#and the story is kind of bare bones and sort of vague (and i guess that's actually a complaint some have. because people who played the

[oveliagirlhaditright]

For some reason last night, I ended up watching MatPat and Steph play all of "Hello Neighbor" on GTLive (it's an old series of theirs that they have archived). And in some ways, I'm kind of into this series now and definitely interested in it at this point. But at the same time, this seems like the most frustrating game in the world (at least to play). It seems really janky (even in its official release. Though maybe they've fixed some of the issues since its launch). And I'm probably never going to play any of the games for that reason, and will just watch them all, maybe. And yet even though I've never played it, all the times MatPat raged at this game's gameplay, his pain was so strong that I almost thought that I could feel it and understand it.

[gillianthecat]

I have got to get over my grudge against face filters or face-tuning or whatever it's called when they blur the actor's face so their skin is completely smooth and texture free and very pale and has no dimensionality.

I'm watching Light On Me, and I'm charmed by all the characters, but I keep getting distracted by the fact that none of them look like human beings. grrr. Like, it kind of fits the comic book tropey-ness of the story, but I still would prefer to see their god danged faces.

(Fun fact: Shin Woo's actor's face is the reason I started watching Light On Me in the first place. Kang Yoo Soek has a small part in Beyond Evil, and within a minute of his appearance on screen I was like, who is THAT???👀, and immediately went to MDL to see what else he was in. Turns out he was in a BL! so I decided it was finally time to check this one out. Maybe I'm just resentful about them hiding his face from me. On the other hand, Beyond Evil and Light On Me are from the same year, and he looks a decade younger in the latter, so I guess the filtering helps with that? idk, I'd prefer everyone's real faces. But I realize that with this, as in many things, I am not the target audience.)

My thoughts on Light On Me so far (im on episode 3 oops, actually it was 4): It feels like a high school romance comic book aimed at 12 year olds come to life. Which is not at all a criticism! But the aesthetic—bright, flat lighting, wide open spaces, saturated pastels and primary colors, the aforementioned face filtering—along with the trope filled, bare bones nature of the story give it this artificial feel. I don't read comic books, manga or manwha of any genre, so I could be wrong in this comparison, but it does tell like it exists outside of the real world in the same way that Disney Channel kids shows do (though not in the same world.) The characters, so far, don't feel like they exist outside of the story, not shallow, exactly, just that the rest of their lives and relationships are a vague blur, and the initial conflict—Shin Woo doesn't want Tae Kyung to join the student council!—feels like the sort of artificially induced high stakes of a kid's show. The—gasp—pratfall with a dildo.

I probably sound judgmental, but that's partly because super fluffy shows aren't my thing in general, and partly because I'm in a weird mood right now where even the real world doesn't feel all that real to me, but I reiterate, this is not a criticism. The show is creating a certain feel to tell a certain story, and (so far at least) it's doing it effectively.

And I am intrigued by the story, and the characters! Tae Kyung who has been convinced by the wise teacher to try making friends. Da On, the student president who is so kind and can't say no to anyone. Shiwoon, the class clown who can see what's happening but won't get involved. So Hee, the girl from the sister school, persistent in her three year (!) crush. And of course tsundere Shin Woo, possibly with some internalized homophobia, and who we know, based on Shiwoon's hints and the laws of Romance Tropes, must have a crush on the new boy and can't handle it.

The taundere seme is a trope I love when it works well, and loathe when it's bad, and I think it's working here for me because Tae Kyung is such a weirdo. He's no blushing maiden uke, he's blunt and doesn't care that's he's awkward, and still not sure if he wants to even bother with other human beings. It makes Shin Woo's attraction to him more specific and real, and makes me curious to see how their dynamic develops.

So even though the character don't feel anchored to any reality outside of what we see on screen, in the small slice of a tv world they do exist in they seem complex and worth getting to know.

(They also intrigue me enough that part of me wants to see these same characters and conflicts, but framed in more gritty realism style, like that of Weak Hero Class One. I think there's enough there to make it work! But that's more about my personal taste than anything else.)

edit: not that Weak Hero Class One is exactly realistic. But it's a different kind of fairy tale atmosphere. One that sometimes gets called "gritty realism."

[killerlookz]

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Scorned (Edward Nashton x F! reader) pt. I

description: disgruntled and angry with both her past and the current state of Gotham, reader takes up an extreme devotion to Gotham's violent and bloodthirsty vigilante, the Riddler, whose attention she's desperate to recieve- but this Riddler may be closer to home than she ever expected.| FIC PLAYLIST

content: angst, mostly angst. kind of dismal, reader cries a lot. vaguely graphic descriptions of murder, extreme idol worship/corruption, teen pregnancy/miscarriage, sacrilegious/ blasphemous behavior in regards to the catholic church, guilt, slut shaming?? implied that teenage characters had a sexual encounter/ virginity loss but it is only implied and never explicitly talked about or described, hurt/comfort, fluff!!! i swear there's fluff, first kiss, vomiting/slight emetophobia cheating??? i guess?? non-linear timeline (flashbacks are denoted by bolded italics) 18+, eventual smut!! (pt.ii) im aware this fic deals with delicate topics, if you do not feel comfortable with that, please heed my warnings and do not read.

word count: 13807

a/n: ━ for the sake of not wanting to make this fic 8 years long, it will be seperated into 2 parts, this part, and part two, both released simultaneously. part 2 is the smut counterpart to this fic, as well as just a continuation of the story (not nearly as long as this though)!!!━

"I love you and watched you, someone, that I knew. You’re ruined and it's cool."

There was very little you could ever do to remedy the constant ache of childhood. The long since passed memories of a decaying building and crumbling sense of self-worth were a persistent stinging that sat in every crack and corner of your being. The pain lingered despite most of the past feeling like a grainy, overexposed photograph- there's just enough there to make something out, but not quite enough for a clear picture.

There seemed very little to do to ever cure this hurt, very little until you found him.

Hushed whispers between your closest circles of friends had piqued your curiosity. Friends that knew, that understood that perpetual despair, friends that also wanted to do something about that anguish that lived in their bones. Their morbid chatter had gotten the best of you, and your interest in this change that they spoke of had led you to a peculiar part of the internet. A part of the internet that was dark, and dreadful, one that you are sure would get you put on some sort of list if you weren't careful.

And that's where you found him.

The Riddler.

The first time you'd stumbled upon one of his videos you instantly shut your computer the moment he appeared on the screen, his horrific masked appearance a stark reminder of just how far you'd let your anger with your past go. But barely a moment passed by before you were peeling the top of your laptop back up, as a hesitant hand once again reached to play the video.

He began to speak, his low and breathy modulated voice played quietly through your blown-out computer speakers and you hung onto every single venom-dipped word. He spoke with such conviction and anger at the state of the city that you had been trying desperately to communicate for years. He said everything that you were too weak, too scared to say out loud.

As his ravings came to an end, you immediately found yourself looking through the rest of this website, your fingers scrolling wildly, desperate to hear any, and everything this 'Riddler' had to say. His endless, maniacal rants provided you with a catharsis you had only dreamed of ever receiving.

Even his most horrific, and dangerous thoughts had your mind reeling. Your head nodded violently in agreement to his unrelenting extremism, a sign of your growing fearless devotion to the man on the screen, even though he could not see you back.

You'd fallen down a rabbit hole, and you had no desire to ever try and climb back up. These deep, dark depths that you had found yourself in brought more comfort than you could ever imagine. Even when The Riddler's words were meant for a large audience, it always felt like he was speaking directly to you. He had this familiarity to him, he knew your pain all too well. Maybe he'd been an orphan too. When you looked into his eyes, even though your screen as he went on the most vulgar rants, you'd felt a certain sort of comfort, one you hadn't felt in years, one you'd only ever felt with one other person in your entire life. His clever riddles and use of puzzles were a reminder of a warm ghost of your past.

You could say that finding The Riddler changed your life. With each of his postings, each of his rants your devotion only grew, his teachings and ideas only consuming more and more of your mind.

By the time he had murdered the mayor on Halloween night, you had already shed any reservations about your allegiance to The Riddler. You had no hesitations about the violence and the gore, he was doing what had to be done. He was the only one brave enough to do it.

You'd watched the evening news that night in absolute adoration of your Riddler. You bit your nails, your eyes widening with each and every gory little detail the newscasters announced into the camera. The dichotomy was almost laughable, the faint smile on your face, and fingers twirled in your hair as the anchorwoman described the brutalities inflicted on poor Mayor Mitchell. The small, giggly actions were somewhat akin to a teenage girl watching an interview with her favorite boyband star.

You could liken your devotion to The Riddler to that of an Evangelist's devotion to the lord.

How fitting was that now that you stood in front of a withering old church, ready to prove your loyalty to your divine.

Growing up as one of Gotham's forgotten was an ever-present struggle. Waking up every day shivering in an all-too-small room packed to the brim with frightened girls of all ages was nothing short of miserable. Of course, some kind souls took pity on the poor children of the Gotham Orphanage, pledging generous donations to help the pitiful, withering youths.

Except, none of you had ever seen a single penny of donations. Not a cent went to providing any residents of the Gotham Orphanage with an even slightly better quality of life. It was well known amongst most of you that that money had gone to one man, and one man alone, Father Benjamin, who'd become somewhat of the 'owner' of the orphanage once the church had taken on the role of caring for Gotham's orphans when Wayne Manor was given to them.

The Father was a corrupt man, a cruel man, much like most people in positions of power in Gotham. He was never the paragon of a godly man, reneging on his promise to care and provide for the misfortuned.

Though, perhaps to your dismay, your vengeance against the clergyman wasn't for entirely altruistic reasons. Like everyone, you'd indulge in your own selfishness and your grievances with the father were not wholly pecuniary. Father Benjamin ripped you away from the only thing you'd ever wanted, obviating your hope for a halfway happy life. That man had been the catalyst for the downward spiral of apathy that led you here- he had this coming. He had this coming for a long, long time.

After the fire at the Orphanage, Father Benjamin returned to preaching full time. The name for a while had only been a hazy memory, buried deep beneath the mountains of other trauma you had endured living in that wretched place. But one day it all came back, the decaying face of a moldering old man looked your way on your regular morning commute. The corpse-like appearance of his now dark, sunken eyes could not conceal the man you'd once known, the man who was responsible for far too much of your misery.

-

Your gaze turned upwards at the older man, he looked down on you disapprovingly towards where you'd sat on a cold exam table. His eyes were stone cold as they pierced through your own. His mouth curled down as his top lip struggled to stay put, raising slightly in an angry almost snarl.

"Please... please F-father... please don't make me leave!" Your gaze becomes obscured as tears fill up in your eyes, no longer able to see the disappointed man as you choke out a hopeless plea to him. Your voice is weak, vocal cords strained from all your wailing, "It was a mistake! It was one time-" You shake your head back and forth with vicious force. "Please let me stay- it was a mistake!"

The man above you was unmoved, his lips flattening out as his arms raised to cross his chest.

"You are unclean, you do not belong here." He shakes his head, "You are going somewhere where you will learn how to control yourself."

"PLEASE!" Your voice cracks as you plead for the umpteenth time, "You can't do this- I don't want to go."

"I can, and I am. You leave tomorrow night."

You attempt to wipe the tears that fell from your eyes with a shaky hand before placing your hands together, pressing the skin of your palms together harshly, the action makes a loud clap. You place your fingers up to your mouth, your hand in a prayer position, with your thumbs graze your lips as you sink your head forward and your eyes close. You sob against your rigid hands, silently praying to be saved.

With a loud sniffle, you lift your head and open your eyes to return to pleading with the father again. With your hands still desperately clinging to prayer, you shake them back and forth wildly.

"I thought God was supposed to forgive us for our sins... I thought you spoke for God... Why can't you forgive me, accept this as my penance, forgive me, Father!" Your words fell from your mouth in rapid succession as your chest heaved wildly. The panic of the unknown began to set in. You place your arms forward and begin grabbing at the thick black fabric of the Father's cassock.

"Forgiveness is between you and God, repent as much as you please, it is not my decision whether or not to strip you of the guilt of your filth." The Father spits.

You swallow hard and your throat stings as your warm saliva slides down your damaged flesh. You open your mouth to argue but barely a squeak comes out, instead you allow your head to fall forward, succumbing to the throbbing pain that consumes your brain.

Your breathing hitches and your shoulders twitch as your choked sobs get caught up in your stinging throat. Your fingers slip from their grip on the Father's clothes, your arms falling before turning them to your stomach, wrapping them around yourself.

Father Benjamin lets out a huff before turning around and you watch the ground as his sleek black shoes click away from you.

The decaying excuse of an infirmary sat barren aside from you as you let out whispered sobs. The loud laughter of young children could be heard on the other side of the orphanage, and you wondered if you could hear them, could they have heard your desperate cries.

You clung on desperately to your aching lower stomach, pushing your arms against your womb, trying to soothe the emptiness you felt inside you. Your eyes moved down your leg, eyeing the dried blood that trailed from your inner thigh to the inside of your knee. Your jaw clenched at the sight before you shut your eyes tight as you leaned forward. You took a few deep breaths in and out, hoping to yourself that this was all a nightmare and you'd wake up just fine.

But you were undoubtedly in reality as you opened your eyes, still in the withering infirmary, the same unrelenting ache overwhelming your body.

-

All of that rage and hatred you'd directed towards that man during childhood came right back to you and now, deeply caught under the influence of your newfound mentor, you knew something had to be done. You took no pity on the now decrepit old man for what you planned to do.

A man like the father was just the sort of target The Riddler sought after. He would be the perfect sacrifice to get the bloodthirsty vigilante's attention. You could only dream of his reaction to the crime, to someone being so devoted to him that they too helped clean up the streets of Gotham. You hoped to let The Riddler know that you were not just a listener, no, you were a fierce follower, you desperately needed him to know the depths of your devotion.

The chill November rain beat down hard upon your hooded head, each freezing drop soaking the dark fabric that rested on your hair. Still, you braved the cold, zipping up your jacket further until the cold metal zipper nearly reached the top of your neck and the confines of its material strangled you.

You lifted your now heavy feeling feet one by one as you ascended the long staircase heading towards the church. The reprieve from the rain finally hits once you reach cover under the roofing held up by large concrete pillars. It's late, long past hours of service or confession, so you can arrive confident knowing there will be no staggering witnesses. You'd studied the Father's routine over the passing days since you first laid eyes on him in the street. His simple, repetitive nightly procedure of wandering around the church, blowing out candles, and tidying up for the next day's service, helped set this plan in motion. He was a man of routine, one that was easy to memorize.

You take a deep breath in and swallow it down, reawakening the warm sting of whiskey in your throat- you could not do this stone-cold sober. The warmth in your chest gives you the push to wrap a gloved hand around the large, slippery metal door handle of the church. In your other hand, your large leather glove clung around a kitchen knife, your fingertips digging so hard into its tang you thought for sure it would disintegrate under the pressure. You stood still for a moment, perhaps longer than that, that constant dull, aching thump in your chest raced wildly for a change, the anticipation building up to the point you felt ready to jump out of your skin. It was then, when the pressure became too much, you exerted a sudden jolt of energy, flinging open the large wooden doors with little caution.

From the alter Father Benjamin turned his attention toward the church's narthex as you stepped inside. His hollow eyes widened at your sudden presence.

"If you're here for confession, I'm sorry but it must wait 'til tomorrow." His feeble voice echoes down the church's aisle.

"I'm not here to confess father." You strut forward, beginning to make your way down the nape of the church. "I'm here to talk to you." You place your hands behind your back, concealing your weapon.

"It's quite late, I'm afraid still, whatever services you're in search of must wait until tomorrow." His voice is slightly more firm as you continue to make your way down towards him.

"I'm sorry father but this simply cannot wait, it is quite important. Don't you remember me?" You're nearing the alter now. Father Benjamin tilts his head to the side, narrowing his sunken eyes.

"No-no I don't think I do."

Your entire body tenses and you clench your jaw. Your fingers go rigid around the handle of the knife. How could he just forget you? He ruined your life and he can just move on and forget you while you're still stuck trying to get over the past.

"Come on Father, think harder..." You taunt, "You don't remember sending me far... far away." A smirk surfaces across your lips as you begin to climb the short, flat stairs that lead to the alter.

"No- I don't." He speaks firmly, "Now, I really do suggest you get going, we are closed and you are tresspassi-"

"SHUT UP!" You scream, finally unveiling the knife behind your back. "You do not tell me what to do anymore, old man." You point the tip of the knife in the Father's direction. His already pale face turns a ghostly shade and his lip begins to tremble.

"P-put-put the knife down." His shaking hands raise in front of him.

"One more time, don't you remember me, Father?" You ignore the Father's pleas.

"I'm telling you I have no idea who you are, please put the knife down."

"No idea?" You raise an eyebrow and begin to inch towards the father once again as he starts to back up towards the apse of the church. "Let me try to jog your memory... PLEASE… PLEASE F-FATHER… PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME LEAVE! IT WAS A MISTAKE! IT WAS ONE TIME-PLEASE LET ME STAY- IT WAS A MISTAKE!" You yell histrionically, almost in a mockery of your younger self.

"O-okay- okay." His hands continue to tremble in front of him, ushering you to calm down "I remember- I remember!" He concedes.

"Good." You smile, "So you have no doubts about why I'm here then."

"I get it- I get- you're hurt, I- I was just doing what was best for you, you'd gone down a wrong path, I was saving you!"

You tip your head back and laugh at his pathetic attempts to explain himself.

"HURT?" You shriek, "You think I'm just hurt?" You've backed the father's trembling body father up against a wall. "Father, do you have any idea what it's like to be a scared, hungry, sixteen-year-old girl- with no family, no money, and no hope for a decent future. DO YOU KNOW what it's like to wake up covered in your own blood as your body violently rejects what's growing inside of it- something, you didn't even know was there? DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE FOR YOUR BRAIN TO FORCE YOU TO MOURN THE LOSS OF SOMETHING YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW YOU HAD TO LOSE IN THE FIRST PLACE- something you didn't even WANT?"

You hold the knife at the Father's neck, keeping him pinned in place, his lip quivers, and tears are beginning to slip down his decrepit face. It's impossible to hide the insurmountable pleasure you receive from seeing the old man in peril. "And above all, Father," Your voice suddenly drops to just above a whisper as you shove your face close to Father Benjamin's, "Do you know what it's like to be ripped from the one person who has ever loved you?" You squint your eyes and tilt your head to the side before pulling the knife backward from where it had been against his neck, and plunging it into his stomach.

You can feel his body tissue busting under the pressure of the sharpened blade. Using all of your force you twist the blade in his stomach, which is met with an audible gasp from the Father. His mouth opens a few more times as he struggles to get a word out, but the sheer force of the knife in his weakened body is enough to keep him silent.

You grin as Father Benjamin's legs begin to kick under him, his knees buckling from the pain.

"Maybe now, you can feel just an ounce of the pain I felt that day." You lean in close and whisper in his ear before removing the blade from his stomach. Father Benjamin falls to the ground, unable to handle the force of the blade shoved under his skin, the old man hits the tile below with a loud crack, the noise felt ear-splitting, and the withering of bone against the hard surface sent shivers down your spine. The cold marble having done most of the dirty work for you had split the fragile man's head open, his feeble skull nearly crumbling under the sheer force he hit the floor.

Blood pours out of the broken skin of both his stomach and his head. The thinned-out liquid rushes from the wounds faster than you'd expected. You stood over the now truly decaying father, watching the life drain from his eyes as his mouth continued to open and close, desperate for a single sound to come out. Slowly, his body would stop its writhing as he lost his fight and his mouth would cease to move, his labored breathing now altogether coming to a stop. He was gone.

