#like all that rage has built up and i thought we were done

[skyeateyourdonuts]

meep

[slutoru1207]

Varient!Invincible x reader part 2

Your breath hitched. Three Marks. Three.

Each of them stared at you like they had been starving for something only you could give them. Like they had found the last piece of a puzzle they never thought they'd complete.

"You don't need him anymore," Scarred Mark—the one with the golden eyes—murmured, stepping closer. His voice was almost soft, as if he were coaxing you. "He's weak. He let you die. Over and over again."

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears.

"This isn't right," you whispered. "You're not my Mark."

Mohawk Mark—lean, sharp-eyed, his expression like stone—let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Yeah? And what has your Mark done for you?" His lip curled. "Let me guess—he keeps losing. Keeps failing you. Keeps breaking every promise he makes."

You clenched your fists. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sinister Mark chuckled darkly. “It is.”

And then—

BOOM.

The entire street cracked apart. A blur of blue and yellow slammed into the pavement, sending concrete and dust flying everywhere. The force knocked you backward, and you shielded your face—

But before you could even process what had happened—Arms wrapped around you. Familiar. Safe.

"Get away from her!"

Your Mark's voice.

Your Mark’s arms.

Your Mark.

His grip was tight, solid, his chest rising and falling fast. He held you against him, his body shielding yours as the dust settled. You could feel the tension coiled beneath his skin, the way his heart hammered just as hard as yours.

And when he pulled back just enough for you to see his face—

His eyes burned.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low, controlled—but barely. Like he was forcing himself to hold it together.

You nodded quickly. "Mark, I—"

"Well, well," Sinister Mark drawled, cracking his neck as he stepped forward. "Look who finally showed up."

Mohawk Mark grinned. "Took you long enough."

Mark’s arms tightened around you. He didn’t let go, even as his breathing deepened, even as his rage built.

“What the hell is this?” he gritted out.

Scarred Mark—Viltrumite Mark—smirked. “This?” He gestured at himself, at the others. “This is what happens when you fail, Mark.”

“Every version of you,” Sinister Mark murmured. “And we all lost her.”

Mark’s grip on you trembled.

Your throat tightened. Oh god.

“But now,” Mohawk Mark continued, tilting his head. “We found one that actually lived.”

Sinister Mark’s golden eyes gleamed. “And we’re not gonna let that go to waste.”

A beat of silence.

And then—

BOOM.

Mark moved first.

One second, he was holding you—the next, he launched himself at Sinister Mark with enough force to crack the air.

The fight exploded.

Sinister Mark dodged the first hit but barely blocked the second, his feet skidding against the concrete.

Mark didn’t stop. He went for Mohawk Mark next, fists flying, rage blazing through him like a wildfire.

Viltrumite Mark caught him mid-swing—their arms locked, muscles straining, teeth bared.

“You don’t deserve her!” Mark snarled, breaking free and landing a punch that shattered the pavement beneath them.

Sinister Mark grinned, blood dripping from his lip. “Now this is fun.”

Mohawk Mark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I gotta admit,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I was hoping he’d put up a fight.”

Viltrumite Mark barely flinched, his golden eyes locked onto yours.

And that’s when you realized—

They weren’t fighting to kill.

They were fighting to take you.

To win you.

Your stomach dropped.

This wasn’t a battle.

It was a claim.

part 3

[anjelicawrites]

Paring: Armand x reader

Synopsis: you're sitting in a pub, you start drawing the mysterious stranger sitting not far away from you. When he discovers you, you don’t realize you’ve picked the attention of a dangerous creature.

Warnings: reference to past injury, self doubt, allusion to past trauma.

A/N: reader is AFAB. They/them pronouns used.

The wind is howling outside the thick windows of the pub, dark clouds promising heavy rain and violent waves against the jagged coast not too far from the narrow road where the pub is built. The fire is roaring in the huge hearth, shadowed by too many people huddling there to nurse their drinks; the lights are dim against the old wooden panels, giving the overcrowded room a homely air.

You beer sits next to the small case full of your pencils as you draw in the dim lights of the overcrowded room.

Your head sits lightly on your free hand as the other rushes to finish the quick sketch you’re working on, before your, unintentional, muse decides to leave; you’re hoping the promise of heavy rain will convince the man to stay a little longer. Who knows if he will or he will try his luck, now that the wind has picked up even more violently.

You focus again on the black lines on the sheet of paper, finishing the outline to start working on the elegant sweater he’s wearing; you’re no expert but it looks expensive, and warm, and soft. A real nightmare to draw using only a charcoal pencil, since you are planning to add colors and you don’t want to put too many shadows that aren’t there.

“It has been a long time since anyone ever painted me. I was given the chance to pose back then, for hours, I have to admit.”

The soft voice makes you lift your head in surprise; dimly you think that there is an accent you can’t truly pinpoint, his words almost neutral in their intonation.

“It’s actually a drawing, not a painting.”

You want to drown in your own sweater at how stupid your response sounds.

“May I sit?”

You can’t see his eyes, hidden behind his wraparounds sunglasses and his expression is hard to read: you’d hate to cause a scene, not everyone appreciates being portrayed in secret.

“Please, do.”

Carefully you move your beer more on the side of the small round table, the too long sleeve of your sweater uncovering partially the black burn glove on your left hand, despite you racing to hide it again.

The man sits down, gracefully and only now you notice he has no drink with him: he must have entered the pub to escape the oncoming storm. He only lays an elegant cigarette case on the battered table, the ornate, intricate designs catch your attention from the rowdy crowd of the pub.

He is stunningly beautiful, but this you realized when you eyes had landed on him, whilst you were sipping your beer and wondering what, or who, you could sketch to pass the time; what truly draw your attention was his aura, so calm, yet it gave you the sense of someone who keeps a tight lid on their emotions, like a summer evening when you know it’s going to rain soon.

“Are you an artist?”

Again, his soft voice drags you back from your thoughts, the musicality of it makes you want to listen to him reading his grocery shop list, if that meant just hearing it.

“No, not really, it’s just a hobby.”

“You have a great deal of sketches in your book, and in your little case.”

Almost on instinct you want to grab your work and curl around it in protection; it’s the gut reaction of a second, you aren’t in that position anymore, this man will not tear your works into shreds for no reason.

“It’s something I haven’t done for a while and then I had decided to pick it up again. We can’t only work all the time, can’t we? We need to treat ourselves.” You say with a smile.

“I am acquainted with that meme.”

It surprises you that he feels the need to convey his knowledge: what a strange man.

“This is my way to treat myself.”

“By drawing unsuspecting strangers?”

There’s no heath in his words, no rage, perhaps a bit of curiosity.

“By drawing what, or who, catches my eyes.” You answer, parroting his words. “I love to hang somewhere and just let my eyes wander. I can stop sketching you, if you want, I know it’s disconcerting for some people.”

You can truly feel the weight of his gaze, still hidden by the sunglasses, even now that the pub is bathed in the dark light from outside. This stranger is not simply looking at you, you feel as if he’s taking you apart to catalog every single piece of yourself he can find, like an entomologist does with a pinned butterfly.

You know you shouldn't feel so calm under his scrutiny, that you should bid your farewell and go home, but you can’t help yourself: you want this stranger to keep looking at you like he would the pieces of a puzzle he desperately needs to put together. No matter how dangerous the consequences.

A shiver runs down the damaged nerves on your left arm, and you decide to ignore the warning.

“Why should you? You’re very talented.”

All of his nervousness now shows itself in the way his index fingers fiddles with the cigarette case, his hidden gaze fixed upon you.

“It’s a shame it’s not possible to smoke in public places such as this one anymore.”

How strange! You think. The law passed here in 2004 and he talks about it as if he had experienced how it was before. He can’t be that old!

He seems to have made his mind as his hand gently grasps the sunglasses, as if ready to remove them.

“Please, don’t!” In your haste you lift your hand, almost to stop him. “The most interesting part is to guess and imagine. Do keep wearing them.”

There’s a slew of small expressions playing on his face, all to hide his surprise and, perhaps, curiosity?

You grab the charcoal pencil in a tighter grip and go back to your work, losing yourself in the quick, almost nervous motions of your hand on the paper: you don’t know why you feel like you have to rush, to capture the fleeting essence of this nameless man, but you do.

With every ticking second you believe you’re going to lose the feeble hold you have on the ideas crowding your mind, with every stroke you fear you’re drifting far away from the first image of sadness and loneliness that lighted up in your mind, as soon as you saw him, sitting alone in the pub, under lights that enhanced his otherworldly beauty, the very thing that set him apart from all the other men present.

You only need to glance at him sparsely, to make sure to capture the texture of his hair and the folds of his sweater, the long lines of his fingers against the battered wood of the table.

Only when you’re finished, you realize you have been holding your breathe for most of the sketching and you have to force yourself to take a big gulp of air, before turning your sketchbook to him, while grabbing your beer again.

You’re learning not to be shy, when it comes to your creations, to share them with the world, to accept the criticism and the compliments; not now. Now you’re crawling out of your shell again, trying to draw while being filled with self doubts and hating every single piece you created, those past months disappearing in your mind, along with the strength you built for yourself.

His piercing gaze is now turned on your drawing, that analytical stare that cut you into layers and layers, now is doing the same to your work, and to himself: you’d do anything to know his thoughts, now that his face shows nothing.

Under the stillness a maelstrom rages. The man looking back at him from the page is a knot of everything he’s always felt and never told. Through the fast strokes of his eyes, he can see all his hardships, all he’s done and lost for centuries, pain and desperation, in a way a simple mirror would never show him: how a simple mortal like you could read him so deeply after staring at him, comes as a surprise. You’re nothing but a child, compared to him, yet you have the understanding of a much older person, as if you’ve experienced the depths of hell, only to expose it in your art, and to him.

It takes a lot of restrain for Armand to show nothing of his internal turmoil: it has been so long since someone managed to pin him down so precisely, so perfectly, he has to fight the instinct to stand up and storm out, away from you and your keen eyes; he wonders if you have done the same to other people, read them so perfectly and bluntly putting them in front of their own soul, like his fledgling had done to him. Do you know how dangerous you are? Do you have any inkling of how easily you could destroy a person’s life? Would you do that in the name of the truth?

“It’s awful, isn’t it? It’s not worth keeping.”

You reach with your good hand to slip the sketchbook away from his grasp and he stops you with elegant fingers on your wrist. His grasp is not strong, it doesn’t hurt, but holds a secret strength you can feel traveling up your arm and makes you shiver with the need for more.

“It’s beautiful.” He says, after a heartbeat, still holding you in place. “The one who painted me wasn’t as good an artist as you are, he lacked the depth you hold.”

His face is now turned back to you, his hidden, piercing stare focused on your features, analyzing you again, as if wanting to explore the hidden crevices of your soul.

“Thank you.” You stammer. “I’m glad you like it.”

Still, he says nothing, making you feel self-conscious of your own existence in this small pub on the coast.

“Would it be too forward of me to ask you to gift me this sketch?”

You’re too dazzled yourself to notice the small quiver in his soft voice.

“Oh! That’s the first time anyone has asked me that.”

Right now the people around you two don’t exist, nor is the wind beating down the old windows and stones of the building. There are no passing cars outside, nor are the waves crashing against the high cliffs, just a handful of miles from here.

“I thought I wanted to color it.”

“I think it’s perfect this way.”

He knows a finished work will incinerate him on the spot, because he will never be able not to stare at it, at himself, like Dorian Gray, to face all his centuries on this Earth.

“You’re too good to me. It’s really just a small sketch.”

“You’re selling yourself short. You have something many professional artists lack.”

When his big hand releases yours, the spell you were under breaks and all the sounds around you attack you again, adding to the fog you’re still feeling clouding your brain.

