its beauty. Mangled yet healing, Kriemhild’s hands held that small heart of her bird’s near her own makeshift body, wondering if she should simply eat it bit by bit or swallow it whole.

For some reason, she’d returned that glowing heart of purple glass back to its original body instead. Staring at the girl who should’ve only been another sinner to her, Kriemhild had not yet understood why she kept her—nor the three other bodies she’d consumed—inside her heart.

Yes, they’d come a long way from that moment.

And yet, and yet… It really wasn’t enough. Kriemhild could feel it in her very soul.

----

That girl… No, “Homura”, was still not content within this world, within her. 

How much longer until they would be one? How much longer would she come in, always hearing Madoka, Madoka, Madoka first? How much longer did she have to put up with that mask?

As she pondered those questions, Kriemhild Gretchen swallowed Homura deeper in, creating more doors, creating more thorny vines to keep her most beloved sinner. Perhaps Kriemhild Gretchen’s heaven was imperfect (and oh, how it stung to know so) for Homura. Perhaps Homura only needed to understand her more, by delving deeper into her world. 

Perhaps, one day, she would no longer be called “Madoka” first.

And perhaps one day, her heart would not feel so empty.

(Three bodies in, and yet still Kriemhild wanted, wanted, wanted)

[oldschoolfic-ds9]

The Faith That Looks Through Death

by LPennington, 1996

Odo, Jadzia and Jake find themselves in an alternate universe where things are very different...and possibly better. Can they get back? Will they want to?

Words: 31307, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: angst

Characters: Odo, Jadzia Dax, Jake Sisko

Relationships: none listed

Reader suggested tags (what are these?): crossover - Star Trek: Voyager

links (link broken? report it and try the archive.org alternative):

ASC newsgroup

archive.org - option 1

[sawyerconfort]

hey I wanted to ask for a Duke angsty fluff with the prompt “your not alone, you never were” as in like the reader and Duke are friends and they find out about Dukes bulimia and try to comfort her and then Duke confesses her feeling for the reader and it ends with fluff

Hey!

It's been a long time since I've been here to write, and I'll definitely do it more often next year. It's just that, my life is completely crazy, I have too many commitments and every time I come back here, I always have a new idea for a fanfic on Wattpad instead hahahaha

Anyway, but that's not the point now. I know I've been promising you this for a while, so here it is. Anon, sorry for the delay, I really wanted to get this to you sooner, and if you didn't give up waiting, I hope you like it!

Enjoy!

No, requests are not open, at least until next year!

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

Not Strong Enough | Heather Duke x Reader

PROMPT: I don't know what to tell you, just that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time with your best friend who always swore she wouldn't hide anything from you.

WARNINGS: Mentions of bulimia, eating disorder, mental health, distorted image, anxiety.

***

"Hi, how are you? Like, class has started, how long does it take you to touch up your makeup?"

You ask. You're standing outside the women's bathroom, trying to get the attention of your best friend, Heather, who is on the other side of the door. It was a long conversation until you got the teacher's permission to leave the class, because the students had just returned from break, and it was like a school rule that you couldn't leave after break, or something like that.

Heather Duke said that she was going to walk you to class, but she needed to touch up her makeup first, and, even though you didn't know exactly how long it would take to do that, you found it strange that she was taking so long.

It wasn't news to anyone that Heather practically lived in the bathroom. The other two Heathers knew why she did this almost all the time, but you, her best friend, apparently didn't even know the half of it, and she refused to tell you, who knows why.

Determined to put an end to this torture, you invented an absurd excuse for the teacher and left the room, going to the bathroom door, where you were now, just being careful that Ms. Fleming didn't catch you and give you detention while you 'spy'.

"I'm almost done, it's just…", you heard her say on the other side, and then, the sentence remained there, incomplete, hanging in an eternal echo on the bathroom door. Heather was never silent, you were fully aware of that, and so, even if it was inconvenient, you did the first thing that came into her head.

Thankful that there were no other girls in the bathroom, for countless reasons, you opened the door abruptly, without even blinking.

The scene was a bit embarrassing and scary at first. You heard someone expel, and then you came across Heather Duke in one of the stalls, bent over the toilet, with the stall door half open because of the wind when you opened the bathroom door.

Running as if this was the last thing you were going to do in your life - and it would probably be because she was going to kill you when she found out that you had practically broken down the door -, you knelt behind her and held her long hair up.