It was far less laborious, far less messy than you'd expected, you figured it would have taken more than one blow to the stomach to have taken the old man out. But, you'd not account for the weight of the fall, and the strength of the floor, that is what did the man in. And in that case, it wasn't really you who'd killed the man, sure, you were the catalyst, but, the tile flooring is what really took him out. Your reasoning, you supposed, could absolve what very little guilt you'd even had for killing the man.

It nearly frightened you how little guilt you'd felt watching the aged priest bleed out in front of you. The pool of blood around his busted head sent nearly no waves of sympathy through your shaking body. No, instead you'd felt more of an overwhelming calm. Despite the adrenaline-fueled tremors that shook every part of you, you felt calm. You were perfectly at peace with the monster who'd taken so much from you bleeding out on the ground below.

A stifled, manic laugh began to slip from your lips, you couldn't help yourself. You relished your role as Father Benjamin's judge, jury, and executioner, having finally brought justice to a man who thought he could get away with the world. How wrong he was.

You could rationalize your actions all you wanted, but deep down, you knew you just committed murder, and you needed to get the hell out of that church, and fast.

You spent little time watching the Father's blood continue to pool, instead, opting to not bask in the glory of your crime, for you could do that when the news hit the television. You turned right around, sprinting back down the aisle and out the door, careful not to leave any bloodied footprints trailing from your shoes. You slipped back into the cold, dark night, the rain beat down on the pavement harder than ever.

You made your way down the steps nonchalantly, careful not to call attention to yourself, despite there not being any passersby at this late hour. The rain once again fell upon you, drenching every inch of your body, each cold drop washed away the ache of the past. For the first time in your life, you were alive and Father Benjamin wasn't, he had no more power to be able to take from you. He could never take from anybody anymore. You were free, everyone was free, you felt, almost rebirthed in the rain. Yet, of course, that numb feeling still drilled at the back of your skull and that aching pit in your stomach was destined to be reopened once the adrenaline wore off. But at least for now, you could bask in the afterglow of this alleviated feeling.

You opened up the door to your apartment and stepped inside before closing it behind you. You nearly slammed your wet figure right onto the back of the door once you heard the latch click, signifying the door had been all the way closed. A satisfied grin spread across your face as your gloved fingers grazed the cool metal that hid inside your pocket. You killed him.

As you took a breath in, you understood why addicts so desperately chased the high of their choice, you could only imagine it felt something like this. The adrenaline that pumped through your veins made you feel like you were on cloud nine.

You stepped away from the door, slipping off your soggy beaten-up sneakers before peeling yourself out of your sopping jacket. You'd been feeling so blissful you'd hardly realized just how uncomfortable the rain had made the state of your clothes.

You made your way into the kitchen, pulling out the knife over the sink, your body involuntarily shivered at the sight of the dried splatter that covered the shiny metal blade. You turned on the faucet to a burning degree before placing the blade under the rushing water. With your hands still gloved, the scalding water had little effect on your skin, instead, it was a comforting dull warmth under the thick leather. You rubbed your thumb against the blade, scraping away the evidence of the crime, before placing the knife in the dishwasher, as if were just any other utensil.

Still relishing your high, you decided it was high time to clean up, the rain had left you feeling mildly filthy. You headed down the darkened hallway of your apartment, making a sharp turn into your bedroom and flipping on the light.

A loud gasp escaped your mouth and your stomach flipped right around once the soft warm light from above hit your room. There was someone in your bed. Your body stiffened and you tried not to scream as the paranoia set in, the figure moved. You tried to run but you couldn't, you felt glued to the spot right up against your doorframe.

They flipped over, and just as you felt yourself about to scream-

"Jesus fucking christ Ryan, you scared me!" You scolded, a sigh of relief leaving your lungs at the sight of a face you'd recognized, though, were not thrilled to have in your house. The high of the night immediately dissipated once the initial relief of not having a stranger laid in your bed set in. You ran a hand through your drenched hair as an overwhelming feeling of utter dread washed over you, why tonight. His being here most certainly put a very big wrench in your plans.

The man who laid in your bed, staring back at you, Ryan, you supposed you'd been... "dating" him for the last few months... you guess. Sometimes you felt more like he was dating you, but that you weren't dating him. There was little a spark between the two of you, or at least that's how you felt, but despite the man having the personality of a soggy napkin, he made you feel normal.

"I'm sorry baby." He said in a low chuckle, clearly finding your startled appearance humorous, "You just- you weren't answering your phone- no one could get into contact with you."

"So you broke into my house?" You suppressed a groan.

"Well, I, didn't break in... you told me where you keep the spare key." He defended with a sweet smile on his face.

You placed your hand on your forehead and rubbed for a moment, before slipping your fingertips back up to your scalp and carding them through your hair once more.

"I didn't tell you where that was so you could break into my house unannounced." You sigh, "I- whatever." You shake your head, deciding not to argue, you'd already had an eventful night.

You step further into your room, beginning to continue peeling yourself out of your damp clothing.

"Where were you tonight?"

"Had some errands to run." You said, your voice muffled by you pulling the hoodie you had on over your head. You discarded the wet garment, tossing it somewhere in your room.

"This late? In the rain?" He questioned.

"Yeah... I ran out of um-" You squeezed your eyes tight, Come on, think of something, think "-of... toilet paper... so I needed to... get some." You nodded, feigning confidence in your story. You took a deep breath in, anxiously awaiting his response.

"Oh. Makes sense... yeah."

You looked away from him once again to remove another soaking article of clothing. You reached your fingertips under the hem of your t-shirt, bringing the soggy material over your head.

"Hey y/n, who is he?"

"What?" You said, your muscles going a little bit rigid as you dropped your t-shirt on the floor. Was he accusing you of cheating? You turned around to face the man, "What are you talking about?"

"Him," He said, gesturing towards your bedside table. You furrowed your eyebrows, unsure of what he was talking about, you're not a fucking mind reader after all.

"What?" You repeat again. Ryan leans over the side of your bed and picks up the picture frame that resides on your bedside table. As his fingers touch the faded wood of the frame you're suddenly filled with nearly unjustifiable rage.

"Don't touch that!" You scold, making Ryan contort his face in shock at your sudden raise change of volume.

"I-Sorry, I've meant to ask before, but I- I just wanted to know who the next to you guy in the picture was..."

Having already dug up a little too much of your past today, you weren't exactly eager to answer Ryan's question. Your throat tightened as you answered,

"A childhood friend." You shook your head, "He's, a childhood friend."

"A friend?" Ryan asked back, "You just yelled at me for touching a picture of him, he's just a friend? What, is he dead or something?"

Oh, he'd done it now.

"That's not funny, don't talk like that!" You reprimand once again, a certain defensiveness in your voice.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry. Come on now. You can be honest, who is he?"

"You're not going to drop this, are you?" You sigh.

"Nope." He responded, popping the P sound in the word. Deep down you knew he didn't know any better, but you were wildly disgusted at him for treating this situation with such little consideration.

You eye Ryan from where he sits on the bed, and then turn your gaze to yourself, looking down at what you could see of your lower body. There you stood, in front of this guy you'd been hooking up with for the last few months, soaked, in nothing but your underwear, having literally just killed someone to prove your loyalty to another man, and now you're about to bear one of your most protected childhood memories. What a fucking night.

Your emotions were seemingly everywhere, and nowhere all at once, and you sighed as you sat down on the edge of the bed, trying desperately to figure out how you were going to tell this story without losing your mind.

You looked down at your feet, unable to look Ryan in the eyes as you began.

"His name was Edward." You mumbled, "He was uh, we grew up together, in the orphanage- you know."

"Oh, so you two were pretty close?"

You picked your head up from where you'd been looking down, and you chuckled in your best attempt to hold back the choking sob that at this point was desperate to come out, "I- uh- yeah- I thought I was going to marry him, honestly." You look back down at the ground, trying your hardest to keep your voice light-hearted, sneaking in stifled little fake laughs here and there, "But, that's- it was stupid- we were just kids." You shake your head.

"So, what happened then?"

"I got into some trouble not too long after I turned 16..." An arm snakes around your side, holding itself firm against your exposed stomach, "I guess the members of the clergy thought it was best that I rehabilitated my behavior elsewhere- or whatever. Got shipped off to some boarding school for troubled youth in the middle of nowhere. Never saw him, or any of my friends again." You speak somewhat nonchalantly, trying your best to separate yourself from the memories that were threatening to come forth in your head.

"Oh... I'm sorry." Ryan speaks slowly, a hint of condolence in his voice, "What sort of trouble?"

You look over at the man, unwilling to give up so much to him so soon,

"I just made some stupid choices as a teenager" You shake your head, trying to play things cool, you throw a hand up in faked ambivalence, "Choices with some tough consequences. That's all." You swipe your hand across your nose, sniffling before tucking your hair behind your ears, "I'm not like a felon or anything, I never did anything too terrible- just by the church's standards." You laugh awkwardly.

"Oh- no- yeah I get it." He nods, "Surprised you came back to Gotham though, afterward- I mean."

"Yeah," You nod, "I guess- well by the time I was finished with school, I was just a scared 18-year-old with nowhere to go and- Gotham was the only place I was familiar with." You shrug.

Ryan clicks his tongue making a tsk sound as his head bounces slightly up and down. "Sorry about your friend though," He glances back over to the picture, "You looked happy with him."

"I was-" You scrunch your mouth to one side, and then the other before your face falls flat once more, "That picture," you point at the picture frame, "One of my school friends took it, she threw me a small party for my 16th birthday at her house, it's one of my happiest memories." You breathe in and tilt your head back slightly, trying to hold back the tears that were tempting your eyes. You blink a few times and shake your head, "But, god, It's okay, y'know, I haven't seen any of them in like-over 10 years, I'm sure we've all moved on since then."

"Well, at least you still have the memories."

"Yeah," You nod, choking back tears, you quickly turn your head back to Ryan, "I'm gonna... go take a shower."

"Without me?" He smirks as you begin to get off the bed.

"Yeah," You suck on your tongue for a second, "I feel pretty gross from the rain, I don't think it'll be very sexy. I'll be right back!" You scurry out of the room before he could answer, the lingering feelings of your prior conversation making you cringe as you head to the bathroom.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, and as soon as you heard it click shut you felt the tears begin to pour down your cheeks. You raised a hand to your face to wipe them away but the warm drops fell down your face too fast for you to consistently catch them all.

You rested your hand on the bridge of your nose, pressing the sides of your fingers hard into the cartilage, reflecting on the last 5 minutes of your night alone.

A friend? Your face twisted, scrunching up your nose as your mouth contorted into a scowl. You ran your tongue across your teeth, sucking lightly as you shook your head back and forth, disgusted with yourself. How could you sit there and just call him a friend?

You bit your lip, suppressing the urge to scream as you lifted your head. Your tears began to drip down to the back of your face. You scooped what you could of your sobs off your face and made your way to the shower, turning on the faucet. You backed away from the flowing water as the bathroom began to fill with steam. A warm, white misty haze settled all over the bland tile scape. Your hand reached around to your back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall against the ground before pulling your panties down your legs and kicking them off to the side.

A small jolt ran through your body as a leg entered the shower, unprepared for the water to have been so hot. You took ahold of the metal handle and turned the temperature of the water down slightly until a steady, warm stream rained down on you. The patter of the showerhead washed away the ever-present flow of tears on your face.

You let the water fall against your body for a moment, basking in its warmth, trying to calm down from everything you'd been through tonight. Flashes of memories peaked through your tightly closed eyes, the knife in Father Benjamin's chest, waking up to blood on your sheets, the feeling of soft lips against yours, that cold infirmary room, spending first period huddled over a school toilet, the night you met Ryan. Every inch of your life seemed to race by in small increments until you opened your eyes, unable to take the burden that each moment held. You shook away the thoughts, bending down to pump some shampoo into your hand.

You lather the light pearlescent substance into your hair, deeply massaging your scalp with the tips of your fingers. You made sure to get the suds in between each and all of the tens of thousands of strands of hair that sat on your head, tugging at your roots to wash away all of the rain's grime.

You tip your head back under the water, continuing to massage your scalp, as your eyes shut softly. Your thoughts began to disappear elsewhere as you recalled the picture Ryan had pointed out earlier, your smiling face as you clung to the side of that awkwardly lanky boy, the reflection of the camera in his taped-up glasses was clear as day in your mind. You breathed in deeply, as the memory began to consume you.

-

"Ooh! Me next! Open mine next!" The blonde girl next to you said, her voice over-bubbly with intoxication. With a smile, her hands pressed together as she claps excitedly. She picks up a bright pink wrapped box beside her and hands it to you.

"Thank you, Jessie," You give her a mildly intoxicated smile, taking the box and resting it in your lap. You peel off the matching sparkly pink bow from atop the box before digging your nails into one of the gaps in the paper, tearing it off. You grab the top of the box and let it slide off where you noticed whatever sat at the bottom was wrapped in hot pink tissue paper, you grinned at the coordination of everything. Your fingers pulled back the crinkled paper as your jaw dropped slightly at what was inside. "No fucking way!" You exclaim as you reach inside the box. You smile as your fingers graze over the fabric of a brand-new pair of jeans. God, you couldn't remember the last time you'd gotten clothes from somewhere other than the thrift store.

"What is it?" Another voice across the room asked, forcefully.

"Shut up, Allan!" Jessie retorts to the voice across the room before turning towards you, "Look! There's more under that!" She continues happily.

You look up at Jessie with a smile, before returning to the box, which unveiled a couple of shirts that had sat under the pair of jeans, shirts you specifically remember eyeing last time you went to the mall.

"Oh! Jessie!" You practically shout, "Thank you! Oh my god!" You smile wildly at the blonde girl, endlessly thankful for her kindness.

"Oh it's no biggie! It's your 16th birthday! That's big! You deserve it."

You place the box back on the floor in front of you.

"Okay!" Jessie announces, "Can you please open Edward's gift now! He won't tell any of us what it is! The anticipation is killing me!"

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow at the boy who sits on the other side of you as you pick up a red plastic cup off the carpet. "Secretive, now are we?" Your inquisitive glare turns into a smile before you press the cup against your lips and tilt it back. You wince slightly as the taste of cheap liquor and warm soda hits your taste buds.

"Mhm." Edward nods, a sly smile on his boyish face. You place the cup down once again.

"Well, give it to me, hm?" You say, reaching out your arms. Edward grabs the well-wrapped box off his lap and hands it to you.

"I hope you like it." Edward's smile becomes a bit sheepish as you take the present into your hands.

"It's from you Eddie, of course, I already like it!" You giggle, eyeing him up and down fondly.

"God, y/n! When did you get so fucking corny?" Allan yells from across the room.

"I'm not being corny! It's the truth!" You whip your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him.

"Shut up, Allan!" Jessie repeats once again.

"Whatever. Open it! Open it!" Allan urges.

"Okay! Jeez!" You begin to tear off the paper from the box until it was just bare and white. You dug a nail under the tape of the box, peeling that open as well before lifting the top.

"Edward!" You gasped as you looked down in the box. Below you sat packaged a small iPod and some nice-looking headphones. A huge smile overcame your face as your body began to heat up. "You didn't have to-oh! That's too much money." You look back up, placing one hand over Edward's as it lay in his lap.

Edward shook his head, "No, like Jessie said, you deserve it- I know you like your music and whatnot- and so- you know- I picked up some extra shifts at work."

"Awww!" Jessie interjected, directing her gaze to you, "He took extra shifts for you!" She then shifted her focus to both you and Edward, "Can you guys just admit you're in love already!"

You didn't need a mirror to know you'd turned bright pink, you felt the warmth pricking under your cheeks in a shameful blush. You nervously glanced over to Edward who looked the same as you assumed you'd looked. Edward looked down at his lap, pushing up his thin wire-rimmed glasses with his free hand, his fingertip grazing their taped-up center.

"Yeah, really, stop being pussies and just bone already, god!" Allan nagged at the two of you.

"Don't be gross!" Jessie scolded.

"Sorry- You laughed nervously, directing your attention towards Edward. "Really though, thank you, Eddie, even though your gift kind of makes me gifting you a book of crossword puzzles for your birthday look really fucking lame."

"I didn't think it was lame at all." Edward shook his head, "I use it every day."

"You're too sweet Eddie."

"You are too,"

Suddenly, a strange bout of confidence hit you as you gazed into Edward's naturally sad-looking eyes. "Thank you so much, Eddie," you grin before leaning forward and placing a small kiss against his lips.

The quick peck had Edward's face turning bright pink as you pulled back only a few inches with a goofy smile, trying your absolute best (and failing) to play it cool, pretending your heart wasn't racing in your chest. Edward raised his hand to graze your cheek, and with hesitance he leaned in again, kissing you this time.

Your eyes closed almost involuntarily as his lips touched yours, your head turning slightly so you could get closer to him. You placed both of your hands on his shoulders, and your fingers were placed firmly into his skin as if holding him in place. But as Edward's other hand came to hold your face you slipped your hands from his shoulders and wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, pushing yourself close to him. The sudden pressure of you leaning into Edward made his body fall backward slightly.

The kiss was only broken by Allan whistling loudly. The noise startled you both causing Edward's already fragile, trembling body to fall all the way backward, taking you down with him. You pull away once again, giggling as you look down at Edward from where he was laying below you. He's smiling back up at you, a real, genuine smile, something you weren't always used to from him which only makes you want to kiss him again, and again, and again if it means you can see him smile like that a few more times.

Allan yells some vulgar words of encouragement to Edward, but you can barely hear it over the sound of your heart beating. Edward removes his hand from your cheeks and without the small force of him holding you up you let your head fall against his chest. Just under his skin, you can hear a thumping similar to your own, making you smile as you push your cheek up against the worn-out fabric of his T-shirt.

"Hey, uh- can you just hang out in the living room real quick while I get dressed?" You stand at the entrance to your room, resting a bare shoulder against its wooden frame.

"What?" Ryan looks up at you, giving you a look that's somewhat akin to a lost puppy. The faked innocence on his face makes you want to shrivel up inside. He laughs with feigned confidence, "You know I've seen you naked before, right?"

"What's that have to do with anything?"

"Well if you're worried about me seeing you change it's nothing I haven't seen be-"

"I'm not worried." You cut him off, "I just want to get dressed by myself." You cross your arms over your towel-clad chest, trying your best to display your annoyance without being too harsh about it.

"Alright," Ryan says, stretching out the i sound and emphasizing the t, awkwardly nodding his head out of some minute embarrassment. He flashes you a shy smile as he walks past you in the doorway.

You cannot shut the door behind him fast enough, your heart beginning to race wildly as you eagerly raced to your bed, picking your laptop up from where it lay on the floor. You didn't care that you were still only dressed in your towel, your hair and body still sopping wet, you had more important things to tend to now. You bring the computer to your lap, your fingers type furiously on the keys, pulling up the Riddler's website.

You sigh, relieved that there have been no updates to the website in the few hours that it had been since you last checked it. You make your way to The Riddler's last post, your brain working furiously as it tried to drum up the right words to describe your work tonight. You clicked to add a comment before bringing your anxious fingers to your lips, you needed to make an impression, you needed to make him notice your comment out of all the others.

You moved your hand back to the keyboard and flexed your fingers a few times before finally resting them back on the keys as you nervously typed out your comment.

Riddler, I cannot thank you enough for your work. You have inspired me beyond words, I have a new hope for the city now, all thanks to you. Sometime in the early morning when the most devoted of Christ's followers awake to attend their morning mass they will be given quite a shock. Poor, poor Father Benjamin has met his demise, and what remains of his tainted blood is spilling from his brain and chest as I speak. Thank you for giving me the courage to do what I've been yearning for since I was young, Father Benjamin has taken so much from the innocent of our city, he leaves behind nothing but a legacy of corruption and grief, he's gotten what he deserved.

I hope you know what a mark you've left on your followers, I hope you understand our devotion. You symbolize a new hope for Gotham's forgotten, the proletariat, those not touched by the city's greed. I hope to prove to you that you are more than just a guy in a mask, you ARE the future of Gotham, YOU are vengeance, YOU are justice, and you are a revolutionary. This is only the beginning.