Almost through a dream, you take the sketchbook from his hand and cut the page off with the small pocket knife you keep in your pouch to sharpen some of your thicker pencils.

“It’s yours, my personal thank you for appreciating my work.”

His fingers touch yours again on the thin piece of paper and only now you notice how cold they are, despite the heath in the pub.

“Thank you.” There’s no calculation in his words, he feels real gratitude, the feeling burning brightly in the scorched desert of his soul. “I don’t even know your name.”

When you answer his question, you feel like he’s got a hold on your soul, like in the stories about the fairies.

“My name is Armand.”

A french name to someone who hasn’t a french accent, but nowadays people call their children anything, you think.

“Are you here on holiday?”

You can see the cheeky way his mouth turns when he smiles at your question.

“I thought I was simply passing through, but I am fascinated with how this area has changed, I think I am going to stay, for a while.”

You almost don’t notice the way he refers to this place as if he’s visited it years and years ago. Almost.

“Do you have somewhere to carry it? My sketch I mean. It has just started to rain.”

“Unfortunately I don’t. And I don’t wish to ruin it.”

“Here, use this!”

With much too haste, you empty the case where you carry your bigger pieces and hand it over to him.

“I can’t possibly accept it. Your other works will be destroyed by the rain.”

“I can roll them up and keep them in my bag, it’s big enough. Besides, that one is fresh, if you do the same to it, it will get ruined.”

“I still need to refund you yours.”

“There’s no need. If you’re staying, you’ll give it back whenever you can. There aren’t many meeting places here.”

The old trick always works: you are all so easy to manipulate.

“Then I shall give it back as soon is possible.”

His hands don’t tremble when they take the case from you, touching the sketch again doesn’t burn him the same way the first time did, but he knows he’s still affected, and needs to understand why.

“Regrettably, I need to go now.”

He lies, a part of him wants to stay to take your brain apart until he knows all the ways the mechanisms work there, but it’s too early for that.

“It’s raining pretty hard.”

“My car is parked nearby and your lovely sketch is safe.”

He doesn’t have a car, but he has faster means of transportation that defy such a small thing as rain.

Before you can stand up, he gracefully takes your hand to kiss the palm, ignoring the smudges of charcoal. He does it the classy way: his lips don’t touch your skin.

“Thank you again for your gift.”

“No, thank you for humoring me. I hope I’ll see you soon!”

Oh, he thinks, you have no idea how ‘soon’ can become ‘now’.

[theegyal]

When I Was Your Man [Annie x Smoke]

⚠️: Angst, Betrayal, Depression, near-death experience, breeding kink sex, child loss mention, grief

Part 7

"Elijah..." she whispered. One word. But it held every piece of her breaking heart.

The air in the cabin turned to poison. That single, whispered word, "Elijah," was a blade that gutted Smoke clean, leaving him hollowed out and bleeding

He opened his mouth. Closed it. There was nothing he could say she ain't already read in his face.

Anaya took one step back like she felt the tension cracking the porch in half. "I ain't mean no trouble," she stammered, voice tiny. "I—I just couldn't step in the kitchen so—gotta go."

Annie ain't even look at her, as Anaya disappeared under the sunlights.

Her eyes stayed on Smoke. Voice shaking like a child trying not to cry. "You... you fucked me... with that in your pocket?"

Smoke stepped forward, jaw working, hands twitching. "Bunny—"

"Don't Bunny me."

Her voice snapped like a whip. Her arms clenched tight around her belly like she was holding herself together from the inside out.

"I let you in...again...Elijah," she whispered, "in my bed, in my bones... and you done already bought the damn block out from under me?"

He stepped forward again, slow. "It wasn't like that—"

"What it was then?" she bit back, tears fallin' hot and quiet. "Some way to cage me? Own what you think you lost?"

"I wanted to protect you."

Lie. He wanted to punish her for being brave. Independent.

"You wanted to control me."

Her chest was heaving now. That strong body of hers trembling. Not from rage but grief.

"You done made me feel again," she said with a broken smile "Made me trust again... just to remind me I ain't nothin' but some toy to you"

Smoke looked like the wind got knocked out his lungs. He didn't move. Didn't know how to fix what he broke.

Annie's knees buckled.

She caught the doorframe with one hand, but the other flew to her mouth as a sob tore out of her chest so loud it near rattled the porch glass. She crumpled slow, her body couldn't carry the weight no more.

She looked up, eyes wide and watery like a toddler who done been told Santa ain't real, the kind of grief that come when the lie been sweet and long believed.

"I'm a damn fool," she choked, shaking her head, "God, Elijah—I was so damn stupid..."

She beat her fist once into her chest. Not hard, just enough to make the ache physical. "I knew better. I knew what you were. But I let you back in. I let you..."

Her face twisted as she let out a piercing cry that sounded like it come from the soles of her feet. "I thought maybe... maybe you came back to rebuild what we lost. Not to take what little I built after you left!"

Ouch. That blow hit the right spot.

Smoke stood there, mouth open, chest rising, falling, like he couldn't find enough air to fill his lungs.

"You ever loved me, Elijah?" she demanded suddenly, tears and snot mixing on her face  "Ever? Or it always been 'bout what I could give you? My pussy? My protection? My love?"

He let out few words.

She didn't let him finish.

"No," she breathed,heavily "Don't you lie. Not now. Not when I done bled my whole damn soul in your dirty hands."

She sucked her teeth, choking on the next words. "You know what it's like... watchin' the man you love walk out without lookin' back? Carryin' his brother, carryin' his gun, carryin' everything but you?" She paused, gathering pieces of strength "You know how hard is it to feel yo child rotting in your womb? The pain of burying ya daughter with ha brown skin pale as snowy night ? Ya know ? The despair of goin' thru all of these...alone"

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, trying to gather herself, but the truth was spilling and wouldn't stop. "Ya r'member when you left? I ain't eat for weeks. Couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe." She broke apart, snot leaking from her nose "Eli You ain't even told me bye."

Smoke's fists clenched at his sides.

Tears smeared down her cheeks, fast and ugly. "I had to scrub greasy floors at night just to keep the lights on in that damn restaurant. Sold food out the back door 'cause I couldn't pay no license. Slept on flour sacks I carried all the day by myself"

He was such a jerk. Smoke had no idea of what she went through.

Hearing her talk about her miseries punched hard in his stomach.

"I scraped together what I could," she continued, teeth grit, shoulders shaking. "got that lil kitchen up runnin' by myself. You hear me? I paid rent on that place and this house. Built somethin' wit' these hands." Annie showed her palms.

Her voice cracked again, high and trembling. "All while you was up in Chicago wit' Stack, smokin', hustlin' and livin' good." Annie clenched her fists "I was down here... fighting. Just to stay above water."

Smoke's lips parted, but could produce no sounds. His eyes swam and he didn't dare to blink.

"I waited on you, every days, nights...Elijah, I waited seven damn years. Like an idiot. Waited, prayed and hoped you'd walk through that door, telling me your departure was a mistake. And now you here. Stabbing me, making me realize I ain't nothin' but a cunt to you."

Smoke's expression turned painfully ugly, as if she done punching him.

He wanted to cut her off, to shout that she was wrong. That she mattered. That she wasn't just a hole to fill. The scumbag wasn't her—it was him.

He didn't even know which gods to pray to, just for her to forgive him. Again.

Annie voice broke into a whisper, bitter as bile. "Well, congratulations. You won."

He won? No—no. He didn't want it anymore. This war was futile, he should've known better than to pour fire into it.

Without realizing, hot tears slipped down Smoke's wide, still eyes. No whimper. No sobs. No wailing. Just him staring at the wreck of her—what was left of the woman who would've gave everything to make him happy.

A monster. That's what he was.

His heart felt torn open inside his ribcage, a knot in his throat, and the butterflies in his stomach long gone.

He had no excuses, no explanation worthy.

Annie stood, carefully and shaking, wiping her face with the sleeve of her robe like she ain't care no more what she looked like. Her eyes were glassy, red-rimmed, but dry now. She closed the entry door and turned back to him.

"I can't play no more," she said. "I don't got it in me."

Then, with the smallest, saddest smile he ever seen on her face she hummed

"Thank you, Elijah. For remindin' me what I'm really worth."

Smoke stumbled forward like a man gut-shot. "Annie..."

Useless, she walked past him, near the bathroom.

He remained there, every breath in his chest choked off. His eyes were red. Rivers flowed down his face but he didn't feel them.

He looked down at his hands. Hands that had held her just hours ago. That had touched her like she was sacred.

He wanted to call after her. Fall to his knees. Tear out his damn heart and lay it at her feet if it meant she'd look at him like she did yesterday.

But he ain't deserve that no more.

A man who done breaking a woman like this, who could see her cry like that—ain't fit to speak her name.

And still, it left his lips. A prayer he ain't believe he had the right to say.

"Bunny..."

But the only answer was the soft click of the bathroom door closing.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed up Smoke’s throat. Stack. He had to get to Stack. He burst out of the shack, his feet pounding against the damp earth. He jumped in his truck and went to the center town. The morning air was thick and heavy, each breath a struggle as he tight his hand around the steering wheel.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿��˖°╞══✿══

Sweet Mama Kitchen had definitely closed. Stack felt guilty for agreeing to his brother request.

"I just need your signature here son."

He sighed taking up the pen.

Maybe coming back to Delta was a mistake. He should've insisted, convinced his twin to bury Annie forever.

She would've kept her business, her man and everything.

These days, since their return, Smoke was in psychosis.

He fucked the caramel sweetheart to get revenge on Annie

He hired Krystal to corrupt Annie's man

He damn broke Stack neurons to punish him for touching Annie

And now he was depriving Annie of her labor to watch her crawl back to him...

"Nigga dis ain't trenches damn"

Stack complained before crawling in his red car, road to the Lizzie’s.

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Four blocks. Four blocks that felt like a hundred miles. He burst into Lizzie's, taking the stairs two at a time, his lungs burning.

He found Stack sitting by the window, calmly lighting his cigarette, the very picture of indifference satisfaction. "It's done," Smoke stated, chest heaving, leaning against the doorframe for support. "The restaurant."

Stack took a slow pull from his cigarette, blowing a smoke ring. A dry, ugly sound left his lips, the same sound he'd made when mocking him about Annie before. "Told ya I'd handle it. Landlord was happy to sell. The whole damn block is ours now". He grinned, a flash of teeth in the dim light. "You wanted her to get a lesson. Consider it done.”

The words hit Smoke like a physical blow. He stared at his brother, at the smug grin that mirrored his own from just hours before, and the full weight of what he’d done crashed down on him.

He hadn’t just bought a building. He’d taken a hammer to the last fragile piece of trust between them. He'd proven her right. He was the same man who had left her seven years ago, the one who brought nothing but ruin. He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up so bad it felt like dying. His gaze fell to his own hands, the knuckles raw from Anders' face, and he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he'd just lost her all over again.

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Back in the shack, the floorboards didn't creak. Annie sat on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. The sobs wouldn't stop. They were ragged, ugly, torn from a place deep inside her that she thought had turned to stone years ago.

For seven years, she had built walls. For seven years, she had been hard, unforgiving, a fortress of her own making. And in one night, he had breached every defense, made her believe in softness again, only to prove that tenderness was a fool's game.

Love was truly a losing hand. And Annie wasn’t a gambling woman.

Finally, the tears ran dry, leaving only a hollow ache. She rose on trembling legs, her reflection in the steamed-up mirror a stranger with swollen eyes and a broken face. She washed herself, scrubbing—violently— her ebony skin raw as if she could erase his touch, his scent, the vestige of his promises.

Then, wrapped in a dry deep black dress, she went to her altars. She didn't pray for dismissive wrath this time, nor for justice.