But it was too late. Her perfect green uniform had a few drops of vomit on it, and the smell was even worse.

“Hey, hey, easy, easy…” you murmured, and felt Heather Duke gasp in her arms, scared. "It's okay, it's just me. It's okay, relax."

She took a deep breath and finally raised her head. You made her hair into a loose bun and flushed the toilet, restraining yourself from throwing up too. Then he closed the lid and took it out of the cabin, to the taps. Heather looked in the mirror and sighed, lowering her head shortly after.

"Is everything okay? If you want to throw up again, I'll hold you back," you whispered, worrying. She looked at you for a minute and shook her head. "Okay, then this is better. Now… I know it's a little inconvenient to ask, but why did you lie to me?"

"And I didn't lie, I withheld, they are two different things."

You rolled your eyes, and Heather sighed. Suddenly the idea became a little funny, and you commented, to lighten the mood. "Look, I know the cafeteria food isn't appetizing, okay? You don't need to feel guilty about telling me this, I won't tell anyone."

But his joke didn't have the expected effect on Heather Duke. She looked at you, frowned, then raised her eyebrow.

"Isn't that what you were talking about…?", she whispered, but you heard her, and it was her turn to frown.

"About what?"

"Nothing," Heather said, shaking her head and looking in the mirror again. "You know I didn't eat anything for lunch, don't you?"

You looked at her, frowned again. "You didn't? Why? Did something happen? Or because the mashed potatoes…"

"No, it's not the mashed potatoes, (Y\N), stop talking about food."

"Heather, what's your problem? Tell me, I want to help you, please. You're hiding something from me and I'm your best friend, that's not fair at all, please tell me!"

You didn't expect to express that feeling of anger and fear with so much anxiety and so much euphoria. But you did. And she opened her eyes wide in surprise, swallowing hard. Looking at the ground, you witnessed for the first time the moment Heather Duke let her guard down.

"I withheld something from you because…", she began, and cleared her throat, before turning to you, hands resting on the sink. "…no, you'll hate me forever, and I know I won't be able to handle it."

“Heather, don’t…” you whispered, approaching her slowly. "Tell me, please, I want to help you. I'm not here to hate you, I promise."

She sighed again and lowered her head. "I… I have bulimia, (Y\N)…"

"You what?", yes, that was your first reaction, and of course you couldn't hold back that reaction, such was the shock of receiving this news. "Wait, since when?"

"Since the beginning of the year", she confessed, still very quietly. "I think it started, actually, when I joined the Heathers, and I had to come to high school with this mentality of being popular. I… I didn't like my body and I thought people wouldn't think I was popular and brilliant. If I were…you know, fat."

You swallowed again.

"I didn't know that stopping eating would lead me to this kind of thing, it's just… looking in the mirror was torture, and it got even worse after I started. I wanted to eat something, and every time I saw In my reflection I saw my body distorting, enlarging, and that wouldn't make me a popular girl, so I just… stopped eating because at least that wouldn't make my image distort and people would like me."

"And why did you hide this from me? I would have done anything to help you, anything at all…"

'Because you didn't care about that kind of thing, (Y\N). You saw me and see me as the perfect girl, I know that, and I didn't want… I didn't want to be responsible for getting that image of me out of your head…", she laughed. "Or because I was maybe trying make me look tough, you know? It also helped with me being popular…"

You smiled, but Heather seemed to have something to say, something else, so you waited, patiently.

"And also because… I… I didn't want you to see me as a failure because… because I couldn't stand it," she sighed. "Look, I'm sorry for keeping this from you. I didn't mean for you to be hurt, I was just trying to protect you because… because I love you."

Heather's speech took you by surprise, and you widened your eyes, increasingly confused. She stopped for two minutes and continued babbling, saying that she knew you would figure all this out eventually, and that she felt terrible for liking you as more than a friend, and that you would say she was confusing things, and that you would definitely want to get away from her now that you knew the truth.

And you didn't do any of that. You only stopped her from continuing to speak, pressing your lips to hers and holding her face with both hands. There wasn't a moment where you said you loved her back before the kiss, but it was enough like that. Because there was nothing more like you than surprising a girl with your unexpected, impulse-filled actions.

Heather pulled away from the kiss after a few minutes, frowning in her direction. "Aren't you mad at me because I just confessed to you?"