You lean back and reread your comment over and over again, nitpicking each and every little nuance, making sure it's perfect. You rubbed your now clammy hands together before holding them in a loose prayer position and pressing your fingers to your lips. Little in your life had ever made you this jumpy with excitement. Your brain for a split moment retreated to that 16th birthday party, that feeling of gentle hands on your cheeks had been imprinted on your skin permanently, like a scar. You quickly shook away the memory, trying your best not to let yourself get back in your head again, wishing your brain didn't fight so hard to live in those ephemeral halcyon days.

With a sharp breath in you posted your comment, you'd done a lot of risky shit in your life, but nothing had felt quite like this before. Anticipation knocked at your nerves, prompting you to get out of bed and walk around your room. You walked over to your dresser and hastily pulled out a t-shirt without looking.

You dropped your towel and pulled the shirt over your head, pausing momentarily as you went to bring the shirt down your midsection, your fingers passing over the fabric, feeling just how soft this shirt was in particular from being so worn. Your eyes widened as you let the shirt fall over the rest of your body. Just your luck. You snapped your head towards your mirror, staring at yourself in its reflection. Your mouth fell into a small frown as you placed your fingers on your chest, softly grazing over the faded-out Radiohead logo.

For once in your life, you were thankful you didn't have breakfast as you kneeled hunched over the school toilet, spitting out what remained of the bile and saliva in your mouth.

You couldn't understand, this was the third day in a row you'd found yourself getting sick. There was some sort of ever-present nausea that you couldn't get rid of. You feared that this was not a one-off instance like you'd originally thought, acute panic set in at the realization that something may actually be wrong with you.

You picked your head up from where it had been bent over, screwing your eyes shut tight as you flushed the toilet, opting not to look at the remains of what little you'd eaten over the last few days. You got off your knees as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and rested back against the stall door, blinking away the tears that were welling up in your eyes. God, how embarrassing this was.

You took a deep breath in, realizing just how hot you'd gotten and just how disgusting you felt. You looked down at yourself, a small, light orange stain on your white shirt catching your eye. The sight nearly made you gag all over again. You hit your head against the stall door, "Fuck!" you let out, exasperated, trying to think of what to do. You squeezed your eyes tight, trying to figure out where you could possibly find a change of clothes.

If you remembered correctly, you had one safe bet of getting a new shirt. Mustering up all your strength, your shaky knees nearly buckling, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and let yourself out of the stall. You head to the sink, pinching the rusted metal handles to turn on the tap. You held back your hair with a tight fist as you pushed your face under the cold running water, letting it fall into your mouth. The poorly-filtered water had a bitter, metallic taste, but anything was better than the warm acerbic aftertaste of your stomach acids.

You picked your head up from the tap and swished the water around your mouth before spitting it out back into the sink. You looked at your reflection as your head whipped up once more, noticing how drained of color your face had gotten. Deciding to worry about your health another time, you hastily left the bathroom, rushing to get to your destination before the bell rang.

You traversed what seemed like endless hallways until finally reached where you needed to be, with a couple seconds to spare. You leaned against the crumbling tile wall outside one of the classrooms, fidgeting with your fingers and rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet. Your head turned back and forth, looking up and down the hallways on either side of you until the bell rang. You watched intently as students hurried out of the classroom until you finally caught sight of who you needed.

You reached out and grabbed Edward's scrawny arm, pulling him away from the hoard of his classmates. He jumped slightly under your touch, his startled look quickly fading into a smile as his eyes met you.

"You scared me I didn't expect you to gra- hey, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost?" His smile slowly faded to a look of concern.

You looked back and forth once more, tapping your shoe against the tile floor, waiting for the area to clear out. You looked back at Edward, eyeing his clothes up and down, relieved when you saw an ill-fitting flannel layered over a Radiohead T-shirt he'd found at a charity shop a few months ago.

"Can I have your shirt?" You ask poking him in the stomach slightly as you point forwards, making him flinch.

"Of course," he nods, "What's wrong?" His eyebrows furrow behind his glasses.

"I uhhh..." You trail off as someone walks past the two of you. You reach out and grab both of Edward's hands, holding them out in front of you before pulling him a little closer to you. His lanky frame stands over you, and he looks down with a small smile, giving your hands a small, reassuring squeeze. Now determining the coast was clear you start back up once more just above a whisper, "I- got sick again. And-" You try to hide your disgust as best as you can, trying to keep your face as straight as possible, "Some of it got on my shirt, I guess." You wince.

Edward's head cocks to the side and his mouth drops slightly. One of his hands escapes from your grasp and comes up to rest on the back of your neck, "Y/n..." He starts in a quiet voice, "I think we should I don't know, go to the doctor or something- I'm worried about you, this is the third day in a row."

"Edward," You shake your head, "I'm worried too but can we please just not have this conversation right now." You look up at him with pleading eyes. "I just need your shirt."

"Alright. It's worth having some time, at least. Even if you just go to the nurse maybe she cou-"

"Edward." You cut him off. His hand drops from the back of your neck and he nods.

"Yeah- just let me change."

You drop his other hand as the two of you walk towards the bathrooms. The hallways are empty as the bell rings again, signifying the start of the next period, but, you'd never cared much about your attendance.

"I'll be right out," Edward says as the two of you reach the boy's bathroom. You give him a sharp nod, tightening your lips into a thin line as he walks off into the bathroom.

You stand against the wall and resume rocking back and forth, your thumb rests just against your lip as you anxiously bite at the nail. The fingers on your opposite hand drum at the side of your thigh as your mind races with possibilities of what could be wrong with you. You shiver at the thought of any of them, hoping that this was simply just brought about by stress, or maybe you were just getting your period soon.

Maybe deep down you knew that the way you'd been feeling was far too severe for it to be either of those things, but, they were pretty little solutions you could use to keep you distracted from the almost glaringly obvious.

You see Edward come out of the bathroom out of the corner of your eye and you quickly turn to him. His T-shirt is crumpled up in a ball as he stands in front of you, his loose flannel sits upon his gangly frame. The ill-fitting fabric droops down at his front, slightly exposing a collarbone. You look up at him, his glasses are slightly crooked on his face, and his hair is just barely out of place. His appearance makes a smile grow on your face and you nearly forget all of the anxieties from mear seconds ago. You stand up on your toes and smooth out Edward's shaggy hair before adjusting his glasses against his nose.

"Oh." Edward chuckles, seemingly unaware of his disheveled appearance.

"You're too cute." You giggle before giving him a small kiss on the cheek. "Too cute Eddie." He's blushing at your adulation, squeezing the balled-up T-shirt in his hands between his fingers. "Wait-ew" You furrow your eyebrows and shake your head, laughing a little, "Sorry, should've waited until I could brush my teeth." You drop your feet down flat again.

"No-no it's okay, I don't mind."

"You're too lenient with me Eddie," You chuckle as you adjust the flannel on his shoulders. "There we go." You say, satisfied with his fixed appearance.

Edward outstretches his arms to hand you his shirt, "I'll wait here for you." He gives you a small smile, nudging the balled-up shirt towards you. You give him a nod, taking the fabric from his hands.

You're back in the bathroom stall now, dropping your backpack and stripping off your stained shirt. You peel the sullied fabric away from your sticky, sweat-stricken skin and replace it with Edward's T-shirt.

A smile pulled at your cheeks almost reflexively when the garment passed over your head. The soft, worn garment carried Eddie's faint scent, making you blush as warm thoughts of him moved through your brain. The shirt fell the rest of the way down your midsection, and you grabbed your backpack and left the stall.

You quickly glanced past the mirror to briefly check out your reflection. The t-shirt was ill-fitted for your body, but you found it hard to mind, rather you focused on the strange overjoyed feeling that filled you from wearing Edward's clothes.

You walked out of the bathroom, the sound of the opening door alerting Edward of your presence. He turns to look at you and you notice him take a deep breath in as he looks at you with a stunned look on his face.

"Are you alright, Edward?" You frown.

"Yeah- yeah I'm okay." Edward shoves his hands deep in his pockets and steps up on the balls of his feet before falling back on his heels, anxiously repeating the action a few times over, "It's just- wow." He shakes his head, "You are so beautiful."

You awoke in a state of confusion, as the nearly-afternoon sun shone in your eyes as they opened slightly.

You peered out of your still nearly entirely closed eyes, your sleep obfuscated gaze focusing on the spot next to you, nobody was there. You pushed the heavy comforter off your body with a sudden burst of energy and picked your upper body up with what little strength the morning brought your lower arms. Your clothes were still on.

You rubbed your eyes as you rested your sat-up body against a pillow, finally feeling fit to open your eyes completely. You looked around at your room, then back at the empty spot next to you.

Ryan must have gone home, you deduced as you thought back to last night.

Shit. Last night.

Scrambling, you frantically reached over the side of your bed as the beating in your chest began to pick up. You grabbed your laptop from off your floor and pulled it up to your lap, anxious. You tapped at the space just below the keyboard, waiting for the computer to turn on.

The bright light of the sign-in screen finally hit your eyes and you frantically entered in your password.

"Come on, come on." You egged on the inanimate object, your leg shaking below you. Finally, you were signed in and you scrambled to your search engine, furiously making your way to the Riddler's website. Your stomach flipped as you began typing in the URL, the frequently visited website quickly filling in the autocomplete.

As you pressed 'enter' you felt your heart drop right down to your stomach. You'd not been taken to the usual Riddler's website, instead, you were greeted with a black screen, a small, blinking question mark sat in the upper left corner.

"Shit. Shit. Shit." You cursed, "What the fuck!"

Soon the green question mark disappeared, instead now being replaced with an insertion point. You swallowed harshly as text began to appear on the page.

I've been waiting for you...

Your eyes went wide, was this - no way. You stared at your computer screen for a few moments, unsure of what to do. Had the website been compromised? Who was talking to you?

Cat got your tongue?

A new line of dialogue appeared. You placed your hands on the keyboard,

Who is this?

Come on, I thought you were smarter than this, who else would it be?

Are you the Riddler?

You type fervently, your body racked with anxiety at the thought that you could really be talking to The Riddler right now.

There we go... now we're thinking!

"Holy fucking shit." Your fingers grazed over your computer's keys, restraining yourself from making some sort of crazed proclamation of love. You tapped against the keys, dumbfounded, at a complete and utter loss of what to say.

I saw the news... what an act of dedication! I've nearly been moved to tears knowing I've made such an impact.

Your face becomes flushed with a bright pink, a smile forming across your face. He noticed, he really really noticed you.

You noticed...

Of course, I noticed... That's why I just had to speak with you.

You placed your hand over your mouth, your fingers rubbed over your lips, unsure of how to even respond at such a comment. You took a sharp breath in,

You don't know what that means to me. I hope you understand your words have changed my life.

That's always been the goal. Change. Father Benjamin was a loathsome man. Still, I'm almost surprised someone got the job done before me.

He knew about the Father.

You know of Father Benjamin's ills?

I grew up from a seed, as tough as a weed. But in a mansion, in a slum, I'll never know where I come from. Do you know what I am?

You read the text a few times over again, racking your brain as to what he could have possibly meant. You were never very good at Riddles.

Mansion... in a slum... shit. You had it.

An orphan?

Precisely. Given your grievances with the Father, may I presume you are too?

You furrowed your eyebrows, entirely dumbfounded. The Riddler had been an orphan too?

Yes. I was. And Father Benjamin took EVERYTHING from me.

As he did for I.

A smile found its way onto your face, and your heart beat wildly at your newfound discovery of how much you and The Riddler had in common.

How about we unmask Father Benjamin together?

Just when you thought the manic grin on your face could not possibly get any wider. You'd wanted to get the Riddler's attention, but this, this was far more than you could have ever imagined. He wanted to work with you. Your breathing turned to a dangerous heave.

Are you still there?

Yes. Please. I want nothing more than to unmask that man. With you.

Good. Meet me where it all began. 19:00.

It had taken you a moment to figure out what the Riddler had meant, where it all began. But, having thought on it, there was only one possible place that it could have been. The orphanage.

Part of you debating not turning up, perhaps this had all been an elaborate scheme, a set-up by the cops. You'd paced your apartment like a madwoman for hours, arguing with yourself back and forth about what to do before ultimately deciding to go. You'd worshipped this man, the Riddler gave your life meaning again, and you'd be damned if you were going to miss your shot at teaming up with him.

The building had fallen apart, most of it reduced to ash and rubble after that fire a few years back. All that was left were some meager remnants of rooms and hallways. Even prior to the fire, it had always been hard to imagine that the orphanage was once a grand mansion where Gotham's most elite family found themselves living out their day-to-day.

With cautious moves, clad in black from head to toe, and a simple mask hung across the lower half of your face (you, clearly, did not have the same time for elaborate costuming like the Riddler) you wandered nearer in to the decaying orphanage. Your building anticipation of meeting your masked idol was still, simply not strong enough to repress the memories you'd had here.

Your shoes kicked up dust as you walked along a barren hallway, painfully aware of where you were even given the destitute state of your surroundings. You peered off to your side, your eyes landing on what remained of a cold, white room, involuntarily, your throat constricted at the sight.

-

Finally mustering up some strength you removed your arms from your aching stomach and gently stepped down from the exam table, trying your best not to collapse to the ground as your knees threatened to buckle under you. You sniffed loudly, wiping away the tears from your reddened cheeks that had been nearly rubbed raw by now.

Any semblance of self-worth you possessed had seemed to dissipate, perhaps the father was right, maybe you were filthy, maybe you didn't belong here. The future looked morose- but maybe that's what you deserved.

Your teeth gnawed at the insides of your cheeks as you made your hesitant journey over to the door to exit the infirmary. There was no easy way to explain what had happened today, but you knew you owed Edward that much- and he could pass the news onto the rest of your friends, seeing you wouldn't be around in Gotham long enough to say goodbye.

You touched your hand to the cool metal of the doorknob, taking a deep breath in before turning it. As the door swung open you're caught off guard by Edward standing right in front of you out in the hallway. Your bottom lip begins to quiver under his careful gaze, he looks sadder than usual.

"How long have you been there?" You ask, halfway hiding behind the door.

"Awhile." His answer is short and sullen.

"How much did you hear?"

"Why is he sending you away- I don't understand- what happened?" Edward's voice suddenly picks up and he's panicked. "I just- I've been waiting here since I woke up- everyone's been talking, something about bloody sheets..." His voice trails off, "I don't understand."

"What do you mean everyone's been talking?" You step out from your spot behind the door, but only slightly, "What have they been saying?"

"Some of the girls- they said they woke up and you weren't there- all that was left behind was your sheets- covered in blood- Y/n please- I don't understand, what happened, where are you going?"

"Oh." You finally step out into the hallway completely. You look into Edward's eyes, hoping to find some hope that he's at least on the track of figuring out what's happened so you could avoid the explanation. But all you find is lost desperation in those sad, wet eyes. "You haven't figured it out?"

"Figured, what out y/n? Please just tell me." His voice cracks and you can tell he's close to tears.

"Edward..." You trail off to a whisper, your eyes screw closed, your mouth pursing into a straight line to prevent a loud sob from escaping your lips. A tear escapes down your cheek as you open your eyes back up and you inhale, "I've been getting sick, and now I- I woke up bleeding." You explain, hoping Edward could just put the two together. He was so good at solving things, this was much easier than a riddle. Why couldn't he just get it?

Edward's mouth drops slightly and he shakes his head, "No-" He cuts himself off before speaking again, "It was only once- we were safe- I didn't get you-"

You nodded your head- he solved it.

"Oh god." He inhales, and his mouth hangs open for a moment as he shakes his head, panicked. "This is all my fault." His eyes open wide and a few tears escape.

"Eddie-" You start, "Please, no- please don't blame yourself. If I just listened to you when I first got sick I could have taken care of it- but now." You look down at the floor, "I guess my body's done that for me." You look back up at Edward who's still staring dumbfounded but you don't know what to say- there's nothing you could possibly say to make this any easier for either of you.

You just about throw yourself against Edward, "I don't know why it happened-" You begin to sob into the crook of his neck, wrapping your arms around his back. You grip onto his T-shirt so tight that your knuckles turn white. "It just- it did- and I'm in so much pain- and I feel so sad like someone's died, and now I'm- Father Benjamin is sending me away- he told me that I'm filthy for what I've done- that I don't belong here." Your words are muffled by your choked sobs and Edward's skin, but they're still comprehendable.

Edward's arms wrap around you and he holds you far tighter than you've ever been held before. As much as he tries to stifle his sobs, you can hear him crying too, which breaks your heart right in half. "You're not filthy. You're such a sweet girl" His broken voice barely manages out. "My sweet girl. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." He weeps into your shoulder, "I don't understand- you don't deserve this."

Despite having gone through one of the most traumatic events your body can naturally put itself through, somehow your heart seemed to ache more for Eddie- for as long as you could remember he had been your everything. Your oldest friend- at times even your only friend. You knew you were young but, you were certain you'd never feel this way for someone again. You let out a hysterical weep into his shoulder, stinging your throat as the high-pitched noise moves through your strained vocal cords. The sound of your cry only makes Edward hold you tighter, letting out a soft, soothing "shhh" between his lips.

"Eddie?" You sniffle.

"Yes?"

"You know, whenever I can't sleep at night, I just- I think about you- about you and I- about us. I imagine us all grown up and happy, and in love- and god it's so cheesy, it's so embarrassing- but it makes me so happy- and I- I just want you to know I won't ever let go of that fantasy." You continue to cry into his shoulder, your tears soaking the fabric of his shirt. "I'm going to love you forever Eddie, until I die, I swear."

"Me too Y/n," His breath is warm against the skin of your neck, as he exhales, "Forever."

You lift your head from where it lies on Edward's shoulder, your entire face is now red and puffy, and your head throbs from all of the water you've lost today through your eyes alone. Edward's head rises as well, and you both look at each other through teary eyes. Edward's hands come up to hold either side of your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb.

He still looks so beautiful, even as his face is stricken with unimaginable grief, his eyes red and puffy under his crooked glasses, and his nose irritated and runny.

"God, who's going to fix your hair- and your glasses when I'm gone. You're going to look like a mess!" You try to laugh through the tears, lifting up your hands to straighten out his glasses.

"When you're gone it won't matter if I look a mess since I won't have anyone I want to look nice for." Edward gives you a weak chuckle.

"Oh Eddie," You sigh, giving him a frown, "I love you so much."

"I love you too Y/n."

After a long shared glance through teary eyes Edward presses his lips to yours, and you savor the taste, knowing this could very well be one of the last times you ever feel his lips on yours.

-

You're pulled from your somber thoughts by the sound of heavy boots shuffling behind you. You take in a sharp inhale, the tears that were forming in your eyes seem to desiccate almost instantly.

"You came." A muffled voice says from behind you. Your body goes stiff and you suddenly lift up your back, fixing your posture at the familiar voice. The Riddler.

You spin around on your heels, and there he is standing not but a few feet away. You're spellbound from the moment your eyes turn upon him, he's real- and he's in front of you. As scary as he came off in his videos, he was much more intimidating in person, only a vague outline of a person with nearly no sign of animate life aside from his piercing green eyes that look to be staring right through you. He's taller than you expect, even from a distance he appears to tower over you.

You can barely manage a breath out, strained, you try your best, "Of course I did." Your words only barely muffled by the fabric of your mask.

"There's no need to be nervous." He steps closer, "I only bite those with bitter blood."

You shake your head, and clasp your now clammy hands together behind your back, "No, I'm not worried about being hurt." You respond, awestruck, looking up at him with big eyes full of adoration, "You're just- you've inspired me so. I can't believe I'm here with you."

He lets out a chuckle that goes on for just a little too long, and is just a little too animalistic.