She laid out the roots—valerian for grief, angelica for strength—and let her fingers work. The familiar motions was a meditation, a desperate attempt to find an anchor in the storm of her emotions.

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Weeks bled into one another. The whole Delta outside Annie’s wooden house faded to a dull, muted gray. The sun rose and set, but it brought no light to her world. She stopped going out. The vibrant herbs in her garden wilted from neglect. Her daughter grave done lost waiting for visits and fresh milk. Her hoodoo shop remained closed, a layer of dust settling on the jars and statues within.

Rumors started in the town, people were wondering what had happened to the root worker.

They whispered.

“Where’s Annie?”

“She gone?”

“Rootwork’s cursed anyway.”

“Witch probably dead.”

No one saw her. Not Anaya. Not the twins. Nobody from Lizzie’s.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The guilt was eating Smoke alive from the inside out. Every day he told himself he’d go to her, and every day shame held him back, a coward twice over.

He heard the talk in town. But it was the silence from her side of the river that was louder.

One night, fear pushed past the shame. He couldn’t sit still anymore. Didn’t care if it made him a creep, spying on her. Smoke needed to see his Annie.

He crept through the woods to her cabin, the single candle she always kept lit was dark. He peered through the crooked slats of a wooden wall, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Annie was curled in her bed, a small shape under a thin blanket. She was still full-figured but the pounds had melted away. Her glorious coiled hair, usually braided or picked out into a proud afro, was matted and lifeless.

Her face, turned towards him in the faint moonlight, was gaunt, her eyes vacant, staring at nothing.

As he watched, her body suddenly jerked. A violent convulse ran through her.

Fuck—She was having a seizure.

Stack used to get them back from the trenches. He knew how brutal they were.

Smoke didn't think. He stormed the porch and kicked the door in, the wood splintering around the lock.

"Annie!"

She didn't respond. She was lost in the fit, her breath coming in ragged, rattling gasps. He scooped her up—she felt terrifyingly light in his arms—and ran back to his truck.

He had to get her to a doctor. He didn’t care what it cost. But here in Delta, healthcare was a luxury denied to people like them.

Smoke didn’t give up regardless. White doctors’ clinics were the only places with a real physician, but doors remained locked.

All his frantic knocks were met with shouted curses, "We ain't seein' no niggers here! Get on 'fore I call the sheriff!"

Smoke could have shot that fucker right, on spot but he was running off time. He drove back to the shack, Annie's spams gradually subsiding into a weak quivers in his arms.

He carried her back to the bed, his own tears falling hot and fast onto her face. He was helpless.

The man who done buying a block, who ended lives with a gun, couldn’t stop the woman he loved from fading away in his arms.

Smoke held Annie close, rocking her gently as if she were a child.

"Annie," he wept, his voice breaking. "Bunny, listen… the kitchen—it’s still yours. I closed it up. Nobody touched it, naw… I paid folks to wash all your things… the pots, plates, and—“ Smoke choked a painful snort “I even painted the back of the buildin’, got little patches o’ land… could plant flowers”He shrieked again, wailing “I was a damn fool… just… just make it ‘til sunrise, baby. I’m beggin’ you. Please. Just hold on ‘til morn’."

He leaned over her, his broad hands quavering as he brushed the sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. Annie’s skin burned beneath his touch. He got up,—for short minutes—grabbed a cold towel from the washbasin in the bathroom and dabbed it gently along her neck, her temples, whispering her name like a prayer.

“Forgive me,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible, heavy with shame. “For all them years… I left you grievin’ all alone. I—”

He swallowed hard, pressing the towel to her chest, trying to cool her.

“Ain’t no explainin’ my cowardice. I was scared… and I hated you. Every time I looked in your eyes, all I saw was that bloody mattress… our baby pale, her little hands too damn still. Yo’ tears. And them words—‘Asé gave… and Asé took. Fuck you was sayin’ that for ?”

His voice cracked. He lowered his head beside hers, tears slipping down and soaking into the sheets.

“I—I sure dunno shit about Asé. But—”Smoke lifted his eyes up to the ceiling—as if his stare bypassed the wooden roofs and directly communicate with the sky above “Can you not take her too ?” He stuttered “P—please ? I—If yo—you want a soul, deprive me of mine. Imma give it to you”

Smoke recentered his attention to his wife, rocking her gently, clutching her to his chest, her breath a shallow flutter against his flesh.

“Kept tellin’ myself I stayed gone for you. Said I was poison. But truth is—I was scared. Shittin’ on myself at the thought o’ facin’ you. Facin’ what I turned into. I wasn’t yo Elijah no more.”

He ran his fingers through her hair again, soft and limp now, lifeless.

“Then I come back draggin’ chains. Thought I could fix shit wit’ money—real-ass U.S. motherfuckin’ dollars. Thought I could show you I changed… that I finally turned into the kinda man can hold yo’ eyes without seein’ ghosts hidin’ behind yo’ face.”

He let out a bitter laugh, broken and joyless. “You was right. I ain’t no diff’rent. Still Smoke on Elijah. Thought breakin’ Anders down might change how you look at me.”

Her fingers twitched faintly. He took her hand, kissed her knuckles, voice low and shaking.

“I ain’t gonna leave again, Annie. I swear on my blood. Even if you can’t stand the sight of me. Even if you never speak to me again. I’ll stay close. Gon’ watch over you. Gon’ be the shadow outside your door if that’s what it takes. You’ll never be alone again, bunny.”

She hummed faintly “Elijah—“.

The sound was not quite conscious, her eyes were shut.

“Annie—“ He replied lovingly.

Smoke pulled the blanket tighter around her, tucking it close. “I don’ deserve no second chance. Hell, I barely deserved the first one you done gave me. But you—aye, you still breathin’. You still here. That means somethin’. To me. To everyone ‘round here.”

Smoke pressed down his forehead to hers, and hushed through gritted teeth,

“If I could give you my heart and make it beat in yo’ chest, I would. If I could trade places wit’ you right now, I’d do it.”

“I could not…”

Her lips barely moved. “…punish myself again by not feelin’ your kiss every morning.”

His breath caught. He shifted closer, terrified she’d stop speaking.

“So keep your heart, Elijah,” she murmured. “I ain’t strong enough to hold it.”

Smoke froze, wrecked. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, voice hoarse. He wanted to argue. To beg.

She hadn’t given his heart back out of bitterness. She was returning it.

She was releasing him.

And somehow, that hurt worse than hate ever could.

“No, baby… don’ send me away. Don’ give me back. I don’ want it back. Let me be yours, even if it hurts.”

There was a long pause—quiet enough to hear the candle sputter in its jar across the room.

Then, her lips parted, dried and tired.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as dusk, and the corners of her mouth curved into a slow, aching smile. It was the kind of smile she used to give him when they laid tangled on summer mornings, the light filtering through muslin curtains, her fingers tracing idle circles on his chest.

It held no forgiveness. Just recognition.

And love, buried under layers of ash.

Her hand came up, featherlight, and touched his cheek. “Elijah…” she murmured, her voice a breath of silk. “I never stopped being yours…”

Smoke’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He leaned into her touch, his lips brushing her palm before trailing kisses down the inside of her wrist. He laid her hand gently against his collarbone, then slid his own fingers under her chin, lifting her face to his. Their eyes locked on.

“I’m right here,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “Don’t leave me alone in this body. Make me feel like a woman again. Make me remember I ain’t just grief, Elijah.”

He let his lips hover over hers, noses brushing, breath warm between them. Her mouth opened beneath his, watery and craving.

The kiss deepened, needier. His tongue tasted the memory of her, the salt of dried tears, the ache of years lost.

Annie whimpered softly, her hands finding the hem of his shirt, her grip weak but wanting.

“Don’t… stop,” she whispered, breath catching. Her voice was still rasped, frail from the seizure, but her body glided into him like it remembered every night they used to drown in each other.

He disobeyed, pulled back only long enough to look in her eyes. “Tell me whatcha ya need, Bunny.”

“You,” she said. “Everywhere.”

His answer was not in words, but in motion. Smoke moved with a reverence that bordered on prayer, his touch a desperate plea for absolution.

He eased the thin strap of her black dress from one shoulder, then the other, his gaze locked on hers, asking for permission with his eyes at every stage. The fabric pooled around her waist.

In the faint moonlight, her body was a landscape he had once known by heart but now navigated as a stranger. The fever had left a sheen of sweat on her obsidian skin, and he licked it from her collarbone.

He saw the way the pounds had fallen away, the softness of her belly now gentler, the proud curve of her hips still a religion. It was a testament to the grief that had consumed her, and a fresh wave of guilt crashed through him.

"You're beautiful," he rasped, his voice thick. "God, Annie. You always been da damn most beautiful thing I ever seen."

He kissed the slope of her breast, his lips tracing the swell of it before his mouth closed over her brown nipple. She gasped, her back arching, a sound of pure, unadulterated feeling.

He suckled gently, then with more purpose, his hand sliding down her side, mapping the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip.

He spread his palm flat against her stomach, a place of shared, sacred memory.

His breath hitched, and a tear he didn't know was coming fell onto her skin. "Here, where she grew," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Our little girl..."

Annie’s own tears began to fall, silent and hot. Not tears of sorrow, but of release. Of being seen in her entirety—mother, lover, woman.

"Elijah..."

He kissed the path of her tears before his lips moved lower, across the soft plane of her belly. He nudged her thighs apart, settling between them. He looked up at her, at her face awash in moonlight, her eyes wide and trusting. He dipped his head, his tongue finding her core.

She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, clutching him. He didn’t stop. He worshipped her pussy, brushing wet touches on her folds with a desperate, single-minded focus.

He was erasing the pain, the neglect, the loneliness. He was reminding her body how to feel pleasure. He tasted her essence, juice, the unique flavor of her, a taste he'd starved for.

He felt the quivers start deep inside her, fluttering her walls. Smoke watched as her knuckles went white in his hair, and he drove her over the edge with a devoted flick of his tongue on her clit.

She shattered with a sob, her body convulsing with release.

While she was still shaking, her breath coming in ragged pants, he moved up, shedding his own clothes in a single, fluid motion. He positioned himself between her thick thighs, looking down into the mirror of her brown eyes.

"Annie," he breathed, a final plea.

She gave him a barely perceptible nod, her legs parting for him, an invitation home—ready to be taken, to be filled.

He pushed himself forward, the head of his cock pressing against her slick folds. She was wet and ready for him, her own body betraying a need that defied her conscious mind.

He slid inside her with one slow, deliberate push, feeling her walls open and stretch around his dick. The fit was perfect, tight, and familiar. A homecoming. Both of them groaned, a single sound of pained relief shared between two bodies becoming one.

He sank into her to the hilt, stretching her, loading the aching emptiness she’d carried for years, claiming her womb with every inch buried deep inside her cunt.

For a moment, they just stayed like that, motionless, his hips pressed flush against hers, simply feeling the profound rightness of being joined again.

He pulled back, almost all the way out, before thrusting, ramming deeper again. A slick, squelching wet sound filled the room, the sound of their union.

Annie’s eyes rolled back. He began to move with a punishing rhythm. Sex with her stopped being like this ��� since he came back, it was always rough, fast and brutal as if they were paying the change to one another.

But right now, it was different no— It was their original playground : Loving, caring, sensual and slow. It wasn’t just sex —it was an exorcism.

Every thrust was a reclamation. You’re fucking mine— it screams.

He gripped her hips, tilting them up to meet his, penetrating her deeper, bursting his seed in her uterus, urging her to swell and take him fully.

He watched her face, the flutter of her eyelashes, the way her lips parted as she moaned his name.

"Elijah..."

The pace quickened, driven by years of pent-up longing. This was the friction he remembered, the heat, the all-consuming way she groped him, her body quivering and yielding, ready to be bred.