“Definitely not,” you whispered. "I love you too, silly. And I want you to know that I won't leave you alone. And that you will have me by your side to keep you on track with your looks and your body," you touched her face again. "I love you like this, the way you are, and I don't care if you're fat, ugly, full of pimples or with thin legs like someone who doesn't exercise during the week, regardless of all that, Heather… "

She smiled, as you leaned closer again.

"I love you. I've always loved you and I'll never stop loving you, whatever that may be, in whatever sense…"

"Go out with me?", she whispered, now acting on impulse. "Please?"

Your eyes widened. "What the fuck was that?"

She shrugged.

"I'm just trying. You don't have to accept it if you don't want to."

“I’ll take it, yes, Heather,” you said, and then touched her cheek. "But only if you agree to eat with me. Even if it's measly junk food."

[laurasimonsdaughter]

absolute favourite comment on the necromance post, you get it @georgiedoesntfloat, you get it

[snowydeskset-ao3]

Martin was having one of his bad days. It seemed there were more of those than not, recently. --- Martin and Peter have a talk. A missing scene to insert... somewhere in early s4. Title from Claw Machine by Sloppy Jane.

[wolfstarshipping]

Honey If I'm Not (29.335 words) by @brigid-faye

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

wizard AU, post first war

Summary:

A heartbroken Remus Lupin left London in the summer of 1981 and never looked back. A decade later, he's built a life for himself in Burlington, Vermont, surrounded by new friends and finally confident in his job as a counselor. It's a job he loves, even if it does involve regularly conjuring his patronus, and even if that patronus is still taking the shape of a certain canine. He's fine with it. It doesn't have to mean anything.

Until one day his path crosses with Sirius Black's and maybe it does mean something, after all.

AU - The first wizarding war ended with the Longbottoms' deaths rather than the Potters', James and Lily are alive and Sirius stayed out of Azkaban.

If You're Gonna (46.436 words) by BrigidFaye

Rating: Mature

Series: Part 2 of Honey If I'm Not/If You're Gonna

Summary:

1981 and all of its losses - the Longbottoms' deaths, Remus Lupin's disappearance - sent Sirius Black spinning, but ten years later, he finally believes he's doing alright. With the help of the Potters, he's emerged on the other side as a philanthropist and general do-gooder. He can even, thanks to therapy, manage a patronus for the first time in his life. Its lupine shape just means he's made peace with that particular bit of heartbreak, right?

But then on a trip to Burlington, VT, Sirius' path crosses with Remus' again, and maybe - just maybe - that patronus means something else.

This is Sirius's POV of "Honey If I'm Not".

Comment:

These two fics are now new favorites of mine! I absolutely loved Honey If I'm Not, reading about wolfstar reconnecting and falling for each other again, and all the pining and yearning and the hard conversations about their pasts, everything was already so good! And then I read If You're Gonna, which is the same story plus lots of extra added scenes from Sirius's POV and I'M IN LOVE with these fics now! I loved reading the same scenes from both POVs and also adored everything that got added in Sirius's POV, learning more about their pasts, the lunar magic, and just all the scenes with James and Lily and the ending absolutely stole my heart!! Such a wonderful fic series!

[destiny-in-the-universe]

We’re back on the road, baby! Oh my god - I never expected I’d be writing for this specific series but well, now’s a good time as ever!

I’m going to be honest: this fanfic is dark and I wrote it to be spooky. It’s a horror au so, take what you get prrr. It’s my first time writing for the characters which means you might see some OOC’bess until I get comfortable. Also because this is also an AU and exploring things they obviously haven’t experienced, they’re going to react a bit… differently, you could say.

The chosen fandom is South Park. How to even begin to explain this fic- I call it an “analog horror” but it’s honestly less about lost media than it is about… hm, an unspecified entity (I can’t say what it is right now-) hunting the characters and well, there is a bit of character death.

Read below for more information!

Plot/Summary

October has returned to South Park, and of course this means the coming of the Fall Dance, where students can bring their dates to and participate in costume contests; high school was supposed to be different, but it seems something is lurking in the shadows, waiting, attempting to select its next target. Things are going bump in the night, and well, it’s only a matter of time before the students are dragged into the mouth of the tiger.

Horror AU! Loosely Based on Appalachian traditions and analog horror.

Prompts

Alternative Prompts:

Forgotten

Time Loop

[REDACTED]

Extras/Teasers

One-Sided Pining

Neurodiverse Characters

Temporary Character Death

Spooky/Horror Elements

Aged-Up Characters

death doesn’t discriminate

Part 14 of Whumptober