"I appreciate the flattery- but it's you I should be thanking, for your devotion, for your dedication to making a change." The way he speaks is nearly theatrical, it's almost identical to the same histrionics he exhibits in his videos.

"Father Benjamin needed to be taken care of, you helped me recognize that."

"Good." He lets out a long exhale, "We will unmask that vermin together then."

You nod.

The Riddler is now finally standing right in front of you. He takes a moment to look you up and down with a careful eye, his intense gaze sending shivers down your spine. You attempt not to squirm under his gaze, a task which you find difficult from the overwhelming power he exudes alone. As he looks you can quickly see a glimmer of something in his eyes before it fades away and you're left questioning what it is that he saw that made him perk up like that.

"Now, I must ask, if we are to unmask the man, do you have any personal grievances with the father? Outside of his, greedy nature."

You swallow harshly, wondering if you should tell him,

"I do- but it's not necessarily something I want out."

"Then why are we doing this if not to air our grievances? If the Father has done something corrupt it is the right of the citizens of Gotham to know!" The Riddler becomes agitated, his sudden change of tone frightens you, and most of all you worry you'll disappoint him.

"Okay, okay." You nod, "I just- I haven't told anyone this since it happened."

"No one needs to know it was you, that's the best part about wearing a mask- the truth won't come back to bite you. Go on, spill." He urges with a forceful tone in his voice.

You looked up at The Riddler, your heart beating wildly as you prepared to tell this strange man the most intimate details of your life, getting ready to say the words you'd barely even said to Edward at the time. With a nervous swallow you began,

"When I was 16..." You began, "My- uh- my boyfriend who was also an orphan he- he got me pregnant. And I guess I um- before I realized I was even pregnant- I guess I- I miscarried-" You could feel the tears beginning to form in your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks with even the slightest movement. "It was early on, only a few weeks so it was nothing brutal but- both the clergy and I found out when I woke up having bled through my sheets. And Father Benjamin, having decided I was unclean for having premarital sex, sent me to some, god, some crazy religious boarding school- and I never saw my boyfriend or any of my friends again." You're no longer looking at the Riddler, instead, your eyes are down at your feet as you fit your lip between your teeth, trying not to cry.

Suddenly you feel a pair of hands on your cheeks, catching you off guard.

"Y/n?" He asks. The sudden mention of your name catches you even more off guard than him touching you. Your stomach throws itself for a loop as you fling your head up. In between the mask and his big thick glasses you can barely tell that his eyes are wet, as if he's about to cry. You stare into his eyes just a little harder, and your jaw drops, It couldn't be.

"Edward?" You suck in a breath, on the verge of tears. Both of The Riddler's hands move back a little to remove the loops of your mask from behind your ears, gently lifting it off your face,

"It is you," His voice is somehow both breathy and breathless. Suddenly, you're taking off the Riddler's glasses, no warning given to him, before flinging off his thick green mask.

His face is still obfuscated by the cling wrap that surrounds his head, but you can tell who it is.

"Edward." You say, this time as a statement as you're clawing at the cellophane on his face. You toss the broken plastic wrap aside, and the two of you stare at each other with heavy glances for a moment. He looked more or less the same as he did when he was younger, he still had those soft round cheeks and gentle stare. His hair was shorter now than it was when you'd grown up with him, now that he could probably afford a haircut. He was still perfect, still Eddie.

You're acutely aware of how quickly your chest rises and falls, "I thought I was never going to see you again." You choke.

"S-so you didn't forget about me." His gloved hand caresses your cheek, and you feel at peace under his touch. Even after all these years, even knowing he's a fucking serial killer he's just as warm.

"No." You shake your head, "I- I think about you every single day." You feel a tear begin to slip down your cheek, which Edward quickly brushes away.

"I do too- hey- is it okay if I kiss you?" His demeanor is suddenly different from that when he's behind the mask. He's timid, soft-spoken, just as he'd been as a boy.

"That's all I've wanted for the last 12 years."

Edward's lips pressed against yours, and you kissed back instantaneously. His lips moved hesitantly at first, working their way back into the motions. It had been so long, but at the same time, it had seemed just yesterday that you and Edward had shared your last kiss. You felt moved to pinch yourself, just to make sure you hadn't gotten caught up in one of your many fantasies or daydreams. Nothing in your life had ever felt this good as this simple kiss. 12 years of what felt like nothing but pain, and grief simply just, slipped away while your lips melted into Eddie's.

Not really wanting to break the kiss, still, you pulled away in pure disbeleif.

"I should have known it was you," You let out a small, breathy chuckle, "Oh, who else could it have been?" You shook your head in disbelief that it ever took you this long to realize who the Riddler was. Edward chuckled slightly,

"You think it's fitting?" He asks with a smile, that same smile you'd been so desperate to see for years now.

"The Riddler..." You start, a grin appearing on your face, "it's, perfect. Perfect for you Eddie." You start to stutter a little, "I think- I think I'm just- I'm so glad we've finally stood up for yourselves- you gave me the courage to stand up for myself. Even if I... didn't really know it was you."

"You've been through so much," Edward shakes his head before caressing your cheek with his thumb, "I'm so proud of you, I've always been so proud of you."

You sniffle a little at Edward's proclamation, after all the hell you've put up with your entire life, it was all worth it just to hear Eddie utter those words.

Realizing you still had Edward's glasses in your hands, you slipped them back on over his nose, adjusting them so they were straight. Simultaneously, the two of you let out a small laugh, the action reminding you of old times.

"You know, Eddie," You exhale, "Whenever I can't sleep at night, I still think of us, now all grown up, happy, and in love. I told you I'd never let go of that fantasy." You shake your head as another tear slips down your cheek, "I never let go, I could never even try to fight it. I still love you so much."

"Y/n, you're the only person who's ever told me you loved me. And as strange as it sounds, I wouldn't change that for the world. I've never wanted to be loved by anyone that wasn't you."

You admit, your heart stings a little at his admission, but a selfish part of you enjoys it that way, unwilling to share Eddie with anyone.

"And you're the only person I've ever meant it to when I've said 'I love you."

Edward gives you a tight lipped smile, the corners of his mouth extending so far up you're afraid they might leave his face.

"I love you too Y/n, more than you could ever believe- you're why I do this- all the pain, and hurt this city has caused you- all the nights you stayed up cold and crying, you deserved so much better."

"We deserved better, Eddie, we."

Edward agreed with a nod before the two of you found yourselves with your lips interlocking again. You grabbed each side of his face with your hands before the kiss deepened slightly and you found them sliding up to his hair, gently pulling at the strands, eliciting a soft groan from him. Edward's hands moved from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you into him.

In a small act of desperation, you found yourself pressing your front against Edward as your tongue slipped into the kiss. You whined slightly as Edward playfully pinched your side before pulling back, out of breath and needy, "Please, Eddie," You whimper, "I need you."

tags (blue could not be tagged): @chaiteaandromedaa - @virginhore @ghoulsgraveyard @mommy-maia @sapphicandserendipityyy @crabravee @mothgutz-cos @babyhoneystvles @moo-is-tired @bloodypantomine

a/n: OHHHHH BOY THAT WAS A LONG ONE... I HOPE YOU ENJOYED AND, IF YOU WOULD LIKE (which I highly recommend) PLEASE LOOK AT pt2 which is out, as we speak (right now!!!!)

[jangofctts]

Sink Your Teeth In (Part 2 of Are You In Or Out?)

Rated: Explicit (Paz is in the next chapter DONT WORRY)

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, the cold?, reader is in PERIL YET AGAIN, vaginal fingering, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (wrap them schlongs yall), brief hand jobs, swearing, angst, very VERY light choking, din is a sub sorta?? bottom energy 

Summary: Well. At least you aren't dead. After a solo hunt gone wrong, you’re dumped in a cave on Csilla. Hopefully someone finds you before you freeze to death.  

a/n: hey…so uh. HOW ABOUT THAT EPISODE HUH?!? aheM anyway--yall I just wanna thank everyone first off for all the love and support!!! I see all of your comments and tags and AH IM SO LUCKY TO HAVE ALL OF YOU GUYS. ALSO SPECIAL SHOUTOUT TO @djxrxn​ THIS WOULDNT HAVE BEEN DONE WITHOUT YOU BB GORL

Well—

Here you are. 

Taken by surprise by another bounty, further proving how irrevocably incompetent you are at this line of work. You blame the binders. An older, clunkier model—easy to pick if you’re clever enough and yes. Maybe you should’ve asked to borrow a carbonite chamber, but hey—where’s the fun in that? 

Not much, as it so happens. 

Your feet had been kicked up on the dashboard, dozing and unaware of the freed bounty creeping up behind the pilot’s seat. Something delightfully blunt smashed against your temple, jolting you into a brief conscious state where the only thing you could think before passing out again, was a resounding— 

Oh, fuck me sideways with a fucking lightsaber—

The rest is hazy. A blur of colors and the fuzzy shapes of your bounty’s face sneering in amusement when she bound your wrists and ankles and left you in the cargo hold. Vaguely you recall your ship being commandeered, swung into an unidentified atmosphere and landing on said unknown planet Or planets. Planet hopping to cover up a trail. 

The bitter cold, sharper than a needle through skin is what shook off the last dregs of unconsciousness. The bounty’s hand was hooked into the collar of your clothes, dragging your limp body through drifts of snow and ice. You would’ve fought back—should’ve even though each extremity felt like a numb block of lead. Not very useful in a fight…

Soon, the snow turned to mud and the mud to stone as a mouth of a cave slid over the impossibly blue sky. Dumped in a cave, and left to die—perfect way to bite the dust. Your bounty turned captor lands a sharp kick to your ribs, mouthing some curse in a language you don’t understand, and left without a second thought. 

Seems about right. You have a knack for lying helpless and half dead in places you ought not to be in. 

Two days and counting, you’ve been holed up in this blasted cave with no food, no supplies and no comlink. It’s going be a fucking chore to find you—nearly impossible. You’re lucky in that aspect you guess—you know enough bounty hunters to sniff out a a needle in a whole stack of needles, so all it is is a race of time against the elements and how long it takes for one of them to notice.            

Aeris is no help. He left a day before you had—hired as personal protection for some syndicate leader halfway across the galaxy. Ives is in a similar boat, off-world and unavailable to drag your ass out of the hole you’ve dug. Which leaves…

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Anytime you even think of those two a migraine cumulates behind your eyes. It’s…it’s not like anything bad happened in the aftermath—there’s been no fallout or arguments with barbed words as weapons. It’s been quiet. Like stepping onto a sheet of cracked transparisteel in a library full of tight-lipped academics. 

The questions lurk under the surface of every conversation and longing look cast your way. You’ll need to clarify and sort things out eventually, but fuck—it’s such a mess of frazzled heartstrings and fine strands of impossible thoughts that lead into an endless void of doubt. You’re shoving that emotional time bomb to the very back of your mind—everything is still so raw…  

So you ran. 

Picked up any and all jobs that the Guild provided just to escape the looming decision of confronting a certain pair of Mandalorians. That and with them having their own tasks to complete, it was rare to see them, let alone together in the past few weeks. A simple run in here and there in the halls of the Covert, but you were too busy to stop and chat—forced a chaotic schedule upon yourself as an excuse to avoid staying in once place at a time.    

Coward.

The word knots in your stomach like gnarled tree roots escaping their prison of dark soil on untrodden land.  

Maker—how did everything become so tangled? 

You draw your knees up to your chest and release a long, drawn out exhale that echoes through the cave. You sniff and force the swell of tears that prick at your eyes away. You’re pretty sure they’ll freeze and you’re not hoping to find out. 

The only good thing about being dropped on this Maker-forsaken, wasteland devoid of anything but snow, is the free ice for the nasty gash on your forehead. A nice little parting gift. 

It’s shallow…you think—it stopped bleeding the night before and is now just a scabbed over, tender wound that throbs whenever you move your head too fast. Concussion maybe—a mild one.  

Maker willing when someone finds your sorry ass they’ll have bacta. Or a blanket. Either would be peachy.     

Sitting up with a wince, you shuffle to the mouth of the cave for the thousandth time and scour the skyline for a familiar ship. Or, any ship really. The only thing you do see is a lonesome wisp of cloud against the grayish blue sky much to your chagrin. You scowl and stalk back into your little hovel and slump back onto the ground. 

The hours drag on, the watery light of the dying sun barely doing anything to warm you. Sulking is hardly what you should be doing—not great for the burdened mind and all that, but ah, it’s so fun to wallow in misery. You curl your knees up to your chest and you must slip into a doze because when you’re snapped back into the present, footsteps punch through the frozen tundra outside your cave.  

Adrenaline crackles down your spine—the bounty changed her mind. Ultimately decided she’d be safer in the long run with you dead. Fine.

If this is where your grave is going to be, might as well get in one or two punches. What’s another black eye anyway?

A shadow flickers at the mouth of the cave, curling around the wall as she draws closer. A brown boot kicks through the snow and— 

“Changed your mind? I—“

Your words die on your tongue as relief floods your veins. Din Djarin stands before you, a sight for sore eyes in these trying times. 

Frost glitters on the burgundy chest plate, glinting in the dim sunlight that touches the mouth of the cave. A delicate feathering of the dainty crystals that no high end lace maker could ever hope to mimic curls up the front of Din’s visor and eats away at the edges of his cloak. His heavy step forward reverberates off the walls, some of that ease replaced by the prickle of dread. His silence is unnerving. 

“Din,” you say again, just so he’ll say something. “I can—“

You move to stand, but he interrupts with a halting;

“Sit.”       

Your mouth snaps shut and you drop back on the floor. This…is not good. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches you and every muscle in your frame tightens like a fist wrapping around your ribcage and squeezing. The precise edges of his helmet are not a forgiving sight and even when he kneels onto one knee you have to resist the natural urge to flinch. Like this, despite hunching over, Din is broad. All hard muscle and sinew amplified by the bulky layer of beskar.   

Your tongue runs over the insides of your teeth as you track his hand that he thrusts foreword. You hiss and jerk away at the sudden needly pain when his gloved thumb finds the edges of your head wound. A low sound of disapproval filters out through the helmet in a low metallic buzz. 

“You won’t need stitches,” he says. Din reaches into one of his various supply pouches and pulls out a tiny vile of bacta. He casually pulls off his right glove, unscrews the vile and smears the bacta over his thumb. This time you don’t make a sound, even though your nerves scream at the razor like sensation of his thumb working the bacta into the damaged flesh. He doesn’t ask how the injury happened and you don’t care to tell him. There’s a time and place for stories about battle scars and near misses—it’s much too fresh to be spoken of right now. 

The brief torture finally ends after once last glance over for other presenting injuries. He finds none, replaces his glove and stands with a muted grunt. You know what’s next. You’d rather avoid it—you aren’t keen on the berating lectures—as deserved as they are.      

“I found your ship on Sato 3,” Din begins with a growl. “Imagine my surprise when I found your bounty selling it for parts.”  

Ah, there it is. You wince and study your fingernails. “Pile of junk anyway…”

“I thought you’d be smarter about these things,” he snarls, his sharp tone deadly enough to slice through bone. “Was the hole blown into your lung not enough for you?”

You swallow and bite your tongue.  

The bristling Mandalorian, continues and jabs an orange tipped finger at you. “You are reckless.”

Your chest constricts as you look away, shame blooming in the pit of your stomach.This is a new facet of Din you’ve never encountered. You aren’t naïve—even the most docile of people can harbor a temper, you know that. And you know Din is by no means passive—he’s an elite warrior equipped with a small arsenal at his disposal. You don’t expect him to coddle you or treat you different than any other companion; but…but it’s hard not to take his ire to heart. Not when it’s the kind of anger that boils deep in your chest and erupts with molten streams that leaves scathing wounds and blistered feelings.  

You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood and avoid his piercing gaze. You think if you do you might catch fire and burn to a crisp. “I’m sorry.”   

The meek apology settles in the air like a heavy fog. Din’s anger still brews, looming and dark but he reigns in his temper and switches out the searing cadence of his words with chilly informality. You’re not sure which is worse.   

“No more bounties.” 

“What?” Your brows knit together. The fuck does he mean.  

“No more hunts alone—“  

You interrupt with a scoff. “You’re grounding me?”

He strides across the small space and plants himself on the opposing wall. “Until you’re competent enough, you have no business being out in the field. You might as well be bait at this point.” 

“Competent.” You echo through clenched teeth.  

His helmet dips, leveling a steady glare of indifference. “The Crest is a half cycle’s walk from here. In the morning I’m taking you back to Nevarro.”   

“I’m not a child. You can’t just,” you throw your hands up in dismay, “ban me from bounty hunting.”    

Din’s armor clinks together as he moves to sit. He rests one elbow on his propped up knee, extends his other and rolls his helmet to meet your eyes. “Your actions reflect the Covert now. We can’t risk discovery because of one stupid mistake or a careless loose end.”    

That hadn’t even crossed your mind. Stars, you want to smack yourself. Your ship, as shitty as it was, hosted a good chunk of sensitive information, all encrypted and translated into binary. A mediocre slicer could hack through it in hours. Not exactly foolproof but hey, at least you had something. Good thing your bounty wasn’t in the market of selling stolen ships to the Empire. 

“Din?”

The Mandalorian makes no noise of affirmation that he heard you. You sigh and take his silence as a go ahead and clear your throat. “How long was I gone for?”

Here, in the cave it’s been nearly three days, but the rest of it you’re not exactly sure. Hunting the bounty down took up at least a week or two and even longer to capture her and there’s no accounting for the time lost after your ship was commandeered. Your teeth roll over your bottom lip as you wait for him to respond. 

“Almost two months.” He replies evenly. “Your transmissions were cut three weeks ago and I didn’t think anything of it. Comms are always patchy in Wild Space."

Leather creaks as his fist balls at his side. “You didn’t answer for days. Paz and I tracked the ship to Sato 3, but you weren’t there. Do you know how difficult it was to pick through all the planets recorded on your log?”

You blink and return to picking at your fingernails. 

“You weren’t easy to find, I—“ He severs the rest of his sentence with a crackling sigh and tilts his head back. “You’re lucky.”    

The hesitance lacing his words makes you bite your tongue, the snarky retort crumbling to ash in your mouth. Din doesn’t bother to filter his words—he’s blunt. Efficient and to the point when he does decide to speak. That…well that was different.   

He was worried—

You rub at your cheek—numb with the cold and curl into yourself. Din was worried. Easily the most feared bounty hunter in the parsec, worried that he couldn’t find you.   

A different cold—one that settles deep into the marrow of your bones and hugs your soul with a sheet of frost, makes a home in your heart. The severity of what could’ve happened replaces that sheen of hilarity and fuck. You were closer to freezing to death than Din finding you here—alone in some stupid kriffing cave.  

Somehow the idea of that is worse than the brief brush of eternal slumber you had on Nar Shaddaa. Up to that point you expected to die young—no harm and no foul in it either. You had no attachments, no debt to pay—a drifter in an endless galaxy.    

Now you’re here, buckling under the weight of mismanaged friendships and your uncanny skill at weaseling into any and all trouble. 

Neither you or Din jump to fill the silence. The ashes of disaster settle in nicely with the frozen echo of an endless winter.      

It’d been a couple hours shy from sunset when Din arrived, the sun providing weak light that hardly touched the mouth of the cave. Now as the shadows grow longer and with the temperature dropping, the two of you are swallowed up by the unyielding darkness of night. 

Din shuffles and fishes out the solar light from his supply bag. It clicks on and warm, orange light illuminates the cave. It bounces off his beskar, fracturing the light like a million tiny suns in the tempered metal and in the impossibly dark visor. He looks up, and tosses the light over. 

You catch it easily and despite the warmness of the light it emits, it offers no heat for your chilled fingers. You set it to the side and tuck your hands into your armpits. 

By no means is the cave warm—the natural thermal vents kept the ground dry and free of the ice and snow that rages outside, but it doesn’t protect you from the occasion chilly draft that cuts through each layer you wear. Then again, you weren’t planning on taking an unexpected vacation on Csilla. No time to plan really.  