He looked down at his engorged and veiny flesh buried deep inside hers.

The memory of their loss, of the reason for their seven years gap, surfaced— not as grief, but as a desperate, primal urge.

Smoke sloped down, his lips caressing her ear, his growl ragging against her skin. "I wanna feel my baby growin' in you again, Annie. Let me fill you up. Spoiled your womb with my semen. Let me give you what the universe took from us."

A gut-wrenching sob tore from her throat. It wasn't a protest. It was surrender.

She wrapped her legs high around his waist, locking him in, pulling him impossibly deeper. It was the only answer she could give.

He took it as the permission it was, his control shattering. He pumped into her, hard and fast, his own guttural groans mingling with her cries, each thrust driving deeper, impaling, impregnating. He was chasing a release, but also a beginning.

He felt her climax seize him, her inner walls clenching tight around his cock, and it was all the undoing he needed. With a last, grunting thrust that buried him as low as he could go, he roared her name and flooded her with his sperm, his body shuddering with the force of it, pumping until his balls went dry and soggy.

He collapsed onto her. Their sweat-slicked bodies were tangled together, limbs intertwined, their hearts hammering in a frantic, unsynchronized rhythm. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent

For minutes, there was only the sound of their lagged breathing in the quiet shack.

Smoke shifted his weight off her but didn't pull out, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her flush against his side. He kissed her temple, his lips lingering on her damp skin.

He was terrified of what he’d said, of the hope he had so recklessly unleashed. ‘Another child’

Annie stirred, her fingers tracing an idle pattern on his chest, right over his heart.

"Elijah," she mouthed to his skin. Her voice was laced with a profound weariness and disbelief.

"I'm here, Bunny," he responded.

She kept her silence for a lasting moment. He could feel the tumult in her brain, the weight of his words settling in the space between them.

A baby. It was the one thing they had created together, and the one thing that had destroyed them.

"I don't know what this is," she finally said, her voice quiet, almost lost in the stillness of the room. "I don't know what we are now."

Her words were a punch to his gut, but he understood. He had shattered their relationship, love and trust. And one night of good sex couldn't glue all the pieces back together. Especially not now.

"This is us, Annie," he tried to ease her confusion, his tone raw with sincerity. "We're just... us. Messed up. Obstinate and in love." He pressed a kiss to her hair.

Annie smiled then shifted, turning in his arms until her face was buried in his chest.

“Sweet Mama Kitchen, you— you— gimme my food spot back, Elijah?”

“I only know how to burn the rice an’ let the beans rot. Don’ reckon I ever had no luck—but I know a woman, a real good cook, who done made the finest meals I ever put in my mouth…” He hummed the skin close to her ear “An’ she layin’ here with me now. Sure, you got yo’ restaurant back, Bunny. It ain’t never been mine. I’m so sorr—“

Annie headed up her face, cut him off by sealing his lips with feverish hunger. “Stop all that apologizin’, ain’t no use livin’ in regret, Elijah.”

A mischievous veil passed over her eyes. Annie dropped her fingers around his waist and tickled him.

“Damn woman—“ He laughed heartily “S-Stop—Ha ha ha—argh”

“You gon’ wash the dishes without no check, Sir. That’s yo punishment for bein’ corny an’ meanie!” she squinted.

“Yes Ma’am. Absolutely” He answered in a strict military manner. It made her laugh.

God he adores her laughter.

“Keep showing yo teeth like dat and I gon eat you up whole again”

She spurred a little gulp and anchored her face in his chest again.

Smoke held his wife in his arms, a woman who felt both like his salvation and his damnation.

Tag list :

@thelifeoflagab @juniooox @tadjoa @shamansha @brownskincheyenne @freelandgoddess @Ib-xci @blaqgirlmagicyallcantstandit @iammyownlover @stormynovashambler @summrsovrinterlude @prettygirl2800 @puffmamaa @harleycativy @jasssdee1 @itstayleigh @queenofklonnie22 @bigjh @tadjoa @Isc72 @forzaferrariii , @blxckberrie @avidreader73 @partylikemajima @lolalikesgames @ultralspblr @post-woke @jasssdee1 @lizbehave @kindofaintrovert @coolfoodrunworld-blog @rkiiives @underated345-blog

A/N : The next chapter will be the last one. An epilogue of When I Was Your Man.

It’ll be out next Sunday ! I generally write during my break and at sleep time (cause I never really sleep lol )

[inspirationalucky]

EPIC: THE ITHACA SAGA PROMPTS & STARTERS.

of course, go ahead and change names/pronouns/words/etc as necessary to fit your muse or the situation! please do not add more lines/prompts to this post!

The Challenge

"I'm supposed to choose a suitor."

"They don't know that every night I unthread all the work I've done."

"I'd rather lie than allow them to think they've won."

"I never thought that I'd resort to this."

"I don't know much longer I'll last"

"Could it be some kind of sign that my world is all about to change?"

"Is it finally time for the challenge I arranged?"

"Though I never thought that it would come to this, just know I'll be here buying you time."

"Time is fleeting, it's running out."

"Time to be the man of the house."

"Let the arrow fly once you know that your aim is true."

"I'd rather die than grow old without the best of you."

"Though I never thought that this would be the lengths we go for love, I would not have it any other way."

"Though I never thought that it would end like this, just know I'll be here waiting."

Hold Them Down

"Screw this competition. We've been here for hours."

"No more delays."

"Can't you guys see we're being played?"

"This is how they hold us down while we slowly age."

"Where in the hell is our pride and our rage?"

"Here and now there's a chance for action."

"We can take control."

"Burn it down to ashes!"

"Channel the fire inside your soul!"

"Haven't you noticed who's missing?"

"I heard today he comes back to town."

"I say we wait 'till he arrives."

"When he docks his ship we can breach it."

"Let us leave now, today we can strike"

"Hold him down while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones."

"Cut him down into tiny pieces."

"When the crown wonders where the prince is, only the ocean and I will know."

Odysseus

"For twenty years I've suffered every punishment and pain."

"I come back and find my palace desecrated, sacked like Troy!"

"I... have had... enough."

"Somewhere in the shadows lurks an agile, deadly foe"

"We have the advantage! We've the numbers and the might."

"You don't understand it, this man plans for every fight!"

"Keep your head down! He's aiming for the torches!"

"Our weapons... they're missing!"

"He's using the darkness to hide his approaches."

"We're empty-handed, up against an archer."

"Our only chance is to strike him in the darkness."

"We know these halls! The odds can be tilted!"

"You think I don't know my own palace? I built it!"

"You've destroyed the serpent's head. Now the rest of us are no longer a threat!"

"Forgive us instead so that no more blood is shed."

"Let's have open arms instead!"

"Damn, he's more cunning than I assumed."

"While we were busy plotting, he hid our weapons inside this room."

"I find it hard to believe that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked."

"Now that we have armed ourselves, let's make the bastard rot."

"Throw down those weapons and I ensure you'll be spared."

"After seeing what the King will do to us? We wouldn't dare."

"I don't want to hurt you, but trust me, I've come prepared."

"Your very presence has doomed the king, young prince. We don't fight fair."

"We've got company, and he's made a grave mistake!"

"There's a chance for us to win."

"We can still defeat the King if we all attack the Prince!"

"Capture him! He's our greatest chance."

"Make the King obey our command, and if he won't I'll break the kid's hands."

"Mercy? Mercy!?"

"My mercy has long since drowned. It died to bring me home."

"As long as you're around, my family's fate is left unknown."

"You plotted to kill my son!"

"All of you are going to die!"

"You have filled my heart with hate."

"All of you who have done me wrong? This will be your fate!"

I Can't Help But Wonder

"All my life, I'd have died to meet you."

"I thought about your name so much it hurts."

"For twenty years, I dreamt of how I'd greet you."

"Now you're here, and I can't find the words."

"All my life, I'd have died to know you."

"I never could outgrow you."

"I can't help but wonder what your world must be."

"All this time I've wondered if you'd embrace me as your own."

"For so long I've felt alone."

"Look how much you've grown!"

"Oh, my boy, sweetest joy I've known"

"Twenty years ago, I held you in my arms."

"Oh, how time has flown."

"I used to say I'd capture wind and sky for you."

"I held you in my arms, prepared to die for you."

"I can only wonder what your world has been."

"All I've ever wanted was to reunite with my own."

"For twenty years we've wandered, but today you're not alone."

"I'm finally home!"

"You were never one for hellos."

"I can't help but wonder what this world could be if we all held each other with a bit more empathy."

"I can't help but feel like I led you astray."

"What if there's a world where we don't have to live this way?"

"If that world exists it's far away from here. It's one I'll have to miss."

"I've got one endeavor: there's a girl I have to see"

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?

"Is it you? Have my prayers been answered?"

"Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?"

"You look different... your eyes look tired."

"Your frame is lighter, and your smile torn."

"Is it really you, my love?"

"I am not the man you fell in love with."

"I am not your kind and gentle husband, and I am not the love you knew before."

"Would you fall in love with me again if you knew all I've done?"

"Would you love me all the same?"

"I know that you've been waiting for love."

"What kind of things did you do?"

"I hurt more lives than I can count on my hands, but all of that was to bring me back to you."

"I had built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat."

"Do you realize what you have asked me?"

"Only my husband knew that, so I guess that makes him you!"

"I will fall in love with you over and over again."

"I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been, you're mine."

"Don't tell me you're not the same person!"

"You're always my husband, and I've been waiting for you."

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

#One - @ghostlytimetravelballoon suggested:

Because macaque got tired of Wukong never listening to him, wukong got tired of macaque and reader questioning him, and reader got tired of Wukong never listening and macaque bringing others into their arguments

@chibifox88 suggested:

#Two - Maybe the duo could have been either unintentionally or intentionally saying mean or insensitive things about humans since they hate humans and most likely also looked down on Reader since she was a human as well. And when she couldn’t take it anymore she snapped and also said some very hurtful words that couldn’t be taken back in her blind furry or pent up rage. Which would also make them literally refusing to even acknowledge her when Reader was trying to tell them about the cubs make more sense.

#Three - Maybe a cub had died during an attack on the mountain and they each blamed one of the others for its death. Like they could have done something different, why wasn’t he faster, why didn’t he shadow portal it away. Things like that and just ending up with them being unable to look at each other so the all pulled away in grief and never really looked back till that fateful day of the cubs making

#Four - Since we all know that this is a dead dove don’t eat story and well the duo aren’t the best of people or partners in the most like healthy way. What if they Wukong lost control of his anger in the middle of a verbal fight with Macaque and throw something at Reader accidentally hurting her. And having to much pride to Amit he did wrong he blames his actions on Macaque for making him anger. Macaque of course tells Wukong to get ahold of himself and apologize for hurting Reader and that his actions are on him alone. Reader was refusing to forgive Wukong (rightfully so) since he was only giving half asses apologies and Macaque could get upset at her and they get into a verbal fight themselves. With Macaque saying that’s just how Wukong is and there’s no changing him and Reader saying that’s she refuses to live and be with someone who could even accidentally in their anger hurt her. And since Wukongs actions drove away Reader Macaque couldn’t salvage the relationship blames Wukong and also leaves him.

#Five - What if Macaque kills someone Reader had gotten close to as a human friend. She hadn’t known that her so called friend was a spy trying to tear down the kingdom they had built. So of course Macaque kills them with out thought. And unfortunately Reader walks in on the act and let’s just say it was a very gory site to see. She’s upset that he one killed her friend and two they died in an horrific way. Macaque did try to tell her that they were a spy but she refuses to believe him. Then Wukong comes into the room sees what happened and asked if Macaque was finished with what he asked him to do. Reader whirls on Wukong asking if he ordered Macaque to kill her friend and without missing a beat Wukong agrees. Reader is furious at the two and refuses to talk to them not only their blatant disregard for life but also the fact that they can kill a human in that way for pretty much no reason is baffling and she refuses to believe apart of it. The boys blame each other for pushing reader away saying it was the others fault that she had to see that. They are not sorry for the killing of course lol.

@vampirnico suggested:

#Six - Okay image if wukong and macaque’s argument, the one where macaque killed him, either reader got tired of their arguing and told if they dint stop then shes done and then she left because they kept doing it, or wukong does kill macaque and reader leaves because shes pissed at wujong for what he did

🍄 Anon Suggested:

#Seven - Hi hi!! It’s been a while, hm? 🍄Anon has been very tired from work and such, and ended up not asking much of anything. However, the divorce AU got my attention!

How I think they would split up? Well, I think something went wrong perhaps when it comes to their relationship, and it happened to be a final straw. Building up each and every mess up, perhaps the reader is the one to slowly have that building up dislike, and it just overflows and causes a divorce between the reader and the monkey bois.

I know it sounds basic, but imagine food being stolen that was being saved. Petty arguments about something. Stuff that by themself isn’t that bad, but building up over time and it just overflows into that divorce. Maybe reader feeling unloved due to not being heard.

More from @chibifox88 !!

#Eight - they have different ideas of parenting . Macaque believes that the cubs need to learn to fight and wield their magic as soon as they are able to hold something. Wukong believes that they also need to be trained only a little bit older like Tenish year old. Reader believes that they should have the choose of weather or not they want to learn how to fight. Macaque and Wukong argue that it is the duty of the heir to their kingdom to be able to fight and protect this land, but Reader wants her children to have the freedom to choose their own path in life. So until they come to a middle ground between the three she refuses to have children. She even stopped drinking anything she didn’t get herself to make sure they didn’t use the mother-mother river on her. Unfortunately they kept fighting and bickering until they split all three unwilling to compromise.

#Nine - Reader is felt smothered. She can’t do anything or go anywhere that’s not within the duos line of sight. So she left

#Ten - Reader never wanted to be a stay at home mother. She wanted to start her own business or do something outside of the house. Having been held back by a time when she wasn’t allowed to even think about doing anything else but stay home, she wants to step out into the more modern era now that she’s immortal and do what she couldn’t even dream of as a little girl. Wukong and Macaque felt differently they wanted her to stay home and raise the children. Where it was safe and they could keep an eye on her. They fought constantly about this. Going around in circles for years. Reader having finally had enough leaves them. They blame each other of making her leave and letting her get away and also end up going separate ways as well.

#Eleven - Reader as a human is constantly changing. Humans had short lives so they were forced to adapt quickly or die. Reader never lost that habit even when she became immortal. Being able to go with the flow as easily as a leaf in water. The duo having been long lived demons before they became immortal were slow to change in anyway. Wukong felt like he couldn’t cope with every new year Reader having learned a new skill or so easily changing her mind. Macaque felt like he wasn’t able to keep up with her . Their people loved her for how fast she’s implemented things to improve the community changes that took years under the duo took months when she became queen. At first they loved it as well. But after many many years they started feeling inadequate to her. How could demons become weaker to a human? So they maybe unintentionally at first started to undermine her or insult her. Trying to make themselves feel better about the power shift in the dynamic. Of course the other monkey would point out what the other one said and how it was problematic to do that to their wife. Slowly but surely they chipped away the trust and love they had for each other until they literally couldn’t look each other in the face without feeling shame and regret for their own actions 

The last one is from ME!

#Twelve - The monkey duo and Reader were happily married for ages. They all loved and cherished each other more than anything else.

But as time went on Wukong became more and more obsessed gained more power and immortality. You tried to talk him out of it let him just stay and be happy with what he had. But he would say that as a human you wouldn't understand, hurting you even more.

You tried to ask Macaque for help and at first he talked to Wukong about it but also soon decided that he also wanted more power. You had no way of stopping them when they left.

You had waited for several hundred years before finally leaving the mountain you once called home. You left and after years of travel and loneliness you had found them. Only they had changed, they had become enemies and they were more interested in killing each other than talking. And soon enough you also ended up in one of their fights.

Inevitably seperating all three of you and making you go your seperate ways.

* Sorry, I am like hours behind. I got distracted with some OG world building for something completely different before falling to bed.

[oizysian]

Part III. Irreplaceable

I Set the World on Fire masterlist

Word count: 1.6k

“Why haven’t you sent Maximoff your demands yet, Natasha?”

“I know that Wanda is suffering. Right now, that’s enough.”

“How is that enough?” Yelena snapped. “You could have all of her assets, her businesses - all of her power.”

“I have what matters most.”

“To her! Not to you!”

Natasha finally raised her head to acknowledge her sister, her expression unchanging.

“Y/N matters more to me than owning everything Wanda has.”

“And what about owning Wanda? That was your goal. That was the whole point of this!”

“Owning Wanda would be a bonus.” Natasha admitted. “But having Y/N and knowing Wanda is suffering, unable to do anything for her, is enough for now.”

Natasha walked over to her sister and placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly in assurance.

“We will have her in time. We’ll have it all. Then the Romanoff’s will be the most powerful family in New York.”

Natasha began to walk off, but Yelena’s words stopped her in her tracks.

“I can’t wait to get my hands on her for what she did to us.” She growled.

“And for what she did to Clint. I haven’t forgotten.” Natasha said softly.

“It seems that with Y/N you’ve disregarded everything else.”

“Not everything, sestra. Wanda and the empire she’s built will be mine.”

•

Wanda couldn’t control it for another minute longer.

She threw her glass against the wall, watching as it smashed into tiny bits and the contents spilled all along the now damaged surface.

In a rage, she grabbed armfuls of paperwork scattered among her desk and tossed it all on the ground.

She kicked and punched and scratched at everything she could get her hands on, not only destroying everything around her, but slowly destroying herself.

“If I hadn’t been such a bitch …” she grumbled to herself, her fingers trailing along the bloodstain on the wall from her self-inflicted injuries. “Now I lost her. Just like …” she let out a sob. “Just like Pietro.”

She slid down the wall, sitting amongst her scattered papers and broken furniture. What had she done? What would become of Y/N now?

Tears stained her cheeks, the bags under her eyes evidence that she hadn’t been sleeping or taking care of herself in the slightest. She searched day and night for Y/N, never having any luck, always a step behind Natasha.

She brought her hands up to her face, blood mixing with her tears as she rubbed her eyes.

Her men had done what they thought they should’ve; they destroyed, robbed, and even burned down numerous of Natasha’s well known owned establishments. Wanda hadn’t ordered it, but she certainly didn’t tell them to stop. So it had been weeks, months even that they were out destroying things and she was searching fruitlessly for Y/N.

“I need to pull myself together.” She said softly, looking down at her wounded hands. “I have to - for Y/N.”

Her knuckles were scraped and bruised, her nails left half moon cuts on her palms, and she suspected she might’ve even broken one of her fingers while she went around destroying the room.

“Y/N needs me … she needs me to be strong.”

With a groan, she lifted herself up, bracing her weight on whatever was left of her desk. She panted softly, her tears still staining her pink cheeks as she calmed herself down. She would find Y/N and she would get her back.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Wanda?” Dimitri opened the door slightly, peeking in before stepping fully inside.

“What is it, Dimi?” Her voice was low and her accent was thick. She was tired.

“Your proof.” He said, holding up his phone. “I got it.”

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with hope.

“Get him.”

•

“Why won’t you eat, detka? Are you sick?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

I looked away from her. I didn’t want to eat. I didn’t want to live. I had given myself to a monster to save the woman I loved and I was in hell. Natasha wasn’t cruel to me, not really. As a matter of fact, sometimes she was rather … loving. She seemed to care about me but I couldn’t trust her. She was only keeping me here to hurt Wanda.

She reached over to me and grabbed my chin gently, turning my face to look at her.

“When will you stop thinking about her? Haven’t I treated you right? Taken care of you?”

“Yes,” my voice was small. “But …”

She moved herself closer to me, mere inches of space between our faces as she looked into my eyes.

“Wanda didn’t treat you right. I do. All you did was fight and say hateful things towards each other. Why do you yearn for that?”

How could she know that? Her words swam around in my head, the reality of the situation hitting me like a ton of bricks. How did she know so much about our relationship?

The door burst open and I turned my attention to whoever just entered the room like a bat out of hell. She continued to stare at me, uncaring about the intrusion.

“They know.”

When I realized who had entered the room, I went pale, my body stiffening with realization.

“That sounds like a personal problem, doesn’t it, Leo?”

He looked panicked, and I had never seen such a look on his face in my life. But what was he doing here? What was going on?

“They know everything. She’ll kill me -”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that,” she turned her head to face him. “Before you helped me kidnap her girlfriend, hm?”

“Leo…” I whispered, unable to accept what I was hearing.

He looked at me, flinching slightly at the look of betrayal on my face, and turned his attention back to Natasha.

“You have to protect me!”

“I don’t have to do anything.” She said with a smile.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my head on them as I tried to accept what I had just been thrust into. Leo had betrayed me, betrayed Wanda. No, she wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

Natasha ran her hand up and down my back, the sound of the fabric of my shirt ruffling the only sound in the silent room.

“Why don’t we let Y/N decide what happens to you?”

I could almost hear the grin that was plastered on her face at the situation. I didn’t even bother to look up at them. I shook my head.

“What was that?” She asked tauntingly, stroking my hair.

“Send him to Wanda.” I whispered softly and she returned her attention to Leo.

“Looks like your time is up, buddy. You were a great help.”

“You-you can’t do this to me! Not after what I’ve done!”

“Your usefulness has come and gone. Maybe you should’ve thought this through.”

I finally looked up at him, his face completely white and his body shaking. He feared Wanda - as he should. He had been one of her most trusted men, one of her oldest friends, and he betrayed her. Wanda had killed people for less.

Without another word, he turned and ran out, probably planning his escape from both women if he was smart. I stared at the opened door as Natasha continued to touch me mindlessly, stroking my hair, caressing my back. She always had to be touching me in some way.

“I’ll let Wanda take care of him. He’s nothing to me.”

“Why did you let him believe differently?”

I shifted my eyes towards her and she was still smiling.

“My offer to him was money, a position of power … respect. If he believed that he was irreplaceable, that was his own mistake.” I finally turned to face her. “Nobody is safe in this business.”

“You used him. Just like you’re using me.”

“I’m not using you, printsessa. If I was, would I have kept you alive this long?”

Fear struck me harder than any blow ever could. She was right. If she was just using me as bait or as a tool of revenge, this would’ve been over long ago. This was something else, and that scared me more than anything.

“I take care of what’s mine.” She took one of my hands in hers and brought it up to her lips, kissing my knuckles. “He was never part of my family. Never would be.”

“What am I to you?” I asked shakily, watching her with wide eyes.

“You … are what’s left of my humanity.”

The questions burned my throat but before I could ask she continued to speak.

“Do you know how many there were before you?” I shook my head. “Four. None of them lasted more than a month. But you …” she spoke as she pressed my hand against her cheek. “You’re different. I know now why Wanda kept you so secret.”

“She was ashamed of me. Ashamed to love me.” I said sadly.

“She knew you were special and wanted to keep you all for herself.”

I looked her up and down for a moment before blinking wordlessly. She was being raw and honest with me. Why?

“What do you want from Wanda?”

She licked her lips, her eyes searching mine.

“I want everything. I want everything that she is. I want her.”

I flinched at her words and pulled away from her. Me giving into her meant nothing. It was just another victory for her. She was still going to go after Wanda for whatever reason and my choice to give in or not meant nothing to her.

“You were her everything and now you’re mine. If you had resisted me, this may have been a more painful experience for you.” She laughed. “But definitely not for me.”