You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest and cast a glance at your ever radiant ray of sunshine across from you.  

He looks nice and cozy—leaned back against the cave wall, one leg crossed over the other while his hands sit intertwined just below his navel. The beskar must provide insulation—maybe a fancy heater in that bucket of his, or maybe he’s just too stubborn to show anything other than indifference.   

Another bout of shivers tear through your frame and you’re certain Din can hear the enamel of your teeth clack together. You shove your hands deeper into your armpits and tuck your chin into your chest to preserve heat and pray that sleep isn’t far off—can’t be cold if you’re unconscious.    

Metal scrapes over stone as Din readjusts himself and you can feel him looking at you. It’s not a terrible weight to bear; intense and analytic, sure and in the past it would’ve unnerved you. Now, instead of it feeling like he were peeling back each fibre of your soul each time he stares, it’s familiar. A pattern of sorts—

It happens each time Din wrestles with an uncertain question. He deals in absolutes, and it’s no surprise he rarely knows what to say to you. 

“You’re shivering,” he states. You roll your eyes. “Are you cold?”

“Boiling, actually,” you snip. “Why else would I forget a jacket?”

A sharp hiss of air crackles through the vocoder. “Don’t get mouthy with me. It was a simple question.”

“Well—there’s not much to do about it,” you sneer, watching your breath condensate in the air. “I’m freezing, exhausted, and hungry.”       

You know you’re being snide—but your nerves feel like they’ve been severed at the root with a dull vibroblade. You have neither the time nor energy to spare for simple questions. Din should understand that—seeing as he’s a man familiar with short temperament.

The space between you is ripe with crackling tension, and maybe—if you weren’t so fucking cold—you’d play the mediator. Thread stitches into the gash you both sliced into your friendship, as small it may be. You’ve lost friends over less—this could end up no different.

You sigh and turn your head. This is a problem for tomorrow. 

Irritated and upset, you squeeze your eyes shut and chase after sleep. You slip in a doze faster than expected, any and all discomfort fading away a you toe the line between a deeper sleep and waking dreams. You think you imagined Din saying your name—Maker you can’t even escape him in your own fucking head—  

It doesn’t end—like a nagging buzz that swells until it’s right near your ear. Spite spurs you to ignore It and exhaustion convinces you to drift further away. That is, until a hand, gentle and warm curls around your shoulder. You once again hear your name rumble low through Din’s helmet, but it’s much too difficult to open your eyes. Why can’t he leave you be? You barely feel the cold now…

“Stay awake.” Din sounds distant, in some other plane of existence despite the steady hold he has on your arm. “Maker—you’re colder than kriffing ice.” 

“Go away,” you grumble through numb lips. Such a pest.  

He’s talking—but the words don’t make sense. Muddled—split between that hazy line of dreaming and consciousness where you can’t decipher what’s real. His hands however—you can feel those plain as day. A bare palm cups your cheek—shreds through the layer of frost you’re positive has crystalized over your skin and rouses you to a more coherent level of presentness.       

“Don’t quit on me yet—“

“Nah,” you mumble. “I’m hard to…to kill. L-like a scrap rat…”  

Din grunts in response. “Rat is a compliment. You’re more of a spider-roach.”

The ends of your mouth quirk. It’s the best you can do—a full smile just might push you to the brink of death.        

“C’mon—I won’t let either of us freeze,” Din sighs. His fingers find the magnetized latches on his cuirass and it slips off with practiced ease, the armored thigh plating following a moment later. He neatly sets it to the side and grabs his cloak to fasten it around you. With another sigh, Din shuffles in behind you and wraps an arm around your middle, nestling his legs and body snuggly around yours.   

Maker—you don’t have time to bother about the intimacy of this because all you’re drawn to is the furnace like heat. Fuck, he’s so warm. You have only a second to enjoy it before your body begins to thaw—bringing forth waves of achey pain.   

His chest molds to your back, both arms curling over your own arms that are scrunched up tight around your chest. You shake in his hold, vicious waves of cold clashing against his body heat—it hurts—like sticking your bare foot into hot coals.     

You squirm, little gasps of discomfort slipping out that echo around the cave. Din shifts, tucking you further under his body until he’s nearly crushing you. It’s a bit tricky to breathe like this but hey—you’re not complaining. Not when your nose is buried in his soft undershirt that smells purely of Din.   

Your fingers and toes still throb as they thaw, but it’s working. Cuddling Din Djarin to stave off hypothermia—sounds kriffing ridiculous. 

“You’re still shivering,” he says. “I might…”

Your breath catches in your throat as he trails off. “Might what?”

Another shiver wracks through your body as his frosty helmet catches on bare skin when he dips his head in embarrassment. You don’t quite catch what he says and he doesn’t bother to clarify. “Forget it.”  

You turn your head as much as you can, straining your eyes to meet the strip of visor. “Tell me.”

He mumbles under his breath again and cuddles closer, slotting his hips against your ass. “Might know…know another way to keep us warm…”

Oh. 

A spark breathes to life in the pit of your tummy. You wiggle onto your back, your nose brushing the vizor. “Does it involve me taking off my pants?” 

Din huffs, his hands, previously latched onto your hips, starting to crawl up your waist. “It could…”    

You smirk and rock your hips back, eliciting a low growl that rumbles through his chest. With your whine of approval, Din’s hand slips between your legs and gives the meat of your inner thigh a squeeze. You let your knees fall open as far as they can in this position and it’s all Din needs to cup your cunt through the thin material of your trousers. 

Crackling pleasure flood your veins as the heel of his palm grinds into your clit, and while the pressure is nice, it does nothing to satisfy. Only feeds the growing flames of desire with brittle kindling. 

You pull at his undershirt and whimper, thrilled once his deft fingers, calloused and thick unlace your pants and yank far enough down to fit his hand. His fingers trace your outer lips, a ghost of a touch as arousal swells in your stomach. He parts your folds once your wetness begins to dribble out and coats his fingertips with your arousal. 

Stars—you need him. You arch into him and whine. “Touch me. Din, please—“ 

You jerk as Din’s thumb swirls a slow circle over your clit, a rush of endorphins surging out like unrefined fire whiskey. Din’s head tilts to watch you writhe over his fingers and the sudden chill of his helmet touching the inside of your flushed neck steals away your next inhale. Goosebumps race down your entire being, adding to the influx of your excitement that pools in your lower belly.       

Your hands tangle into his undershirt, pulling him closer until you can’t find where he begins and you end. His heart pounds in his chest, thrumming to the dance of your own heart that yearns to break free from your ribcage. Your breath catches when two of his thick fingers tease at your entrance. Your walls flutter around him as the slip in easily.   

His fingers roll forward and stroke against something devastating inside of you, and he when his palm rolls back, it bumps against your clit with that divine firmness you need. Your cunt tightens around the two digits as they curl.  

“Fuck. Can you hear yourself?” He pants, groping your breast to elicit a high pitched wail. “You always make—make such pretty noises.” 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words and fuck. You’re already dipping head first into release. A moment later you’re arching into his chest as every muscle stiffens in a crescendo of bliss, your stuttered breathing harsh even to your own ears.  

Your quick pants fog up his visor as Din rests the crown of his helmet on your forehead, the metal a cool relief to your flushed skin. He slips his fingers out of your dripping cunt, your chest still heaving with exertion as the last strands of your high fizzle and ebb away. Din shifts and and snakes his fingers, still shiny and wet with your arousal, beneath the lip of his helmet and sucks them clean with an appreciative groan.  

“Fuck—“ You breathe, pushing your face into his hand as he cups your cheek. Din’s thumb brushes over your cheekbone and swings his leg over your hips to hoist himself over you. 

“Do you remember...” He starts, his voice buzzing through the vocoder. His fingers tickle down your cheek and trace the parted outline of your lips. “When you let me taste you?”

You nod, and it’s all you’re able to do. You’re not even sure you can formulate words, let alone voice them right now. 

Din’s thumb pulls at your plush bottom lip, and you can’t help but slide your tongue along the digit. He grunts and slips his thumb into the wet heat of your mouth. “I think about you every night…how you came on my tongue—”

Your stomach flips as a rush of arousal sweeps through your tummy. You groan and you’re half sure you’re gonna dissipate into the floor from how hot your cheeks burn. “Din—"  

He continues without missing a beat. 

“You were so fucking wet for me—dripped all over my hand,” he murmurs, nuzzling his helmet, still chilly and frosted over, into the crook of you neck.  “I want to do it again—can I?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes his sentence. He wasn’t the only one longing for his head between your thighs on those long nights apart. Remembering those plush lips and addictive touches could only get you so far and well—he’s here now. You said it once and you’ll say it again—there’s no chance in hell you’d be passing up this opportunity. 

Din lifts his head and as you watch the light glitter in the reflection of the beskar, a sudden stray thought ricochets into the forefront of your mind. “Din, the light—your helmet.”

He pauses, his body tensing as he mulls over his options. “It’s—I—it’s ok…It’ll be ok.”

Din inhales a stuttered breath and casts a brief glance over his shoulder. It’s a dim light, kicked into the corner and laying on its side. From this angle, his face would be partially obscured in shadow…but still. There are easier ways to go about this. Ways that don’t risk jeopardizing the very foundation of who he is—what he stands for and what he so devoutly follows.    

To say you know anything about his religion is laughable. Everything you know can fit on the back of a thumbtack and even still, you’re sure that half of that is still based upon rumor and speculation. But this—what Din is hinting at, you know is not something to be taken lightly. 

He’s stripping his soul bare for you—allowing you to glimpse at that bleeding heart of his he guards so securely within layers of flesh and bone and impenetrable beskar. Din is gifting you his trust and there’s no where else to put it except for the space beneath your breast bone.   

Yet, even still—this could mean nothing at all. You have no way to know the exact magnitude of what this means to him. If he’s alright with this, who are you to question?

He mumbles one last thing about the light and sits up. Goosebumps rush up your bare skin at the loss of the heavy warmth of his body. You whine and curl up closer to his legs, greedy for any spare iota of heat like you’ve been denied it your entire life.   

Maker you hate this fucking planet—   

Your attention snaps back to Din when he makes a noise of uncertainty. His hands are cupped around his helmet—hesitant, nervous and you suspect if Din’s hands weren’t plastered so tight around the metal, he’d be shaking. You chew on your lip and prop yourself up. 

Cautiously, so as not to startle, you reach up and curl your fingers around his wrist. You can feel his pulse thrumming through his veins—alive, flesh and bone like you. Not some heap of sentient metal built for the horrors of war. You don’t know why you do it—just seems right to pull the fragile and vulnerable skin of his inner wrist to you mouth. You plant a gentle kiss there and smile when he cups your cheek.           

“You don’t owe me anything, Din,” you say, staring into the darkened depths of his visor. “Least of all this.”    

Some of that tension held in Din’s shoulders melts. He utters something in that clipped language of his people, and the only thing you can make out is your name. He lurches foreword and fuck—you’re terrified for a split second he’s gonna cave your skull in but instead he lightly bumps the crown of his helmet over your forehead.      

“I want to. For you—only you.”

Din doesn’t leave any time to unpack all of that. He sits up again, wraps his hands around the beskar— 

The metallic thunk of the helmet reverberates through the cave like a crack of thunder.    

You were right. 

You can barely see his face—if you really look, you can see the murky outline of his nose, dark hair and a sliver of his tan skin that the light touches. Attractive—but you knew that already. You touch his cheek and smile, your thumb catching over wiry facial hair and soft skin. Din makes a sound low in his throat and pushes his cheek into your hand. 

“I still want to taste you,” Din says, his voice richer when stripped of that tinny vocoder. You like listening to him speak without it, you think, and it’s a damn shame you never get to hear it. “Please.”     

Before he can escape and fulfill that fantasy, you yank him into a blinding kiss. He kisses the same—all wild edges and with desperation lining each motion—but there’s a new found tenderness here. Like he’s savoring each gasp and every brush of skin you grace him with like it’s your last night left in the galaxy.   

He breaks away from your mouth and peppers kisses and nips down your jaw, then lower as you arch and expose the bare skin of your throat. There’ll be a plethora of bruises tomorrow, and with no hope to cover them either but fuck it—Din can leave as many hickeys and teeth marks as he wants. 

If not for the cold still latching onto your very soul, you’d ditch the shirt; give Din better access instead of him needing to shove a hand up under and grope at your breasts. He gives the fabric an annoyed tug, but it’s fruitless. There’s no use when there’s better things to be sought. 

He shoves your shirt as far up as it goes, shivering as he mouths down your stomach, licks around your bellybutton and sucks a bruise onto your hipbone. Your pants are already pulled halfway down—one sharp yank and they’re around your ankles and off in the next breath. 

Cupping your knees with both hands he gingerly spreads your legs and drapes them over his muscular shoulders. Din rubs his patchy haired cheek along your thigh and hooks his hands under your ass, his ivory white teeth catching the light as he smiles.  

“Fucking perfect—“ He groans, planting his lips over your inner thigh. His tongue swipes a wet line up, stopping just before your aching cunt to dig his teeth into the sensitive flesh. You jump at the burst of pain and shoot a hand down, tangling your fingers into the soft curls atop his head.  

Din grunts and jumps to your other thigh, leaving no inch of skin neglected and without evidence of his teeth and lips. By the time his thumbs touch the outer lips of your cunt, the aching need for him is burning you from the outside in. He has to still your twitching hips with a calloused palm, and only after you settle does he surge forward. 

His tongue meets your swollen clit, ripping a tangled cry from you vocal cords. He’s just as eager as the first time he tasted you, if not more—every action backed by needy abandon. He sucks at the bundle of nerves then sweeps his tongue lower. Din’s thumbs part your lower lips as he runs his tongue though your soaked folds, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit that send delicious sparks throughout your whole body. Little noises and breathy gasps fill the cave, encouraging Din to push his tongue deep into your aching entrance. 

Your hand fists into his hair as your hips stutter and rock into the searing heat of his mouth. The noises you make are obscene, and Din is no better. Each pass of his tongue over your pussy is matched with his own deep moans that vibrated against your clit. Fucking hell he’s devouring you alive.          

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, robs you blind and crashes over you in deep waves that drag you out to sea and never to be found again as you spill onto his greedy tongue. Your fingers are threaded tight in his hair as you squeak and press harder into his mouth, riding out your pleasure until it shifts and becomes raw and sore.  

Din doesn’t pause for even a second—all too happy to stay put between your thighs for eternity. Your legs are trembling when you force his head away, a nice, tingly warmth settling into your limbs 

A dark thrill rushes down your spine when he looks up, wild hair and mouth covered in your slick. If not for the low lighting you imagine his eyes would be glazed over and Maker you want him again. Din swoops down and presses his mouth to yours, the taste of yourself heavy on his tongue that slips past the seem of your lips. 

You whine after he breaks away and sits up—an opportunity for your eyes to roam down his body. He’s still got his trousers on, a considerable bulge tenting the front. With a smirk you reach up and grab a handful, delighting in Din’s startled grunt. “Easy.”

You flash him a wry smile and give his clothed cock a playful squeeze. “Take them off.” 

Din huffs and pulls at the drawstrings. “Needy.”

He says it with no bite and no coquettish retort on your end springs to mind—especially when his thumbs hook into the waistband and pull. A slow reveal of sun-kissed skin and a sparse happy trail that your eyes eagerly drink up. 

Din’s cock bobs as his trousers fall around his knees, tip shiny and wet and curling towards his navel. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach out, a rush of arousal pulsing through your core at Din’s low moan. He’s heavy in your hand, deliciously thick and throbbing—and all of it for you. 

Din gasps out your name as you lightly squeeze and stroke down, your pace dreadfully slow and teasing. Who knows when you’ll get another chance like this—a Mandalorian willingly on their knees for you.           

Your other hand slips up his chest as you stroke him, intent on grabbing a handful of his thick hair that curls softly against the column of his neck. Your fingernail lightly scrapes across his nipple and he sways, pitching forward before he catches himself and straightens. Din’s eyes are squeezed tight, chest heaving with shallow pants as a smirk tugs at your lips. 

“It’s ok, Din,” you whisper. “I won’t break.” 

Your fingers twist into the hair at the base of his skull and guide him back. He slumps forward with a sweet moan, laying his weight onto your body that you’re all too happy too bare. His nose is nestled into the slope of your neck as his hands lock around the dip of your lower back while the other cradles the back of your head, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. 

Something snaps and crumbles deep in your soul that bleeds the heartstring blues, humming with broken chords in the presence of Din’s soft fragility. Your hand moves from between his legs to instead wrap around the wide expanse of his back, squeezing him tight to your chest. You hold each other like there isn’t tomorrow to look forward to and you wonder if this is how it feels to fall apart. Two spinning halves of a supernova torn apart and destined to collide and shatter into a million fragments of dazzling light.  

Yes, you’re scared he might blind you or burn you with his brilliance, but you can’t look away.      

Your fingers crawl up his muscled thigh and settle on his hip. “Lie down for me?”

There’s no hint of hesitation or complaint as he maneuvers himself onto his back, patiently allowing you to clamber over his legs and straddle his hips. His cock rests on your inner thigh, pulsing and leaving a dribble of wetness every time it twitches.    

“Good boy.” It’s subtle but it ripples out like a heavy stone thrown into a still lake. Din shudders and says your name in a cracked whisper. He rolls his hips, both of you groaning at the sensation of his cock running along your dripping center.     

Another time for that game maybe. 

Your desperation is running hot and wild to have him inside you and you know he’s in a similar boat. You grab the thick shaft of his cock and grind the tip of him through your lips, breath hitching when it extracts such a perfect moan from the man below you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads, clamping his large hands over your hips. “Fuck—I need you.” 

How can you deny such a request?

You line the wide head up with your aching center and slowly work him in. Shivers wrack through you, and Maker—he’s splitting you apart, molding your insides to the shape of him. Beads of sweat dot your hairline by the time you’re seated fully on his member, the both of you pushed even closer towards madness.  

Din squeezes your ass and props his knees up, rolling his hips up into you. You whimper and tip forward, propping your palms over his chest as he sets the pace. You may be on top but there’s no changing the bold colors of power and lust that cloud his mind, fueling the brutal movements of fucking up into you. Your thighs burn already and Maker—why the fuck are you already tired? You’re not doing any of the work.  

Quicker than lightning, Din curls forward and manhandles you onto your back. You squeak as he grips your thigh and yanks it around his narrow hips, thrusting in deeper. His right hand crawls up the front of your shirt and wraps his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. His thumb hovers over the dip at the base of your neck but he makes no move to press down—just allows the weight of his palm to do the work. And fuck—it works. 

Choked garbles of his name pass through your lips as you buck and squirm in his hold, feeling your arousal begin to drip down the back of your thighs. You’re skirting the edge of sizzling release that alights your nerves with liquid wildfire. Your nails harpoon into the meat of his shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. Din won’t allow it.      

“Look at me,” Din snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “I want to—to watch you cum for me.” 

A blush scalds your cheeks but you listen. Your eyes flutter open for him, sliding to the dark shadows of his eyes that sweep you into their own gravity well with no hope to escape. You don’t mind. 

“You’re so g-good for me—always so perfect.”

White hot light bursts behind your eyelids, and that’s all it takes. Your body seizes, your cunt squeezing impossibly tight around his cock as you cum. This one is different—steals your breath away and leaves you a broken husk of a person lost in most delectable forms of agony and pleasure. The cry of his name pierces the air only spurring the Mandalorian into a jarring pace to seek his own peak of ecstasy.  

Din’s nose nuzzles into your neck, his pants hot and sharp against your flushed skin. “You f-feel so—fuck. Say—say my name.”

You leap to his request and with a playful nip to his earlobe, you whisper it to him with the sweetness of starcherrries and the promise of better things. 

He tips over the edge, his hips faltering into no discernible pace as he cums. Din buries his teeth into the skin below your jaw, a mess of whines and begging gasps of nonsense as he fills your cunt to the brim. 

Your harsh breathing mingles as you both lazily slip down from your high. He rests his head over your sternum, listening to your beating heart that drums in a wild staccato as your fingers carefully comb through his hair. If not for the ache in your hips you’d keep him here forever. Din pulls out and you both groan at the loss. 

He doesn’t completely move away and you’re glad for it. He brushes his knuckles down the expanse of your cheek and dots a tender kiss to your hairline. Your name rumbles low in his throat as he shifts lower and gives your ear lobe a playful nip. His stubble scrapes along your neck, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm—but the weight of his body keeps you pinned. Your name slips from his lips a second time, breathy and drawn out in a sweet sigh, like he’s savoring the sound of each syllable and roll of the tongue. 

Din lifts his head, only slightly—near enough that his nose bumps into yours and his lips scrape along yours that are still parted and wet. “I—can I tell you something?” 

You cup his cheek and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be quick—but instead he leans into it, guiding your mouth into a slow dance of sticky sweet movements that are caught in a slow draw, like crystalized honey abandoned in a glass jar. You’re enraptured by his touch—his skin mottled with scars yet somehow still unfairly soft. He smells of snow—like metal and soap and something gentler, that’s uniquely Din.            

Fuck—you can feel your mind slipping away, wrapped up so snugly in his presence you almost forget to answer. “Yeah—anything.”

Crackling static suddenly rips through the cave, startling you both. A distorted voice chatters on the comlink that lies forgotten beside your pants. It blinks and the transmission ends just as abruptly. With a sigh Din brushes it off and tilts his head to tempt you into another kiss but—

Whoever’s trying to patch through is persistent. 

His lip curls in a scowl and snatches the comm. “Jorhaa’ir.”

You only catch your name being mentioned twice as rapid Mando’a is exchanged. Aeris maybe judging by the tone, but no that’s not right.   

“Wait—is that Paz?”

The muscles in Din’s shoulders tense, confirming your suspicion.

“Is everything ok?” Din doesn’t resist you when you pry the comlink out of his fingers and patch in. “Paz?”

Your heart skips a beat. 

“There you are,” the comlink crackles and you smile. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” 

Stars—you didn’t think you’d miss hearing Paz’s voice. Your chest aches. 

The conversation is short, he asks you how you are and when you’re coming home and in the time it takes to answer, Din is peeling himself from your body. While you're distracted, he pulls on his pants and sits at the edges of your vision.

You both pretend when you say goodnight to Paz, return the comlink and crawl into his arms that nothing has festered with savage detachment. You don't remember to ask him what he was going to say and he lets you forget. The golden heart that bleeds molten ichor slips from your sight and becomes shut behind walls of beskar and bushes of thick thorns and overgrown ivy.         

He still holds you, but it’s the coldest you’ve ever been. 

Tag List: @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aeryns-library @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @cptnbvcks @thesoftdumbass @krissology @starlite41 @legally-a-bastard @basslinedweller @cloud-of-roses @elenamiria @goldafterglow @maybege @equalstrashflavoredtrash @wandxrlust @hdlynnslibrary @calamity-queen @sgtbookybarnes @pinkninja190 @lackofhonor @darthstyles @spacegayofficial @absurdthirst​ @blue-writes-a03​ @max--phillips​

[redrobin-detective]

Wanna hear another of baby Robin’s never written DP fic AUs? So when I was a freshman in high school and on the tail end of my first DP hyperfixation, I also became obsessed with the Indiana Jones trilogy (not to date myself but this was before that awful fourth movie). I had a pretty decent outline so here’s what I remember* (IE the bare bones are same and I uh tweaked it a bit)

So! It starts in an AU world where the ghosts attacked the human world and caused society to splinter a bit. Neither side won but they kind of aggressively co-exist, humans interacting in the Zone and ghosts haunting the real world. During the invasion, Jack, Maddie and Jazz were killed by one of the powerful ghosts who led the initial uprising, Plasmius. Danny had been young (I think I said 10) and had hid, watching his family be murdered, unable to do anything. It really affects Danny and he vows to find the ghost that killed his family.

Years later, Danny is in his late teens-possibly early twenties and he is an experienced ghost archeologist (I distinctly remember this title being in my notes lmao). He spends a lot of time researching ghosts and working with them, he’s as well known in the Zone as he is in the human world. He has many ghostly allies as he primarily seeks to understand ghosts and find a way for humans and ghosts to coexist but also not so secretly hunting Plasmius. His sponsor and basically foster parent is Vlad Masters, his parents’ former partner. He’s very encouraging of Danny’s pursuits and need to find the six fingered man Plasmius and often provide information.

The first arc would vaguely follow the plot of Raiders with Danny getting a tip about Plasmius seeking to open Pariah’s sarcophagus in order to gain the power to take the human world once and for all. Danny recruits Valerie to help him stop the ghost king from being unleashed. Val had trained under his parent as a hunter and she and Danny aren’t on the best of terms given how generally passive he is with ghosts. Uh middle bits, middle bits. The sarcophagus was opened but they managed to prevent the ghost king from awakening. Danny and Val part as friends and Danny gets his first look of Plasmius before he vanishes. It spurs him onward.

The second arc followed Temple of Doom as Danny ventured deeper than he’d gone before into the Ghost Zone. He finds the girl he’d crushed on in high school, Paulina, is working as something of an indentured servant in a Zone bar. Danny rescues her along with Danielle, a quirky girl living on her own within the Zone. Danny, Paulina and Dani get trapped by a ghost cult of uh some sort. Danny is suspicious of Dani who not only looks like him but has weird knowledge of both him and ghosts. They all escape, Danny risks his life to protect Dani despite her behavior. She reveals as thanks that she’s not really human, she’s a hybrid clone made using Danny’s DNA by Plasmius to throw Danny off his trail. She flees deeper into the Ghost Zone to escape both Danny and Plasmius leaving Danny wondering how the ghost got his hands on Danny’s DNA in the first place and why.

The third arc revolves around, you guessed it, the Last Crusade. Danny can feel himself getting closer and closer to Plasmius. He’s realizing that things about the ghost aren’t adding up entirely and that he has a special interest in Danny though he can’t figure out why. Masters, sensing Danny’s frustrations, finds another ghost archeologist, Samantha Manson. Danny and her click right away and make good progress. The existence of Danielle proves there can be a middle ground between human and ghost so Danny thinks Plasmius may be in that category and he may be closer than he thinks. Suddenly Danny is nervous of the people around him and for good reason. Sam ends up being another spy to lure Danny into a trap by Plasmius. He promised her access to so much ghost knowledge if only she led the boy along. She instantly regrets it and goes to get reinforcements to save Danny. 

Danny awakens in his parents’ old home, uninjured and confused. He soon discovers that Masters and Plasmius are one in the same, a human with ghost powers created by Jack and Maddie. The ghost who killed his family, who Danny has been hunting half his life, was also the man who gave him a home afterwards. The cruel irony infuriates Danny and he confronts Vlad. He asks why he spared Danny, why the charade? Vlad killed the Fentons in a rage when he learned they were trying to make a portal to the GZ (the same portal that half killed Vlad). He turned on humanity as part of his broader revenge and planned to use the Fenton Portal as a way to mobilize an army. To his fury, he learns that the Fenton portal was DNA activated. That’s when he discovers that he accidentally left one Fenton alive and takes Danny in. Only, somewhere along the way, Vlad comes to love Danny as a son and he’s afraid that activating the portal will hurt/kill Danny. Vlad made the clones to try and find a way to activate the portal without hurting Danny, Danielle was an attempt who fled before she could be killed.

Sam shows up about then with reinforcements, human and ghostly allies Danny has acquired over the years. Vlad is split between wanting to kill Danny for his interference and just, being unable to hurt his sorta son. Plasmius is too powerful and ghosts are wearing out being in the human realm, access to the Ghost Zone would help. Danny doesn’t really think, he just activates the portal and receives a massive shock of ectoplasm to his system. Danny Fenton steps in, Danny Phantom steps out. Vlad is devastated bc he felt Danny die and, deciding the battle isn’t worth it right now, retreats. Only Danny isn’t wholly dead instead a human/ghost like Vlad.

But yeah the story would have essentially ended once Danny became half-ghost with the implication that he would confront and stop his sorta foster father and put the Zone and earth back in order. Blah Blah something about Vlad being the human/ghost to throw the worlds out of whack and Danny, with his foot in both worlds even before his powers, being the one to help the worlds coexist.

[sunriseverse]

rec listtttttttttttttttttttttttttttt

fair warning there’s a lot of different fandoms here—i have, uh. twenty-two pages of bookmarks. lots of newmann though, i promise. in no particular order, i give you a fic rec list

the future’s owned by you and me by kaiyen (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 7k, Not Rated)

Years after they stopped writing each other, Newt and Hermann run into each other on the steps of Cambridge University Library. Quite literally.

 Newt stares at him, expecting more. He doesn’t get any. “Come on, man, who are you? Maybe I’ve read something.”

 I doubt it, Hermann barely catches himself from saying. “Gottlieb. Hermann Gottlieb.”

 And Newt looks like he’s struck oil. “Oh my god,” he says, and something flickers behind his eyes, like there’s more than just recognition there, and before he can wonder any more about what it is, Newt blurts, “Oh my god!” and Hermann flinches and makes a face like a disgruntled frog.

What you can expect: emotions, opprotunities missed, and opprotunities taken. I absolutely adore this fic, though I might be biased by the fact that it has Newt as bipolar, and that’s something I always crave (more bipolar Newt fic when???).

Survival is for Nerds by Annabeelee (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 46k, Teen and Up)

It's three hundred and two years after humanity lost to the Kaiju and two hundred and twenty one since the Kaiju left. Not that it matters to Hermann. In relation to following a neurotic genetic experiment across whats left of the Northern American continent while dodging alien predators and hostile subgroups of humans, its possibly the least helpful thing to keep in mind.

What you can expect: scifi, tension, and a very intersting world. Post-apocalyptic, technically, but the way it’s written makes it almost hopeful. I love how the setting and writing makes it feel like a blend between victorian steampunk and futuristic in tone.

people can surprise you (or not) by pdameron (James Bond, James Bond/Q, 10k, Teen and Up)

“I’m not you, Bond. I don’t exactly have a technique for getting rich strangers to like me.”

“Just do your naive cute puppy thing, and they’ll be doting on you in no time,” Bond replies as he pulls up to the grand estate.

“My what?” Q asks incredulously. Bond doesn’t answer, simply giving him an indulgent smile. The fucker.

(or: 00q meets Gosford Park. Except not really.)

What you can expect: humour, murder, and some light espionage. Also, fake dating.

Infinite Distance by lachatblanche (X-Men, Erik Lensherr/Charles Xavier, 7k, Teen and Up)

When they encounter an unfamiliar and seemingly-abandoned ship in the middle of nowhere in space, Captain Charles Xavier of the spaceship Graymalkin heads out to investigate.

What you can expect: drama! Intruige! It’s set in space! I read this a while ago but I have memories of it being rather riveting despite the relatively short length.

Gertrude’s Goulash by lollzie (Gotham, Edward Nygma/Oswald Cobblepot, 7k, General Audiences)

Ed needs a new roommate. Oswald needs a room. Oswald may just be the most amazing person Ed has ever met. Shame he's not single. Cue wooing via the medium of cooking.

What you can expect: pining, misunderstandings, obliviousness, and a lot of goulash as a method of romancing.

Death Of The Author by happygolovely (Gotham, Edward Nygma/Oswald Cobblepot, 9k, Mature)

Edward Nygma was never intended to be anything more than a secondary character.

The Riddler demands otherwise.

What you can expect: a story within a story within a story. You think you have it figured out, and the next moment the carpet is yanked out from beneath you. Fairly dark, possibly disturbing, but my goodness if it’s not engaging.

we make our friends, we make our enemies by ORiley42 (Mission: Impossible, Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt, 52k, Teen and Up)

Benji finds out he has a new neighbor. This new neighbor happens to be off-the-charts hot. Hijinks, friendship, more-than-friendship, and secret agent drama ensue.

What you can expect: pining. There’s spy stuff going on too, and it eventually gets brought up, but my gods, the pining. Also, it’s fucking hilarious, and, at just over fifty thousand words, the perfect read when you’ve got an hour or two and you want something that’ll make you both laugh and cry.

Self-Sabotage by EmilyweepsforPilfrey (James Bond, James Bond/Q, 2k, Teen and Up)

For some reason, whenever he's alone with Bond, the most ridiculous things come out of Q's mouth.

Or 'the one where Q accidentally invents a girlfriend'.

What you can expect: Q being an utter idiot. It’s hilarious. Nice quick bite of humour if you fancy it.

The Long Con by harleygirl2648 (Hannibal, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, 19k, Teen and Up)

There are two kinds of cons: long and short. Short cons mean short-term gain, with smaller rewards, mostly just everything you have in your pocket at that moment. Long cons mean lots of time, effort, costumes, masks, props, sets, and other characters all looking to set up the downfall of the mark and take them for all that they've got.

Con Artist/Thieves AU: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are both interested in acquiring a Botticelli, but both of them are quite fond of each other's short games. For both of them, it's the deception and thrill of the game that's worth more than the payout.

And well, after all, aren't the easiest people to scam are those who think they are smart enough to not get scammed?

What you can expect: no cannibalism, a lot of banter, and, of course, con artistry. Quite delightful if I do say so myself.

deus ex machina by coloredink (Hannibal, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, 26k, Teen and Up)

"What the hell?" said Katz.  "Is that--"

"Yeah, I know, it's kinda flashy."  Will shut the car door behind him and patted his pockets for the little fob to lock the car.

"Isn't that Hannibal Lecter's car?"

The car beeped to indicate it was locked.  "Yeah, I guess so."  Will walked away, toward the field, Katz on his heels.  "I needed a new car."

"So you bought the cannibal car?"

-----

You asked for it: the one where Hannibal is a murderous self-driving car.

What you can expect: what it says on the tin. Quite funny, especially with the element of magical realism meaning Hanni-car is sentient. The Hannigram is more vaguely implied than an actual thing, owing, probably, to the fact that Hannibal is, well, a car.

adapt, evolve, become. by peupeugunn (Alex Rider, Gen, 3k, Not Rated)

“This is how you get out. You're slowly moving towards a desk job.” A pause, then, “you know, most people do it the other way around.” Alex chuckles softly and and shuffles towards him to lean against his shoulder, burrowing into the crook of his neck. Ben’s arm winds around him, shields him from the world, a solid weight on his back. “You're going to miss the adrenaline rushes, kid.” There's something almost sad in his voice. Alex doesn't want to understand why. Down that road lies madness. 

What you can expect: a character study, in a bit of a roundabout way.

A Sharp Dressed Man by Avelera (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 12k, Teen and Up)

Hermann's latest book needs an author photo. However, when he's given a makeover and a suit that actually fits for the photo shoot, his appearance is so transformed that Newt mistakes him for his (much hotter) older brother, Dietrich.

Hermann decides to play along.

What you can expect: gods this fic is so good. It’s the first Newmann fic I ever read, and I’ve reread it a good six times since 2018. I would say more, but I think the fic speaks for itself.

Gestures by Actually_Crowley (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 7k, Teen and Up)

Newton finds out what Hermann does with his rare free time, but the discovery leads him to believe that Hermann honestly and unequivocally hates him. 

What you can expect: the rituals are fucking intricate. I love this fic so so so much. And the eventual reveal/confession...scream.

Fate’s Horrifying Ways (also known as: CHRISTMAS GODZILLA) by linearoundmythoughts (Pacific Rim, Newton Geislzer/Hermann Gottlieb, 4k, Teen and Up)

Your name is Newton Geiszler and you’re going to have to break things off with your sort-of online boyfriend because you’re cheating on him. Sort of. [AKA the most dramatic summary of a humorous crackfic ever ok]

Originally written for the Pacrim Secret Santa back in 2014.

What you can expect: first off, it’s not second person, I promise. It is, though, really fucking funny, owing to the misunderstandings that ensue. There’s much pining, some angsting, and, of course, humour.

Letters From Berlin by spenshi (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 12k, Teen and Up)

Newton keeps in touch with his family when he's shipped off to the Shatterdome. Jacob and Illia send care packages to the K-Science Lab. 

What you can expect: Geiszler-family feels. A lot of them. Also, Newt and Hermann slowly growing closer to until they can finally admit they’re into each other.

Wishbone by cypress_tree (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 8k, Teen and Up)

Hermann doesn't have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving, so Newt invites him over for food, family, and a little bit of flirting.  Just a warm, fuzzy college AU to get you through the holidays. 

What you can expect: fluff, softness, general feel-good fic. It’s really good, and it has Geiszler-family feels. Reading this fic is a bit like drinking hot cocoa on a cold day.

next days by catbeans (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 5k, Teen and Up)

Hermann had never felt an ache quite like this one, and he had felt plenty. He had been running on adrenaline first, and then on the necessity to keep running, pain and bone-deep exhaustion falling to such a low priority that he couldn't even consider it one anymore, and then it had stopped.

(the 18 hour nap date these guys deserve)

What you can expect: Newt and Hermann cuddling. A lot. That’s really it, that’s the fic. It’s 100% indulgent and I love it for that.

Tebori by SkysongMA (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 7k, Not Rated)

Newt squints. "It's really not a sex thing? 'Cause I'm not opposed to it being a sex thing, mind you. I just don't want to come in the lab tomorrow and not get to throw things at your stupid face."

Hermann lets out an endless, long-suffering sigh. "It's really not a sex thing, Newton, honestly. We hate each other. That's worked out very well for us so far, and it will continue to work out for us in the future." He doesn't mention that they haven't always hated each other and that, at one point in their long relationship, showing up unannounced at Newton's door for the purpose of sexual favors would not have been so far out of the realm of possibility. Had been, in fact, one of those things Hermann had considered late at night long ago, when he couldn't go a week without a fat envelope in the mail full of Newt's ramblings.

But that was quite some time ago, and he means it. They each get more work done than they would ever have separately, even if only because they like to rub their progress in the other's face.

Anyway, admitting anything different would just give Newt ammunition

What you can expect: Newt gives Hermann a tattoo. There’s a lot of feels.

Newt Inherits a Bar by orphan (Pacific Rim and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 11k, Not Rated)

The scary part is the bar looks exactly like Newt remembers.

What you can expect: you’ll probably tear up a bit. This one hits pretty hard, honestly, but it’s so, so, so good.

First a Darling, Then a Marvel by isozyme (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 20k, Mature)

Newt runs a simulation given three constraints:

1: Newt wants to clone a kaiju 2: Hermann does not want Newt to clone a kaiju 3: Newt is going to clone a kaiju anyway

What you can expect: a lot of sciencing, a lot of feels, and two repressed idiots. There’s like, a paragraph or two of smut but it’s pretty clear when it’s going to happen so it’s easy to skip, which is great. The tl;dr of this fic is Newt clones some kaiju, Hermann reminds him how fucking horrible of an idea that is, and everything more or less works out in the end.

Tea and Sympathy by osprey_archer (Torchwood, Owen Harper/Ianto Jones, 13k, Teen and Up)

Soon after Jack's disappearance, Owen takes sick. Ianto goes to check on him.

What you can expect: crabby doctors, put-upon Welshmen, and a fuckton of emotions that everyone is trying to ignore. Not particularly happy, but then, when is Torchwood ever? It’s good while it lasts, though.

Pareidolia by hal_incandenza (Pacific Rim and The Black Tapes Podcast, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 102k, Mature)

It starts as a profile of paranormal investigator and professional skeptic Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. But it seems the further journalist Newt Geiszler delves into his cases, the more mysterious Dr. Gottlieb becomes. What is he hiding? What is he looking for? What is the truth? What is the difference between a journalist's idea of truth, and a scientist's?