She picked up the plate of food that had been completely ignored and stood from the bed.

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Remember that, printsessa.”

•

@marvelogic @casquinhaa @mathxa @oh-thats-cute @ornorr @milkeeteaa @souanick @nothanksbye07 @romanoff101 @dracarys8287 @marvelwomen-simp @tigerlillyruiz @lzzysfreak @whatdoyoudo12 @mrsrushman

[sanders1665]

I was just sitting there—slouched back in my well-worn recliner that groans like an old friend every time I shift my weight. The YouTube algorithm was doing its chaotic dance, throwing suggestions at me like a blindfolded dealer at a card table. I was on a search for something good—music that hums beneath the noise of the world. The kind that realigns your thoughts and makes you see through the fog.

And then, mid-scroll, a simple, heavy thought landed in my lap like a stone:

We don’t need any of them.

Not out of rebellion or rage, but reason. I was thinking of government, religion, and education—the big institutional trinity. The three ancient powers that claim to shape our lives, yet in truth, have boxed in the human spirit more often than they’ve lifted it.

Take government. At its best, it's supposed to manage infrastructure and safeguard the rights of the people. But what it’s become is something else entirely—a bloated abstraction filled with careerists who speak in platitudes while quietly serving systems of control. The endless red tape, the shallow virtue-signaling, the illusion of choice… it's exhausting. Most of us live our lives in spite of government, not because of it. The good they claim is usually built by individuals or communities that would've done it anyway—without the corruption, without the bureaucracy. They’ve hijacked our collective will and called it representation. I scroll right past them these days, like I do a bad commercial.

Religion is even trickier. Because behind it all is a very human yearning—meaning, connection, the mystery of it all. But institutions wrapped themselves around that longing, built monuments on top of it, and started charging admission. They promised answers while punishing questions. And history? It’s soaked in blood spilled in the name of gods who were supposed to teach love. I don’t hate the spiritual instinct—I just think it deserves better caretakers than ancient texts and televised preachers. Hope without evidence becomes manipulation. We’re better off trusting our inner compass than waiting for salvation from men in robes.

And then there’s education—the one that should be a shining light, a gateway to wisdom. But even that has become too narrow, too rigid. Factory-style. It teaches what to think, not how to think. You’re rewarded for compliance, not curiosity. If your mind doesn’t fit the mold, they either break it or leave it behind. The system punishes the imaginative and rewards the obedient. And when it’s done with you, you’re either in debt or disillusioned—or both. All while the world keeps changing faster than any curriculum can keep up with.

Yet here I am. Not a radical. Not a dropout. Just a man working, raising a family, keeping the lights on and the heart open. And I’ve come to see: we’ve outsourced too much of ourselves. We keep looking outward for guidance, permission, truth—when in reality, much of what we need is already inside us or within reach in our communities, our conversations, our experiences.

If enough people simply stepped away—not in defiance, but in clarity—these institutions would lose their hold. Their power depends on our participation, our belief, our constant validation. Let them talk amongst themselves. We’ve got lives to live, children to teach better, and truths to uncover on our own terms.

So I sit, the recliner squeaks, and I listen to music that makes me feel alive. It’s not anarchy I want—it’s autonomy. It’s not a world without structure—it’s a world where the structures serve us, not the other way around.

[theweeklydiscourse]

What I don’t understand is at what point did LB switch form team Darkling to team anti-Darkling. Like, that’s genuinely puzzling to me.

New or show only fans might not know and parrot her ‘Darkling bad, Mal good’ propaganda and her old tumblr post might be deleted, but internet remembers. As well as the fans. I found about SB before the third part came out and I swear Mal was so insignificant that I didn’t know he existed until I actually read the books. No one talked about him, no one liked him, he was nowhere near actual books’ promotions and discussions. Yes, the books were poorly written from book 1 page 1, but you could clearly tell (including from LB’s own posts!) that they (the whole story, the whole ‘vibe’) revolved around Darklina. Yes, maybe LB always planned for it to be a tragedy, maybe Darkling and Darklina never had a chance from the very beginning. But Darkling’s character clearly wasn’t labeled as unquestionably toxic villain who is wrong about everything the way it’s done by the fandom and the author herself now.

Like, at what point something in LB’s brain switched from ‘he’s morally grey tragic figure’ to ‘he’s just evil and you must hate him period’? Did she think like that from the very beginning and was it all just a long ploy to lure readers in (because lets be real the book’s initial success and fanbase was built on the Darkling)? Is she just saying that bcs black/white views, (fake) moral superiority and fandom purism are all the rage now?

This is truly one of my biggest unanswered questions about Shadow and Bone. It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to peer inside Bardugo’s head to get a sense of her thought process. There are so many things that just don’t add up, little incongruous details that contradict the narrative’s ending and the vision Bardugo claimed to have.

Learned darklinas know the lore all too well. This is why newer fans’ pearl clutching over people shipping Darklina is ridiculous, especially when they pull out the age-old “The Darkling was based on LB’s irl abuser!” rumour. They simply didn’t see the tumblr posts where Bardugo was actively stoking the fires of Darklina and engaging with fan content in a positive way. Either that, or they want to ignore it. But we know that Bardugo’s views on Darklina have changed over the years, and we definitely know that some of those changes don’t add up.

Take the pony cart scene for example, I wrote a meta on it a while back, but the gist is that it’s an extended metaphor that feels wholly incongruent with the trilogy’s ending. It casts doubt on Bardugo’s beloved endgame Malina for some reason, seeming to lean more into the idea that Alina needs to embrace her true identity as a Grisha. Or we could point to the total lack of substance in the “abuse narrative” Bardugo claims to have created. The Darkling was never characterized as an abusive partner to Alina because Bardugo never created a situation where that could have occurred. Her trust can’t be abused because she never trusted him in the first place. He doesn’t have a meaningful hold over her heart and mind (at least, not in the way Mal has).

It’s my hunch that Bardugo switched up after the negative reception of Ruin and Rising, opting to capitalize on a more complex sort of story that she never even wrote. The minute the “abuse narrative” was breathed into existence, the fandom started to become more vitriolic and ostentatious about their objections to darklina and the darkling as a character. Because Bardugo’s readership is fairly young, they took the author’s words at face value and didn’t bother delving into the obvious contradiction that older readers detected. It’s common knowledge that Shadow and Bone is a poster child for YA cliches and shoddy writing, but the minute people mention the Darkling, it suddenly becomes a subversive and compelling narrative about abusive dynamics. To be honest, this is mainly a mix of fan fiction and foggy memories of the series, with a large helping of desire for moral superiority.

[thescreaminghat]

ok so going off of this post (with excellent additions by others) ive been thinking of moments that elita could have had in tfone that would have made her stand out a lot more as her own character.

but first off though i dont even think bee should be a major character in tfone. like i get the endgame is to sell new toys and bee is popular but if that was really all that the creatives were interested in they could have done the bare minimum for a cash grab, shoehorning in some fart jokes for the child audience, and be on their way. the fact that the story is good means that there was thought and care put into all of this, so it's a shame that elita almost feels like an afterthought, and sometimes even feels overshadowed by bee. i would either remove bee entirely, or keep him in as the revelation that sub level 50 exists (aka he is the first sign that something is amiss, that the miners are being lied to) but not let him join team orion until the very end, when post-cog orion goes back to free and rally the other miners. maybe bee has become so traumatized by being in sublevel 50 that while he is overjoyed at seeing pax and dee, two real, living beings besides himself, he is also extremely afraid of leaving his post. what if there are further sublevels? what if he can't bring his friends with him, imaginary or not, if he gets in trouble and transferred again? like bee can still have the same humour and charm, but the story could be structured so that he serves more as a reminder for orion that they need to succeed on this mission, that they'll be back for b-127 even if they don't find the matrix. with this change elita gets more screentime with orion and dee.

for the first of my headcanon-y changes, it would be great if elita had just one conversation with dee early on in which orion isn't physically present. even better if the conversation built on the first conversation that orion and dee have in the movie, when orion asks dee if he ever wanted to choose his own path. maybe dee is ruminating on the question and asks elita, who is initially somewhat offended at The Audacity (isn't it clear that she is choosing her own path? she's going up in the food chain, duh) but this ultimately causes her to start looking inwards. is she really going to be happy working at the same level as someone like darkwing, if attaining that kind of position was even possible? there must be some cutoff for how high a cogless bot can go---would that satisfy her? but what other option does she have? and then maybe those doubts turn into frustration against dee, with elita snapping back and telling him to stop parroting whatever stupid question or plan orion comes up with (this has unintended consequences, as dee quite literally takes this to heart during his crashout at the cave). i think even additional offhand conversations/comments would help solidify the pax-dee-elita dynamic and flesh it out more.

second, i think dee should have tried to win over elita's sympathies following the cave scene. elita should initially side with dee and push for violence against sentinel and airachnid on the way back, before they get captured by the high guard. dee should be hyping himself and elita up, saying stuff like "we can fight, elita can get the other miners into shape, im going to drag sentinel down in the tunnels and bury him alive," basically showing us that despite the out-of-pocket plans he's making, dee understands the value provided by others and its relation to his own goals (e.g. elita's leadership and extensive knowledge of the mines from being team lead), he doesn't just value physical strength, but ability. it'd be a good setup for the balance of rage/vindictiveness and cunning he has as megatron later on. and maybe elita's still angry and playing off of the hype too, like "yeah sentinel's going to waste management next." this leads orion to try and bridge the ever-widening rift between him and the others by appealing to reason and their sense of justice (or the sense of justice that orion thinks they should hold). elita could be the one who "reassures" orion by commenting on how the least he can do for them after dragging them out to the surface is to let them hate on sentinel for a bit. and when orion keeps pushing for an answer on whether she thinks sentinel should be killed, like dee had suggested, elita should reply with smth like, "well i dont know if i would--if i could--do that myself. kill someone, that is. maybe i won't, maybe i just want to kick his aft. but if jazz had died in that blast? if dee had died? do you think that you'd be able to do it then?"

i think the optimism speech could still be kept in but toned down a bit more, like have elita admit to pax's optimism being like a pinprick of light in a dark tunnel without outright just saying "you have hope and that's what makes you special." it'd be cool if we circled back again to orion's question of "don't you ever want to choose your own path?" like we're slowly seeing elita working through her process of choosing her allegiances.

im a bit at a loss at this point for what elita's "turning point" what be to side with orion instead. maybe it's not just seeing dee's fusion cannon, but seeing how reckless he was with it--how it wasn't just about putting up a good fight or even self-defence anymore but being indifferent to endangering everyone around him, good or bad, like the indifference of mechs like darkwing to the miners. maybe it's just the act of seeing dee let orion go from the tower, that if dee of all bots could sacrifice his other half so easily--the hopelessly stupid and understanding and compassionate other half named orion---then what difference is there between him and the bots who have caused so much misery in her own life? idk if we have a sequel please let me get more juicy characterization please

[gomtotemeal]

They built the world’s largest salad. The whole thing was set up in a park about an hour away from our home so my wife Diane convinced me that it might be fun to go see it.

“Deb and Gary are going this afternoon and so I thought we’d ride over there with them.”

“Will there be any left?”

“Oh, it’s not to eat,” said Diane. “It’s like an art piece. The Guinness World Records people will be there.”

On the way over, I started to talk about a Cobb salad I had at this place near my office that was pretty big.

“I usually eat only about half of it.”

“Well, I’m sure this one is much bigger than that,” said Gary.

“Jesus Christ, Gary. I wasn’t implying that I thought the Cobb salad I had was bigger than this salad. It’s just that all of this giant salad business has me thinking about large salads I’ve had before. God!”

“It was a joke,” said Gary. “Calm down.”