Seeing is not believing. Believing is believing.

What you can expect: suspense, mystery, horror, pining, and apocalypse cults, with a dash of an ambiguous ending. I love this fic so much. I literally would stop what I was doing to read it when I got an alert that there was an update when it was still a work in progress.

Meet Me There Across The Water, And We’ll Start An Endless Storm by Skepticamoeba (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 35k, Teen and Up)

Hermann, an honorably discharged veteran has retired to continue working as a Keeper at a Lighthouse. It is perfectly solitary, and with little in the way for incidents. Newton is the sailor that washes up on the seashore after a summer storm.

[Late 19th century Lighthouse Keeper AU--or the one where Hermann was an aspiring artist whose dreams got a bit derailed, and Newt is the sailor that needs to learn to take his time with things.]

What you can expect: the pining........the intricate rituals............the denial.........*chef’s kiss*

and I couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted by Lvslie (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 24k, Teen and Up)

He still smells like Newt; bears traces of his recent nearness. Clothes sleep-wrinkled from the proximity, from the way Newt’s ankle has during the night hooked around the calf of Hermann’s good leg and dragged his whole body seamlessly closer. Cheek half-flushed from the face unconsciously nuzzled his into the side of Hermann’s neck—evidence of his presence, fast asleep, as Hermann lay still and fretful for hours an end, staring at the ceiling and feeling sick with wanting.

[An early 20th century AU inspired loosely by Maurice and Age of Innocence.]

What you can expect: wistfulness, pining, repression, denial, lots of feelings. You’ll probably tear up. There’s an achingly happy ending for both of them. This is one of the fics I want a hard copy of so I can mark it up because, fuck, I love it so much.

leave the car running by Macremae (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 1k, Teen and Up)

It is clear that, after everything, Newt doesn't like to be touched. 

What you can expect: touch starvation, mutual pining, Newt finally getting the human contact he deserves. I wrote my own version of this since it was initially a prompt, but quite frankly, I like Newton’s version better because it hits.

The Man Who Invented Sherlock Holmes by Calais_Reno (Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, 15k, Teen and Up)

John Watson, struggling young doctor, doomed to live an ordinary life, dreams of writing detective fiction. If he can just figure out his hero's name, the story will practically write itself.

What you can expect: Watson sort of, kind of, maybe invents a man into being. Oops. I haven’t read this one in a while but I remember it being quite a lot of fun. There’s elements of what I would say is probably magical realism, but it’s never quite clear.

Newton Isn’t Dead by Macremae (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb and Vanessa Gottlieb/Karla Gottlieb, 32k, Mature)

Newton Geiszler is currently being possessed by a genocidal alien race known as the Precursors. They’ve taken over his body, leaving him a prisoner in his own mind. However, Newt has a totally awesome plan. He’s going to make a deal with them: let him prove that Earth is worth saving, and if he can’t do that, they can have his body. But convincing a hivemind full of mega-colonizers that one blue planet can be wonderful isn’t going to be easy. He’s going to need the help of his kind-of-ex Hermann, his best friend Vanessa, and one awesome Footloose remake to pull this off.

So, naturally, they go on a road trip.

What you can expect: pining, world-saving, eventual confessions and happy endings. I had the great honour of reading the chapters before they were published, and this fic is one of my top five favourite fics. There were multiple points where I yelled, both literally (quietly) and through text (slightly less quietly).

it takes time, but time moves slow by prettydizzeed (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 2k, Teen and Up)

Hermann conducts a cost-benefit analysis every class period of sitting in the back of the lecture hall versus walking down the stairs to the front. He wishes he had hard data for this, to get some actual statistics, and perhaps after a while, if he records his pain level and his ability to read the board and pay attention after each class, he will be able to predict the outcomes given either choice on a particular day.

Two curves, traveling in opposite directions, inversely proportional: pain goes up, concentration goes down. It’s comforting, somewhat, to make it a numbers game. Impersonal. Absolute. Not a tragedy, and not his doing, only his to interpret, a smudged scrawl across his left knee in an unfamiliar handwriting, his to analyze, to decrypt.

What you can expect: the fic may only be 2k, but it will leave you feeling like you were punched. It’s fantastic.

I Could Be Jew-ish For You by Macremae (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 10k, Teen and Up)

When Hermann agrees to spend Chanukah with his family in an attempt to wheedle some desperately-needed funding out of his father, Newt insists that he shouldn’t face Lars alone and tags along as his “emotional support family rage distraction”. What they fail to realize are two things: 1. When Hermann brings Newt with him to the festivities, assumptions will be made, and 2. Newt may be half-Jewish, but he sure wasn’t raised as one. 

What to expect: fake dating fake dating fake dating— (can you tell I have a favourite trope?) In which Newt is Jew-ish, Hermann is both exasperated and pining, Lars is disliked, and we all get the Jewish romcom we deserve.

It Was Love At Second Sight by rednights (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 35k, Teen and Up)

Hermann receives the first letter when he is eighteen years old.

or: Kaiju don't attack the Earth, but Hermann and Newt still write letters, botch their first meeting, and fall in love, not necessarily in that order.

What you can expect: feels. So many fucking feels. There’s no kaiju but that doesn’t mean you won’t be on the edge of your seat.

hello my old heart by firebirdsuite (The Magnus Archives, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, 15k, Teen and Up)

Peter’s wrong, of course. When it’s all over, Martin does still want to tell Jon everything. It’s just—well, there’s a few things they need to work through first before they can get there.

Martin and Jon find each other again in Scotland.

What you can expect: tenderness, domesticity, and love. The perfect trifecta.

the truth about me (and the truth about me) by danimagus (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 11k, Teen and Up)

Newton suffers from a bout of memory loss and is told Hermann is his fiancé.

Hermann plays along, to his endless shame.

What you can expect: two words: fake dating. Gods, I love this fic, as Mary can attest from how I unceremoniously started screaming at her about it in her tumblr messages the day of/after it was published. This fic is great because it subverts the trope a bit, and thus avoids issues of consent that may otherwise have occured.

speak right to my heart without saying a word by thekaidonovskys (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 13k, General Audiences)

“Your eyes. Your expression. Your smile. I’ve worked with you for ten years, Hermann, and words have never been our primary method of communication.” 

What you can expect: to be knocked the fuck out emotionally. This one hits pretty hard, and that’s what makes it so good.

Transducer by hal_incandenza (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 85k, Teen and Up)

“I need you to hide something for me.”

“Oh, excellent. Of course, Newton, please allow me to jeopardize my career. And yours as well. My pleasure. Do go on.”

“Yeesh, relax,” said Newton. “It’s a personal thing, not a work thing.”

“As if there is any division between the two,” Hermann snapped.

If only you knew, Newt thought.

What you can expect: intruigue, alien tech, light espionage. This fic will have your little nerd heart beating double-time. It’s very very good.

A Really Private Person by astolat (Person of Interest, Harold Finch/John Reese, 18k, Mature)

The end of the world started on a Wednesday in March. 

What you can expect: badassery on Finch’s part. One of the few fics I have bookmarked for this fandom, and it’s bookmarked for good reason.

Party For Two by ProblemWithTrouble (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 18k, General Audiences)

 “My mother’s parents have a home in the Black Forest that has a guest house. They’ve often allowed me to stay there when I could spare the time.” Hermann looked distant as if he were remembering something; the warmth of a fire and a nice book and the smell of freshly made tea. “It will be quiet, and possibly too boring for you-”

 “It won’t be. I could use some quiet after the decade we’ve had. I could actually compile my research. And sleep. It sounds amazing.”

After the world doesn't end Newt and Hermann take a vacation together to live in a cabin and finally relax, as friends. Cue the pining, the longing, and the living together as best friends.

What you can expect: a fic that will wrap you up like a warm blanket. Mutual pining, vacationing together in a cabin, lots of feels—what more can you want?

Dream Drifting by MooseLane (Pacific Rim and Inception, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 5k, General Audiences)

"You're running an extraction on that spastic PPDC biologist, is what I hear." Chau fixes him with a side-eye. "I know I wouldn't want to go poking around in that little bastard's head."

(There are not enough Inception x Pacific Rim crossover fics, so I decided to change that.)

What you can expect: Inception meets Pacific Rim. There’s no other way to say it, really.

I’ve Got Nothing To Do Today But Smile (The Only Living Boy In New York) by gyzym (Inception, Arthur/Eames, 19k, Teen and Up)

Arthur's a corporate lawyer, Eames owns the coffee shop across the street, and all good love stories start with a quadruple shot latte. 

What to expect: Arthur is stressed, Eames runs a coffee shop, and, through the power of friendship and a lot of stress-baking, everything works out happily for our intrepid protagonist.

Kalimat/كلمات  by rainbowagnes (The Old Guard, Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicolò di Genova, 3k, Teen and Up)

Yusuf translates medical texts for Niccolò from Greek and Persian into Arabic, and Niccolò spots the substratum of the ideas of the classical authors that he had once believed the basis of his own civilisation that he would go to the sword to defend, translated and passed down and sewn into a no longer foreign script. There are words Yusuf does not know how to translate. They will never, ever know all of the words. The prospect is thrilling. --- It takes Niccolò lifetimes to learn Arabic. 

What you can expect: if you, like me, are, especially natively, multilingual, this might hit the sweet spot of Language Feels. It did for me. Also, Joe calling Nicky hayati? Yeah.

i never liked that ending either by Macremae (Pacific Rim, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, 15k, Mature)

You want a better story. Who wouldn’t?    - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out

Once upon a time Dr. Flick Tucker, K-Sci head of Biology, fought a bunch of highly scientific dragons to save the world. Then, they took over her life. It didn’t end well.

Once upon our time Dr. Newt Geiszler, marine biologist, sci-fi aficionado, and accidental discoverer of dimensional travel, got a chance to take her place. He has a couple of ideas.

In which Uprising is still a bad movie, musings on the nature of choice and personal autonomy are made, and somewhere, probably, a coin is showing heads every time.

What you can expect: everything’s fine this is a perfectly normal fic come here i want to cause you as much emotional damage as I can

Not Allowed by acedott (BBC Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, 1k, General Audiences)

Gwen has been dealing with self-imposed touch starvation since she was a child. Morgana sets out to challenge this. 

What you can expect: gays. Pining. Touch starvation. Need I say more?

Rocky Horror Pancake Show by ChuckleVoodoos (Daredevil, Matt Murdock/Franklin “Foggy” Nelson, 19k, Teen and Up)

Foggy falls asleep at exactly 12:00 AM, and he’s making a wish. He wakes up at 12:00 AM too—twenty-four hours before he fell asleep.

"Let's do the time warp again!"

What you can expect: Ground-hog Day style time-loop, lots of fluff, and a happy ending.

Ain’t No Nancy Kerrigan by cleverqueen (DC’s Legends of Tomorrow, Leonard Snart/Mick Rory, 13k, Teen and Up)

It's 1994, and young Lisa Snart's jumps aren't strong enough for an Olympic singles skater. Thankfully, her older brother has an athletic friend who can match her in pairs.

Mick Rory is hopelessly in love with Leonard Snart, though he'd never say anything about it, so he jumps at a chance to do Len's little sister a favor. If he's patient and works hard, maybe he'll even get to skate with her older brother.

What you can expect: pining, ice-skating, and general goodness. It’s fun, it’s funny, and it has a happy ending.

[fromkaermorhentolettenhove]

Dire Straits (?)

Summary: Jaskier misses Geralt this particular winter season and goes searching for him, in turn meeting two witchers that know Geralt better than Jaskier could ever imagine. 

Now to get his leg out of this bear trap...

Rating: T

Genre: Canon Universe, Developing Relationship, Meet the Family, Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Mild descriptions of Injury/Recovery

Words: 2875

-

AO3

or

Geralt is gone for the winter. 

It isn’t unusual by any means. Jaskier has gotten used to their autumn departures and the lonely trek back to Oxenfurt. By spring, Geralt will track him down and then it will be as if they had never been apart. 

Over the years, their friendship–or whatever it is they’ve settled into now–had changed in unexpected ways. In the beginning, Jaskier didn’t know what he was to Geralt or why the man tolerated him at all. Soon enough, he learned Geralt’s way of affection, to show how he cared. It was rather endearing, the little gifts he’d leave for Jaskier, the extra helpings of food Jaskier pretended not to notice on his plate. Jaskier gained the courage to curl up next to Geralt as they slept, sit next to him with their sides touching in busy taverns. Sometimes, they went so far as to hold hands, lips brushing against a cheek. 

Jaskier had been tempted to ask Geralt what they were one time or another, but found the words dying in his mouth as soon as the thought crossed his mind. 

What they are is perfect. 

Labels aren’t needed, nor a confirmation that is already there in locked gazes and lingering touches. 

So, when he and Geralt go their usual ways, Jaskier thinks little of it. 

It’s a busy night in a tavern when a wave of loneliness sneaks up on him, gnawing away at his mind by the minute. He misses Geralt. He wants to be with him always, to not have this separation during the winter. If it’s Jaskier’s safety that Geralt is worried about, Jaskier is ready to argue his case. It’s just the matter of finding him. 

Jaskier never thought to ask Geralt where he was going, but now he wishes he had. 

Following rumors of townsfolk and vague descriptions Geralt had been willing to share, Jaskier finds himself off any path, trudging through a light blanket of snow. He keeps his eyes peeled for any signs of a witcher’s shelter, and more so, any signs of life.

The forest is quiet, his footsteps too loud in his ears. Jaskier doesn’t dare breathe–any little thing could bring attention to himself. Each step is heavier than the last, the snow crunching underfoot as if warning him to turn back. However, where that is has become lost amongst the trees. 

The panic rises in Jaskier’s chest and he turns in his spot, the forest caving in on him. There’s nowhere to run and he takes a step back as he stares up at the treetops. 

All of a sudden, his leg is on fire, there is a sickening crack of bone and Jaskier crashes to the ground, screaming. Wave after waves of twisting, burning pain shoots through is body with no end in sight. Jaskier claws at the ground, tears running down his face as his leg becomes immobilized. The slightest movement causes a pain so fierce Jaskier almost blacks out. He sobs into the ground, unable to think past the agony he is in. 

He almost misses the approaching voices until a harsh grunt hits his ears and he whips his head up. Fear rises in his chest as two large figures approach him, their faces barely visible through his tears. 

“Look at what you’ve done, Lambert,” one man scolds before he crouches down besides Jaskier. “We’re going to get you out. Stay calm.”

That’s easier said than done and Jaskier shifts under the other man’s glare, a choked cry leaving him.

“He shouldn’t have been walking around here.”

“That’s not an excuse. Vesemir told you not to use these traps anymore,” the first man bites back. 

Turning his attention back to Jaskier, the man places a gentle hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. He is concerned, eyebrows furrowed as he glances from Jaskier’s face to his leg, caught in a steel trap with pointed teeth. Jaskier’s cries have subsided to small hiccups, but his tears continue their steady flow, anxiety clawing at his mind.

“I’m afraid we have to make the pain worse before we can make it better,” he begins. “But I promise we’ll do all that we can to help you heal.”

Jaskier trusts this man and it’s then he notices the eyes, so much like Geralt’s. Hastily wiping his tears away, he glances at the other man to see if his face holds the same story. A sharp gaze is his answer and Jaskier purses his lips. 

“Who are you?” he manages, his voice trembling.

The men exchange a look before the first one answers. “Witchers.”

“I...I figured that,” Jaskier admits. “What are your names?”

The first man stops just before the trap and gives Jaskier a frown. There’s a question on his lips, but with the predicament at hand, he seems to think better of asking it. 

“I’m Eskel. The one who got you into this mess is Lambert. Who are you?”

The names don’t ring any bells, but Jaskier is comfortable in the presence of witchers, whoever they may be. His breathing evens out and he takes to laying his head on top of his hands.

“Jaskier,” he swallows, bracing himself for the next round of pain. 

“...Geralt’s Jaskier?” Eskel asks pensively. 

Jaskier freezes at this and turns to Eskel, who stares back with the same wide-eyed expression. “You know Geralt?”

“Well, yes,” Eskel nods. “He’s our brother.” 

He motions between Lambert and himself. Lambert’s face is still unreadable but his arms have dropped and he’s taken one step closer to Jaskier. Jaskier laughs, his hazy mind throwing him in all directions. This really is just his luck. 

“All right, sunshine,” Lambert growls, hand on Jaskier’s leg. “Let’s get you free and then we’ll talk.”

Jaskier isn’t given any warning, but it’s all for the best as Eskel pulls apart the trap, freeing Jaskier’s leg. Jaskier whimpers as his leg is jostled around, Lambert fixing a tourniquet of ratty cloth around his leg. A makeshift splint is added to the mix as well, but Jaskier hardly registers a thing until he finds himself in Eskel’s arms. 

“Oh, you don’t have to–” Jaskier begins out of habit but Lambert’s hardened stare shuts him up. 

“I would’ve made you walk. It doesn’t look that bad.”

“Come off it, Lambert,” Eskel rolls his eyes. “You forget we’re dealing with a human here.”

Lambert only offers a disgruntled shrug in return but keeps his eye on Jaskier as the three make their way through the forest. With the pain starting to numb, Jaskier is able to sort through some of his thoughts. 

“Do you know where Geralt is?” he asks, a small spring of hope growing inside of him. 

“Don’t you know?” Eskel frowns before adding a small, “Of course not. It’s Geralt we’re talking about.”

Shaking his head, Eskel then clears his throat since Lambert appears to have exhausted his part of conversation. 

“We all come back to our keep, Kaer Morhen, during the winter,” Eskel explains. “I guess you could call it a hibernation of sorts.”

“More like the only time of the year we don’t have to deal with the stupidity of humans,” Lambert mutters. 

Eskel gives a small nod of agreement with a sigh. “That too.”

Jaskier mulls this over. Geralt never talked about brothers or anything he got up to during the winter beyond seeking out a familiar keep. Jaskier doesn’t prod when things get personal, Geralt’s business is his own, but with so much of Geralt’s life coming to the surface, Jaskier begins to feel left out. 

As if sensing Jaskier’s change in mood, Eskel begins speaking again. 

“Geralt’s told us all about you. The songs you’ve written him, the adventures you’ve had together...I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious.”

Jaskier stares at Eskel then, searching for any signs of joking or exaggeration. When both witchers hold the same serious expression, Jaskier blushes, ducking his head to hide his reddening face. 

“He doesn’t mean to keep his secrets,” Eskel continues on. “Sometimes, he’s just brainless when it comes to what he should actually mention.”

Jaskier is no stranger to that, but it still hurts a little that there’s parts of Geralt’s life that he doesn’t know about. 

The walk continues on, Jaskier dozing off several times from exhaustion and to his surprise, the witchers let him be. When there’s a creak, Jaskier snaps his eyes open to see a large wall made of dilapidated stone, but still standing strong. There is little action in the courtyard they step into–or really anywhere at all–and Jaskier frowns. Again, he’s met with too much silence until Lambert decides to break it. 

“Geralt, get down here!” he shouts, making Jaskier jump a little. 

Eskel scowls but the two witchers don’t have a chance to move forward as Geralt charges out from inside the keep, ready to tell Lambert off. Then, his eyes land on Jaskier and Geralt comes to a halt. 

“We’ve seem to have caught a stray,” Eskel uses his head to nod at Jaskier. 

Jaskier purses his lips at this comment, more focused on Geralt’s intense stare. 

“What the hell did you two do to him?” Geralt bites.

“I did nothing,” Eskel immediately defends himself. “It’s Lambert and his blasted traps.”

Geralt snaps his head to Lambert who holds his arms out. 

“What? Is there a law against traps?”

With only a growl as a response, Geralt reaches out for Jaskier and Jaskier finds himself jostled from one set of arms to another. 

“Gentleman, really,” Jaskier waves. “I’m sure I can walk.”