But I could tell from the muscles in his face that Gary was lying. Deb quickly chimed in with a request to hear about more of the big salads I’d had, but I was over it. The mood had been ruined.

“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s just get this thing over with.”

The salad was huge. According to a series of laminated signs, we learned that all of the produce had come by way of donations from local farmers and then a college in New York had commissioned a handful of artists to construct a gigantic ceramic bowl to put everything in.

We took pictures and afterwards I bought a t-shirt at the gift shop. It was powder blue with a graphic of the gigantic salad pasted right on the front. On the back was the date and city.

In the car, Gary said that the salad on my t-shirt just looked like a regular-sized salad.

“Bullshit,” I said. “It’s huge.”

“Well maybe it’s huge because you know that it’s huge,” said Diane. “But to someone who doesn’t know what it is, I can see how it looks like a regular salad.”

I looked at it again and realized that they were right. How could I have allowed myself to be seduced by the context of such a limited reality? The only place a gigantic salad can truly exist is sitting there right in front of you! Even photos were a stretch. I stifled my anger and humiliation with short breaths and concentrated on the scenery so as not to rip the t-shirt in half in a blind rage.

Gary had made me look like a fool twice in a span of mere hours and I desperately needed to restore balance. That night, I sat in my study and replayed the day’s events in my mind. Surely, Gary had to have slipped up somewhere and said or done something dumb.

“Diane,” I said. “Wake up.”

“God, what time is it?”

“Remember when we first saw the salad? Remember what Gary said?”

“I don’t know.”

“He said that the salad was so big that he’d need a pitchfork to eat it! Remember?”

She thought about it. “I guess. I really don’t remember.”

“He did say it! Ha! What an idiot!”

I clapped my hands together.

“Because, Diane. The ingredients were standard-sized ingredients. It was only the salad itself that was huge.”

“So.”

“So why the pitchfork?! Does Gary suddenly have a gigantic head with such a gigantic mouth that a regular fork won’t do? God, he’s so stupid! Isn’t he stupid, Diane?”

“I don’t know what your problem is with Gary.”

“I don’t have a problem with Gary! I just have a problem with an idiot who thinks that large portions automatically correlate with large utensils. I mean, Christ Diane! What an idiot!”

I could see that my wife wanted me to leave, but I wasn’t done yet.

“Why, that would be like thinking that…” I paused, a grin plastered to my face, and tried to think of a similar example containing both a large food item and another large utensil. But it wouldn’t come to me.

“It would be like what?” asked Diane.

“Nothing! I’ll think of it later.”

In the early hours of the morning, Gary was awakened by an anonymous phone call from the payphone outside of a nearby liquor store.

“Hello?”

“If someone gave you a gigantic sundae, you’d probably try to eat it with a snow shovel!”

 Click.

[sapphosclown]

i plan on rewatching the show now that the second season is fully out but i keep thinking ab it so im gonna say some thoughts. warning this is long and rambly—mostly personal opinions and criticisms (not hate)

season one was a fantastic adaptation of the game. the main thing they did right with it was using the most important moments from the game and focusing on that—AND the changes that were made served a purpose to the story or to the world building in general and/or the message the audience is supposed to take away. since it’s a show the gaming aspect of constant enemies and killing doesn’t work the same, it needs to be tactful.

in a s1 interview or episode recap (i can’t recall which) the show creators talked about how they wanted to display violence carefully as to not desensitize viewers. the reason they did this is because in the apocalypse humanity is the last thing we as people have. in a game it’s fun to shoot and find new weapons and whatnot, but in a show your main goal is for viewers to be able to empathize with characters and their actions.

that being said, i think that’s what went wrong in season 2.

first of all, i feel like they did not focus enough on the distinct aspects of the game in the second season. as a show, it felt like the episodes blurred together and nothing really stood out, major moments became minor and they changed some things without there being a clear reason as to why that choice needed made. ex. jesse saving ellie and dina last minute—it would have been more compelling to have ellie showcase her abilities against most of the infected and maybe jesse shows up to kill one suprise stalker. this would show a) ellie’s skills b) how she fights alone (dina being in a safe spot makes sense to me because) c) dina seeing a different side to ellie, more rage, more power (show her feeling both scared and maybe even more attracted to her).

ellie’s game time in the first season has plenty of material that I think could have made a compelling narrative. ep. 1 and 2, generally, were very good with minor complaints. seattle days 1,2,3 are lost on me because it doesn’t feel like very much happened. the joel/ellie flashback episode was super well done imo and i obviously think it’s important to the story—but i do wonder if it’s place is right. i know there were mixed opinions about the porch scene being changed and being so early in the show and i don’t have a solid take on that but i am interested in that decision to move it.

secondly, the violence in s2 did not need to match that of s1 because the circumstances are different. they can still evoke an emotional response from viewers with ellie killing people. i made a post a few years back talking about the music choice when joel kills all the fireflies (x) and i feel like they could have made similar choices. the same way joel killing everyone in that hospital is pivitol to the plot, truthfully ellie is a very similar story.

i don’t think it would be like the game because there’s A Lot of killing enemies in the game, in the show they could’ve built up to it. from a few soldiers to a few more to a group and then she gets to nora. they could imply that ellie is so far removed from killing people in so many ways, and then after what happens with nora—the real violence and rage finally bursts through—the scene with dina cleaning her up would hit so much more, because at this point she has killed so many people and the cognitive dissonance didn’t hit until she finally hurt one of them, someone important, someone who deserved it (or did they?) (side note i did not like dina’s lack of comfort to ellie in the show but diff rant perhaps)

violence doesn’t need to be gory and there’s so many storytelling elements that can be utilized to evoke the emotion you want from viewers. i dont think they made the right choices because while the important scenes (joel’s death, nora, ellie’s bday, abby/ellie confrontation at the end) were done very well, too much of the in between got changed and it’s hard to understand why.

a few random things, ellie and dina should have been trapped together w all the weed, i had hope for whoever slow burn vision they had but again it just felt unclear why they wanted to slow burn it, dina’s character wasn’t given that much more agency or detail than in the game which is the only reason i can think of, but they didn’t do it. the pregnancy reveal into hook up is a bit strange when i think about it—if they wanted to change ellie’s reaction to the news i think that could still work, i think they should have maybe had their relationship established already and could have ellie be shocked and scared and curious and then excited (since pregnancy is a motif almost, kinda life/death kind of thing, also another rant). i personally liked ellie’s “im gonna be a dad” i don’t think it would’ve been as corny if they had don’t everything surrounding it differently.

bc i think it shows ellie is still the silly and loving girl we met in s1, she has someone she cares about again, and something she can look forward to. she never would have expected to responsibility over a child but if it’s with this girl she’s been obsessed with for years then yeah, i think she’d be excited. after she was a bitch to dina in the game she still came around yk? anyway

final part of my rant is the change to jesse where suddenly he’s super mean and doesn’t side with ellie is weird considering we know how his story ends. it’s not a good move to take a character who is important to the plot (friends w ellie and dina, father of dina’s child, works with on the counsel, close with tommy, cares enough to go to seattle for ellie/tommy) be mean and unlikable to audiences. in the game the reason his death hurts is because he is kind, of all people he did not deserve that. just because in the show jesse makes “the right choices” does not make him kind, it makes him arrogant and annoying.

the last episode should have been spent binding ellie and jesse together rather than pushing them apart. then it’s more impactful that ellie chooses to find abby instead of joel, and it emphasizes ellie’s actions directly resulting in the death of someone she cares so much for that had no horse in this race. it feels like bad storytelling to spend an episode of jesse pissing us off and then half making up just to kill him a second later, that is an example of needless violence—exactly what the writers previously said they wanted to avoid.

anyway, i don’t think everything they did was bad, but it is disappointing from the perspective of a tv show. i didn’t want it to be exactly like the game, but i don’t think how they chose to share the second part of this story narratively fit and im disappointed in it myself. i wish a lot of things were done differently. again, i want to watch it again to see if i feel the same so when i do that ill put these biases aside and maybe ill stand by this, maybe i wont. ig we’ll see

[backtothefanfiction]

Done| tasm!peter imagine

Warnings: angsty, fighting, break up

A/N: it’s been a little moment, I need to give my boy some love but I also just feel angsty so….

“PETER, LOOK AT ME!” You screamed at him from the kitchen doorway.

You’d been arguing for the last 10 minutes. You wish you could say this was something new, but this fight had been going on ever since you first met. Peter was in love with you, has always been in love with you, but would rather punish himself than go through what he did with Gwen again. But he could never stay away. He always came running back. Crawling back down into that web that he carefully constructed and built just to trap you and keep you there. But every time that web shook just a little, he’d get cold feet. Instead of staying and facing what came head on or fixing the string that broke, he runs, only to realise he can’t let you go- he needs you. And so he always comes back.

Tonight- tonight was a running night… and you’ve had enough.

He can’t look at you, won’t look at you because he knows he will break.

“I can’t do this again.” You say as you sigh, your hands rubbing away the tears streaking down your face as you turn into the kitchen. “I can’t,” you repeat, more for yourself to keep your conviction than for his benefit. “I can’t.”

You turn and notice the fresh flowers you’d put in a vase not 2 hours ago when he turned up for dinner. You saw them for what they truly were now, apology flowers. You didn’t want them. Before you could fully process the action you had picked up the glass, stormed back into the doorway between the kitchen and living room and thrown them at the wall, just above his head. His head swerved to the side out the way, but still he didn’t get up, he didn’t look at you, he didn’t say anything. He knew there was nothing he could say to make this any better and knew you just needed to get things out of your system.

“We’re done, Peter, okay? We’re done.” You reiterated as you picked up your keys off the counter and started making your way to the front door, you really needed some air before you burnt down the whole apartment with your rage. “Pack up all your shit. I want you gone by the time I come back.” You said, putting on your coat. “And leave your key on the coffee table.”

He just nodded. No final words, no more excuses or apologies. No goodbye. Just a nod of acknowledgment. Is that all you had become- is that all you would be the next time you ran into him.

You’d slammed the door and taken 5 steps down the hall when you froze. No- you realised. You weren’t done. But this fight was.

When you walked back into the apartment Peter was picking up the flowers off of the floor. He places the bunch down onto the coffee table and stuffs his hands into his pockets as you slowly walk towards him.

“I thought you said you were done.”

“I’m not done.” You say quietly, “but this, this is done.” You say to him. “This argument, is done. Peter I’m not Gwen. If I see you swinging towards danger, first thing I do is start running the other way. Why do you keep coming back?” You ask him. You’ve gone so soft, like talking to a toddler. He wants a fight, it’s easier if he has the fight. Then you can paint him as the bad guy and walk away. He can continue to punish himself for something that was never his fault, it was hers. And for him to keep taking that out on you, his anger, his grief, it was wrong. To keep taking it out on himself. It’s wrong.

He’s silent, so you continue, “I’m not your punching bag Peter, I’m your girlfriend- and I have been for 3 years now, whether you like to acknowledge that or not. Peter, look at me,” you ask again, reaching out for him, your hands wrapping around his wrists and pulling his hands from his pockets. “Peter, touch me.” You say softly, guiding his hands to your body. It’s a slow process, but he slowly moves them to the tops of your arms, finally finding a home on your cheeks when he finally looks at you. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere… and we both know neither are you…. This fight is done now. It’s time to move on. It’s time to let her go.”

You watch as his eyes soften, his own fight leaving him because he knows you’re right.

“You’ll never overcome fear of you keep running away.” You remind him. “You’re Spider-Man…” you say, leaving the sentence open for him to finish.

“And Spider-Man never runs away.” He concedes.

“Tell me it’s done. Tell me this fight is done.” You say one last time.

You feel his whole body sigh as he finally concedes, released that control, that power and just begins to float, to survive. “It’s done.” He agrees.

His arms wrap around you and he kisses the top of your head as he holds you tight. “I’m sorry.” He murmurs into your hair.

“I know.” You coo. “I know.”

[itsjustelian]

BEEFLEAF THOUGHT (Mainly He Xuan thought but fuck it he's intertwined with Shi Qingxuan and therefore all He Xuan thoughts are beefleaf thoughts)

So so so, in my readings of tgcf and the wonderful mess that is all of the internet thoughts on it I've come to the personal conclusion that to become a supreme you have to have *big* feelings. Very big and very deep feelings.

Our big-brained, obvious example of this is Hua Cheng. Man's big feeling is devotion, love. He is absolutely besotted for Xie Lian. Would do anything for his God. We're so proud of him for it too.

But He Xuan? He's the only other real supreme we have aside from Hua Cheng (Jun Wu, I'm sorry, you're wonderful but Godhood fucks with a man) and the idea that his big feeling that turned him into a supreme was rage and hatred never sat quite right with me. It's not that hatred and rage aren't powerful enough emotions to make a supreme, and those being his emotions on the surface make him a wonderful parallel to Hua Cheng. But rage isn't really what fuels him. If it was, he'd have dissipated after the Blackwater arc. Taken his revenge and called it a day.

Yet, he sticks around. He *never* dissipates. He just sits at the bottom of the ocean for all eternity. Which doesn't sound like rage or hatred. I mean, you'd assume a calamity built on hate would continue his revenge path until all of heaven is gone and no one can have godhood because he couldn't. But he doesn't. He just... waits.

This isn't to say he wasn't angry, btw. He was absolutely angry, and he had every right to be. His desire for revenge had to come from somewhere, let alone the emotional payment to actually planning and pulling it off. I just don't think that was his greatest regret/feeling/desire at death. I mean, He Xuan had his whole life taken from him. All of it. His family, his fiancee, his passions, his work. Everything he worked towards and for got stolen from him by others. And while it's clearly very rage inducing for him (I mean he has a mental breakdown and kills everyone who's ever wronged him), the underlying feeling through it all was probably despair. He probably just wanted things to go back to how they were when his whole family was around and alive.

And this despair and longing doesn't just go away when he learns the truth of what's been done to him. He's still a person. He can't just throw away those emotions because new ones have taken center stage. But rage is a way easier feeling to work with than misery, so He Xuan defers to it. He jumps on the bandwagon of revenge against the people who wronged him once again and goes with it. And it gets him through Mt. Tonglu and up into heaven and right where he says he wants to be. Right up until he can execute his revenge. And then he just stops? And decides that he's going to be best friends with Shi Qingxuan for a few hundred years first? I'm no rage expert, but that doesn't sound very revenge like to me. Which leads very neatly into the point of this post, took me a while I know.

He Xuan's reason for sticking around is he wants to be loved.

I mean, look at it. He says he hates Shi Qingxuan's guts and wants him and his brother dead more than anything, but also spends hundreds of years hanging out with this person he hates so much when revenge is right there? He could have done it whenever. There was no logical reason I could wait to wait as long as he did. Unless he was enjoying Shi Qingxuan's companionship. And Shi Qingxuan clearly loved him (even just platonically. We love our friends in this house). And He Xuan hadn't had someone care about him that much since his death. It was probably insanely overwhelming and equally as wonderful.

And then he fucks it all by actually going through with the revenge but feelings are hard and he's clearly not great with them so oops. But but but, his great famous line during the Blackwater Arc is him telling Shi Qingxuan that they've used the wrong name. He, even if it's just subconsciously, wants Shi Qingxuan to see him as He Xuan, not Ming Yi. He, in some capacity, wants Shi Qingxuan to see and love He Xuan, not the mask he had on.

But then, after the revenge, he doesn't disappear. He straight up goes out of his way to return Shi Qingxuan's fan to them. To make something right. To return something to how it was before.

Except this time, he can't blame the people around him for the change. He can't turn his rage at the rest of the world because he's the one who ruined the only thing he wanted for himself. So he finally, *finally*, has to face this sadness and longing that's been plaguing him from the start. He got his revenge, he got all the anger out, and it still wasn't what he wanted. Because from the beginning, all he wanted was to be appreciated and loved and wanted and not have that torn away from him.

And he fucked it for himself in the end because lets be honest if he had a civil fucking conversation with Shi Qingxuan and didn't literally threaten their brothers life things would have gone SO MUCH BETTER.

Anyway, I'm crying now. If you read through my jumbled 2 AM thoughts all the way, thank you. I will edit this when it's not 3 am. and post it.

---

Editing me: wtf was I on? I don't remember half of these thoughts??? I'm posting it because somewhere in this hot mess is a point I'm trying to make, and I'm not going to deny 2 AM Elian the chance to share it.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

A Straightforward and Simple Task- part 2

Part 1

Kiceo widened his eyes. "Are you retiring? Surely you are still young, no?" He was kind, fairly reliable for a man, and certainly easy on the eyes, but not all that intelligent. He glowed slightly in the dim torch-light, like all our kind did.

I gave him a reassuring smile. There was no need to burden the poor dear with my doom. "I will serve my lord as long as my body permits," I said, and meant it.

He nodded uncertainly and walked out the door, closing it behind me. I gave it three minutes before the five of them returned. Three minutes for me to cry.

I could have joined any other job. I could have resigned when he rose to power like so many others. I could have rejected my glory and my lord, but I held on, believing I would be rewarded for my loyalty. How wrong I was.

There was nobody to blame but myself. The tears streamed down my cheeks, and I let them patter on the desk. Their impact on the wood was the only noise I made, mourning my own death.

I heard the door open, and looked up, startled. It was Miphala, solemn and sad. "You are early," I noted, wiping the tears from my face. "Did Kiceo tell you to come here, or is something else afoot?"

Miphala shook her head. "I came straight from His Majesty's office. We have orders to…" She trailed off, grimacing.

"Infiltrate the most powerful being in the world's fortress and steal her treasures? I know," I laughed bitterly. "So you are joining me on our death march, I see. What did we even do to deserve this?" The tears slipped out again, and I rested my face on the table.

Miphala shrugged. "His Majesty does as His Majesty wills. It is not the place of us mere guards to question his orders," she replied with rancour. "At least our suffering amuses him. It is all a lowly soldier like me aspires to do." She pulled up the seat opposite mine and curled up in it, eyes brimming with tears. "I am truly sorry, Captain. Bad enough that I must go, but you have a husband. Who will look after him and your children?"

"An'cecali promised she would provide for them. Her husband and my Jishenkil are friends. The kids are too young to understand. They will likely not even remember me," I admitted. "Death is lighter than a feather. Duty, heavier than a mountain. They will not have a coward for a mother, or a deserter."

Miphala looked like she wanted to argue, her lips set in an indignant line. Instinctively, I crossed my arms and gave her my sternest glare. It did nothing to ward her off, and the tension in the room grew, only to be dissipated by Kiceo's return. He brought Rinako, who bore her characteristic look of grim resignation. I dismissed him with a wave.

"Right," I said, turning to my chosen subordinates. We were all cut from the same mould, dark skinned and pale haired, layers of muscle built up from centuries of work. "We have a problem." I explained everything tersely, sparing no sorrow or rage. I had had my little fit, and now it was time to do my duty.

Rinako shook her head. “Confound it all, but I cannot understand why he would do it. You are an efficient Captain, are you not? You have done your duty. You have obeyed him to the last word. And now he wished you to die pointlessly? Why?”

“He is crazy, that is why,” Miphala snapped. “Every single idiosyncratic god combined has nothing on his insanity.”

"Do not blaspheme," Rinako countered. "He is still our lord, and we still serve him. He must have a plan. I take it you will need a replacement?" I nodded. "Then I offer myself. Retirement can wait for a while.”

I gave her a grateful smile, and stored the thought in my little shelf of memories, where it would keep me comforted through my last moments. "In addition, I need you to carry my words to the others, for our lord inexplicably wants us to leave before sundown.”

“Anything for you, Captain,” Rinako said, and the steadfastness of her words made the very core of my being ache.

“Thanks be to you. This is the message: Blessings to you, my compatriots," I said, trying to pick my words carefully. They would likely be my last, after all. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, and I had yet to procure supplies. Or do any preparation, for that matter. This truly was a death march. "I am grateful to have known you all. There has never been a more loyal, talented group of women, and I am certain you will do well in your new posts."

Part 3 (tbc)

Non-dark writing taglist:

@falco-underscore-77, @keeping-writing-frosty, @watermeezer, @vampirelover890, @the-archivist-14

@trippingpossum, @sm-writes-chaos, @endless-demon, @seastarblue, @lyraoctaviawrites

@beloveddawn-blog, @aseriesofsmallthings, @kitkins13, @illarian-rambling, @urnumber1star

@thevoiceintheabyss, @cain-e-brookman, @aalinaaaaaa, @kaeru483, @imsoveryveryconfusedatlife

@finickyfelix, @possiblyeldritch, @glassfrogforest, @an-indecisive-nerd, @pastelpinkhobbies

(ask to +/-)

[acourtofthought]

I just saw an elriel post, where they were making fun of Lucien as usual. Talking about how we are delusional for thinking that the statement that Azriel made, that he would defeat Lucien with little or no effort, is crazy. Mind you we don’t even know Lucien’s full powers as opposed to Azriel. All we know is that he has the potential to be one of the most powerful faes in prythain. Man is literally walking around with powers INHERITED by two powerful high lords, not one, two, so how are we delusional?? He does have a lot of potential, even if we can’t see it now, and we are valid to think that Azriel’s statement is crazy. But what I find funny is that it also further proves my point on why elucien should end up together, and shows how contradictory they are because they always call out people for underestimating Elain, even in the books, and making her look weak especially because we don’t know her full potential, which I agree. Meanwhile Lucien is legit walking around with the exact same problem, with both the fandom and the characters in the book, underestimating him and making him to look weak, when we literally don’t also know his full potential. And, you’re telling me they aren’t Endgame???Okay.

It's strange people hold on to that conversation as fact.

First, we know that HL's are not merely powerful, they are power and we know that's the direction Sarah is taking Lucien's character. Az, in a true fight, could not beat a HL and if he could it erases the entire structure Prythian is built on. There was no point in Sarah having the Suriel tell us what it did about the High Lords. We also know Lucien's fire ability is because of the strong power his mother's side had which is why Beron chose her in the first place.

"But even Rhys said Az could defeat him!" BUT........Rhys ALSO said "Lucien, as Beron's son, has the right to demand it of you."

Rhys knows that Lucien is not actually Beron's son yet he chose to avoid bringing that up to Az, instead, letting Az believe Lucien is son. To me it seems more likely that Rhys was saying what he did in order to bring Az does from his rage, to hopefully make him see reason, to understand the consequences that COULD be at play. However, if it truly got to that point, a fight to the death between Az and Lucien, do we really think that Rhys would not then step in and tell Lucien of his heritage?

His heritage is currently a secret to everyone but Rhys and Feyre so Rhys wasn't going to center his argument to Az off the information that only he and Feyre know.

Also and like you said, even if Rhys thought Az had a chance at beating Lucien, that doesn't mean he can. Lucien is underestimated just like Elain and the entire point of their arcs is proving the misconceptions about them wrong. Just because Az thinks he can beat Lucien does not mean that Sarah can't write Lucien completely shocking them all by wiping the floor with him. In an Az POV, where is his friend is trying to diffuse his temper, of course Rhys is going to say, "there there, of course you can". He's not going to wave a red flag at an already ready to charge bull by saying, "You don't know the things I do so you might not beat Lucien as easily as you think!" All that would have done is drive Az's desire to fight Lucien even higher. Instead Rhys moved the conversation away from Az's abilities to what would happen if a fight between the two happened in the first place.