“I’m sure you can’t,” Geralt replies in a muttered breath. “You’re in high spirits.”

“Gave him some…” Eskel makes a motion with his hand and Jaskier frowns. 

He doesn’t remember taking anything. He looks at Geralt for an answer but is met with a sigh before the two head inside. 

“Who wrapped your leg?” Geralt asks. 

“The sullen one. Lambert.”

Geralt nods. “Always keeps some kind of herbal medicine on him. Placed on a wound, it numbs the area for a little while. It’s why you’re...you.”

Jaskier blinks at this before letting out a small laugh. “So you’re saying if he hadn’t given me anything I’d be writhing in pain right now?”

“Yes. However, once I remove the wrappings the pain will come back.”

Having paid no attention to his surroundings, Jaskier is caught off-guard when Geralt sets him down on a bed and begins properly cleaning up his injury. 

The room is small with high ceilings, a fireplace across from the bed. To Jaskier’s left, there is a large set of windows, allowing sunlight to pour in. There are no fancy decorations and what does sit in the room is just enough to make it liveable.

Jaskier doesn’t have time to ponder much more on this as Geralt’s hand on his leg is all the warning he gets before the crude wrappings are removed.

“Fuck!” Jaskier swears as sensation comes back to his leg. 

The tears are unstoppable and Jaskier buries his face into one of the pillows as Geralt removes his breeches and cleans the wound. 

“What were you doing in the forest?” Geralt asks, but it does little to distract Jaskier from the pain.

“Looking for you,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. 

He sobs as Geralt wraps two splints along his leg and he begs for the pain to stop. The hands on his waist are firm but gentle as he’s guided into a seated position, a pillow cushioning his fragile leg. Geralt presses a bottle to Jaskier’s lips and Jaskier drinks past the bitter taste, wincing as he swallows. A blanket is thrown over him, a washcloth offered for his eyes, before he finally lets out a sigh of relief.

Geralt hasn’t responded to the previous comment and Jaskier decides to ask the question for him, his body starting to relax.

“Why was I looking for you, you ask? Well, I’ve come across a spell of sorts and wouldn’t you know it, one ingredient that’s essential is a strand of Witcher hair.” 

He’s not sure where this lie comes from and blames it on his pain-stricken mind.

“I missed you too, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s words catch in his throat and he stares at the golden eyes that bore into him. Geralt knows him too well. Jaskier goes to duck his head only for his chin to be caught in Geralt’s grasp. He lets the Witcher pull his face back up, despite the heat that rushes to his cheeks.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you to join me here,” Geralt starts with a low rumble. 

“Why haven’t you?” Jaskier cuts in, noting how Geralt’s hand is now cupping his cheek.

“Nerves, I suppose.”

It’s not a good excuse, but Jaskier accepts it for now. He leans forward, bringing his and Geralt’s faces closer, breathes mingling. Before Jaskier can move any further, Geralt presses their foreheads together, his eyes closing. Jaskier follows Geralt’s movements and the two soak in the feeling of each other, this peaceful moment amongst the chaos. 

“So,” Jaskier breathes at last. “When do I get to see all of the keep?”

Geralt’s eyes snap open and Jaskier can’t help laugh a little. They pull apart, Geralt’s hand trailing down to Jaskier’s shoulder.

“I’m not carrying you around if that’s what you’re suggesting,” he states. 

“You carried me up here,” Jaskier says pointedly. “What’s the difference?”

“I’m not about to become your horse,” Geralt retorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Jaskier has already won the battle and he nuzzles Geralt’s nose with his own as he grins. 

A knock on their door interrupts them and Geralt narrows his eyes as he looks at the closed door over his shoulder. 

“How’s Jaskier?” Eskel’s muffled voice comes from the other side. 

Geralt sighs as he turns back to Jaskier. “You’ve got guests.”

“Oh, please let them in,” Jaskier smiles, excitement bubbling in his chest. 

Now is his chance to get to know the other people in Geralt’s life and questions already buzz through his mind. Geralt quirks a brow but says no more as he gets up to open the door. Eskel and Lambert quickly push pass him, standing on opposite sides of the bed where Jaskier lays. Jaskier stares up at the looming witchers, his gaze fluttering between the two as he takes the opportunity to really study them. 

“Well, where shall we start?” Jaskier asks, his smile growing wider. 

Eskel sits down on the edge of the bed, but even his tentative action still causes the bed to shift and Jaskier bites back a laugh, glancing at Geralt for a moment. Geralt grunts, mumbling something to himself as he crosses his arms, watching his brothers closely. 

“Did you and Geralt really meet in a tavern?” Eskel starts with his own question, one Jaskier is more than happy to indulge in. 

Lambert is slow to relax, but his eyes never leave Eskel and Jaskier as they converse. When Lambert finally tries to say something, Jaskier whips his head towards him, eyes bright and curious. 

“Yes, Lambert?” Jaskier tilts his head, his smile unwavering. 

Lambert goes still before he shakes his head and looks away from Jaskier. There is a look exchanged between Jaskier and Geralt, the faintest trace of an amused smile on Geralt’s face. Reaching out for Lambert, Jaskier pulls him down onto the bed, earning him a grunt of surprise. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Lambert,” Jaskier teases. “And, Geralt, there’s still some space on the bed if you wish to join us. Perhaps correct some of my details.”

Jaskier winks at Geralt, pride surging in his chest as Geralt marches over to the bed and practically pushes Lambert and Eskel out of the way to sit behind Jaskier. Once the two are comfortable, Lambert and Eskel sit back on the bed, unsure of where to go from here. 

“What was Geralt like as a child?” Jaskier breaks the stalemate. 

He can practically feel Geralt’s eyeroll and this time, it’s Lambert who speaks up. Relaxing in Geralt’s hold, Jaskier takes in every story, laughing with the jokes, offering a sympathetic hand at the somber details. Though he’s just met Lambert and Eskel, he can sense the bond between the three witchers, their loyalty and trust in each other. It’s truly unbreakable and he’s thankful Geralt has these men in his life. Jaskier hopes in time, they can be part of his. 

When yet another rough knock on the door catches everyone’s attention, it’s then Jaskier gets to meet Vesemir, who gives Jaskier a wary eye. Jaskier can only sheepishly smile back as Eskel explains the situation, reminding Jaskier he indeed has a broken leg. 

“Keep an eye on these three. They’re trouble,” Vesemir says before he leaves the room and Jaskier laughs. 

Geralt has always been his home, but now Jaskier finds he wants to make this place, his comfort with these men, a home as well. The immediate acceptance and care means the world to Jaskier and he wants to repay the favor.

Tangling one of Geralt’s hands in his own, Jaskier breathes in the warmth, ready for a winter safe in a witcher’s keep.

[pocket-void]

Bro I am a sucker for world building, just read any of my AU's to see that lol. But if you like questions, the the SoH AU, how do they meet each other. I can imagine they all have a common goal it seems, well most, to stop the war and bring peace. But, I can also imagine that they do NOT trust each other.

World building is my absolute JAM! I can honestly do it forever, it’s just really fun crafting societies and worlds for stories to take place in, y’know? ^///^ It’s probably one of the reasons I like D&D so much.

But anyways, yes, you are absolutely correct! Everyone is more or less on the same page, but the main conflict centers around how they interact with each other! Character interaction based stories are my absolute favorites, and the SoH AU is mostly just interpersonal conflict. Can they work together to successfully reunite the kingdoms? Will the courts crush the rebellion before they reach that agreement? Or will they perhaps inadvertently destroy each other in the process? OOooh drama, one of my favorite flavors of it no less. o///o

I’ll give you a general plot run down I guess? Focusing on when they actually meet instead of like, actual plot threads. (This story has way too many layers, but what thing I make doesn’t at this point-) I wasn’t planning on putting tons of thought into this currently, but since you’re curious I’ll tell ya what I’ve got. ^///^

If this were a comic or fic, the story would be broken up into various points of views and basically tell different parts of the story at different times. Eventually everything gets pieced together by the climax, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Please note that these notes are out of order, but here’s how each of them eventually meet up:

Janus is the first person to meet everybody in the story at least once, under various different aliases thanks to his shapeshifting ability

He doesn’t approve of a lot of them

Mostly because they either seem unsuited for their cause or completely unwilling to cooperate

He thinks Roman is dangerous

He knows Logan is powerful but untrusting

He thinks Patton is valuable but soft

He and Virgil just flat out don’t get along

Patton and Virgil don’t realize that they’ve met Janus somewhere before when he’s introduced later

Logan and Roman do notice, but don’t really mention it

Well, Roman does, but like, vaguely and ominously for the aesthetic

---

Janus and Remus met a long long time ago. They’ve known each other for years.

They met in the land of Diamonds, which was strange because Remus is a Clover. 

He claims to be a runaway since he was young, though Janus finds that a little odd regardless.

They become pretty decent friends, and eventually skedaddle out of Diamond territory together once Janus gets cursed and is officially branded a traitor to the court

Eventually JOKER is formed and they’ve had eachother’s backs ever since. Though admittedly Janus doesn’t really know a whole lot about Remus in the grand scheme of things.

---

Remus kind of goes around acting like a wanted criminal very often; he has absolutely no fear

He is in fact Roman’s twin, their parents were of two suits and so they ended up being like that too

Unfortunately that causes a lot of problems when you’re a Clover in the Land of Diamonds, so he ended up being hidden away for safety a lot until he just ran off.

Remus’ core is actually unstable, which is why nobody (Not even himself) can figure out what his rank is

Patton eventually figures that out but he isn’t sure if there was a way to fix that

Honestly Remus thinks it’s super cool like that

He meets Logan by attempting to con him, but it ends up with them getting into an even larger scheme and busting some sort of underground trading ring

Logan thinks he’s insufferable, but a Clover is more bearable than a Diamond any day

---

Somewhere in the beginning in the Kingdom of Spades Logan comes to the realization of just how corrupt the higher court truly is.

He blows up at a higher ranking official for making clearly lackluster and inefficient decisions to manipulate and twist things in their favor and simultaneously quits and gets exiled for this. (Literally just “You can’t fire me, I quit”)

Well actually the court can’t just let him walk off like that, and basically try to get him assassinated

He realizes something is off and anticipates the ambush, but he’s still terribly outnumbered and gets really wounded, though he manages to escape into Hearts territory where he collapses in the snow and gets found by Patton

---

Patton’s workshop is in a really obscure alleyway, and there’s metal cuff latched onto his right wrist. He’s basically under house arrest for his history of trying to harbor fugitives.

He finds Logan during an outing and takes him in like a good Samaritan of course

Logan is still in his scholarly robes and so he’s instantly identifiable as a Spade, not that Patton wouldn’t find out regardless but still

Patton heals his wounds as best he can while Logan rests, since he was out in the snow for quite a while

Logan bolts up and almost causes a scene when he finally wakes, and Patton has to convince him he won’t turn him in to the high court

They don’t get along the best until Logan lowers his guard a little and figures out a way for Patton to escape house arrest (He fiddles with the bracelet along with Patton’s soul smithing abilities, not going in to the science of that rn)

Logan stays with Patton while he figures out his next course of action

He admittedly respects Patton’s profession and finds it very interesting, since the Spade court lacks a lot of info on the matter

---

Virgil has actually dueled Janus on a few occasions, and the main reason is mostly just because they don’t get along. He finds the man untrustworthy, which is a fair assessment ngl.

He meets Remus under better circumstances

They meet one day while Virgil is on patrol, since Remus is a Clover he’s the one in charge of doing errands in Clover territory

They get along alright and Virgil admits to him that he doesn’t think the high courts are doing what’s right for the people

Remus uses that opportunity to kind of nudge him into doing rebellion stuff, which Virgil actually declines

He does set out on a personal quest soon after though, and resigns from his position as a guard

It raises a few suspicions in the court, and a lot of people were against his choice, but Virgil was firm and he left before anyone could say anything more

He meets Logan somewhere down the line in Hearts territory with Patton, they’re pretty snippy with each other in the beginning

The three stay together at Patton’s for a while and are almost busted twice before deciding to leave

Patton stays at first but eventually he joins their plans to rebel and save the people, since he knows how much they’ve been suffering under the court’s rule

---

Roman gets a few visits sprinkled in various parts of the story

He meets Janus rather early, who visits him to ask for his assistance

It doesn’t work out very well

Janus is challenged to a duel, but because of the curse inflicted on him he was in no condition to fight a King ranked individual

He promises to find Roman a suitable opponent, to which Roman agrees to help the cause if Janus manages to do so

Virgil kind of stumbles upon his castle while travelling and gets roped into a bizarre tea party where Roman just kind of complains to him the whole time

Roman doesn’t take the Jack seriously but he enjoys company regardless

They quip a lot and kind of become friends, and Roman leaves him with some ominous words about the future and bids him farewell

Somewhere down the line Logan goes to formally challenge Roman to a duel, and they have quite possibly the most ridiculous and wild fight that ends in half of Roman’s castle in rubble and the Diamond court having a massive collective headache

Logan earns Romans respect and they settle stuff over tea

And those are my scattered and bare bone ideas written for you at 2:20 AM in the morn. o///o

[squid--inc--writes]

purgatory

so, I decided to finally finish writing that piece from a really fucked up dream I had. this probably doesn`t cover a quarter of it, but I enjoyed it, and its the first solid writing piece I`ve had in 2 years, so I`m proud.

@schwarzekatzen @wettthepottterheadss4120

warning: gore, gross descriptions, vague psychological bullshit, bullying, violence, etc.

word count:  2281

summary: you follow Trith (not mentioned in the story) on her first round to meet some of the residents within this particular realm of purgatory. Because, frankly, who else can?

My eyes open to a hollow ceiling, peering right into an attic where a familiar rocking hair rocks away. Not a care in the world about how it's up there. That would be Granny Gin. Don't know her real name, but still. She's there. Dead as ever, and knitting away. Sometimes I sleep in long enough that her scarf reaches the floor.

Standing up, groggy, I make my way to do my rounds. Someone's got to make sure the dead don't panic. The first round doesn't have to be me all dressed up. Not like they care about the smell. At least I don't think they do. Can the dead smell? I don't know. At Kirby's request, I started keeping a journal so he can remember what last happened and get one step closer to getting out of here. I also want to help everyone else out of purgatory, so this is why I'm writing this. Brand spanking new. Right up on a blank page. Yep.

So, I guess my next ghastly figure is Heidi. She stands in the bathroom all day. Touching up her makeup, not changing a thing. Aside from the usual changes extended stays can cause. I think she starved to death. Couldn't tell you. She's standing there, takes a glance at me in the mirror, nods, then tries another colour of lipstick. She's been here a while, so that means three eyes, each one a distinct colour of red, blue or yellow. She also has glowing skin, and her legs are becoming more horse like. Maybe her puzzle would be solved by getting her life a little STABLE. Hah. Get it? Why would I write down my laugh?

Whatever, I'm not going to erase anything or cross it out. The thoughts of the living might help, even abstractly.

The next is the hallway. Bert walks along, holding a gas can thing. Y'know, an old timey thing they used to gas bugs? I'm not sure, I can't recall ever needing an exterminator.

He tips his hat to mean, "hey there, lil' lady. Didn't the landlord tell ya to keep out of the building for the next day or so? Don't worry. I'll wait to do my work until you get out. I'll just let 'im know I'll be a bit late starting."

I nod, "thank you." Sometimes it's easier to play along. I feel he's been a tad testy, so I try not to agitate him. Usually I can pass by just fine. Maybe he had anger issues. Try and work his puzzle out like that. Ironically, he resembles a cockroach by now. He doesn't have hands, but the rigid limbs that should have been his hands were made of a hardened skin. It chipped away from his bones like it knew it wasn't supposed to look like that. I rarely look him in the face, both because he looks… interesting, but also because it tends to aggravate him. Maybe it's the way I look at him. He's yelled at me for being a large bug before, not always a roach. I just don't want to get hit again. Maybe I shouldn't help him.

Next up, Theodore and Teddy. They have the same name, and they yell at each other from across the hall. They each have their own rooms. Sometimes they switch rooms. They seem to be connected at this point, literally. They have long strings of flesh swinging from between their bodies. At one point, they got cut, and you see everything pouring out. They acknowledge it in their recent arguments, getting mad at the other for not making enough of an effort to keep it all in. Theodore usually doesn't have a jaw anymore, since it melted down, combined with his clothes. I can't check on Mindy anymore thanks to them. I don't think I want to.

However, I think the problem revolves around they're communication. But that's an obvious point. Maybe they need to accept their own responsibility for their misfortunes.

Mindy… last time I saw her, she had dolls connecting to her through thousands of strands of veins, and nerves, and all other sorts of things. They aren't all made of plastic anymore, last time I saw her.

Theodore says to me, as if his chin wasn't sitting where his stomach would be, "hello dear. How are you today?"

"I'm doing well. Thank you. How are you and Teddy today?"

Teddy snorts from the other room, dusting off an old hat, and placing it on his head, "I'm fine. Perfectly."

Theodore rolled his eyes, "we're as well as ever. Just a lovers' quarrel."

Teddy got offended, ripping the hat off, "oh, NOW we're lovers?"

I nod, and quickly leave before they start trying to pull their guts to their respective sides, and spitting insults. It never ends well.

Next up, Patty and Simone, standing on the stairs. They are actually quite friendly with each other. Patty asking Simone about her husband, Simone asking how Patty's been, after her being widowed and all. They swap recipes regularly. Patty very much seems like she killed her husband. And some of the recipes they swap sound as if Simone is trying to kill her husband. If what she says is true, he deserves it. God do I hope it's not.

Simone has morphed into the railing at this point, spine jutting from bloodless flesh so she can lean on the staircase. I feel the one they used to talk at was a lot lower, considering Simone is almost nine feet in the air. Patty, however, seems to be turning to a bone statue. Her legs can no longer move, not that she moved much to begin with. Wait, no, this time she seems to be turning to ice. Her legs are quite transparent, but there's a layer of frost surrounding her feet. They never used to acknowledge me, but Simone seems to have spread to the stairs, and she'll scold me for walking too roughly. Patty gives me the most judgmental look. I think if they could move on from husband's they'd probably be home free. But that is what their lives revolved around for so long, so I'm not sure that could be easy.

Once I sneak down the stairs without slipping, or getting yelled at, it's into the kitchen I go. Sid is at the fridge constantly stuffing his face. Somehow, he's a part of the fridge. Everything drops out of his stomach back into the fridge, into a pile of slop. Like something a pig would eat. If he's particularly frantic, he'll tear chunks out of himself. I don't think they can feel it when they hurt themselves. Not unless they're supposed to…

I have no clues as to how Sid can save his puzzle. He doesn't tend to talk. I'm not sure he has vocal cords anymore. He barely has eyes.

Moving from the kitchen is the parlor. I'm not sure how this place works, so I'm not sure this is in the right place. Either way, the parlor has about seven people in here. Kirby plays checkers with Daniel, Maud watches TV with Lainey, Paula and Shess pick on Lily. 

Paula and Shess would probably be gone if they could stop, and just sincerely apologize. I'm not sure Lily is really a person though, because she's never changed once. I think she kind of looks like a mannequin, but moving. She's meant to play a part, being small, and easy to pick on. Shess shattered her arms at one point, and now just has gooey, bloody stumps with bone shards sticking out that she uses to punch lily with, and her head is being engulfed by her own skin, but her eyes seemed to have multiplied, hair having started to attach and grow off of the eyes. Like the world's grossest ice-cream cone. Paula, on the other hand, started turning into blades. Her fingernails are long and sharp, her arms have started to thin at the edges, and splinter into more blades, even her nose resembles a knife. I passed her once, her hair brushed my cheek, and I had a long cut from my temple to my chin. That wasn't fun. I can't talk to either of them. They're always caught up in bloodlust.

Lainey and Maud try to ignore Shess and Paula as much as possible. They are actually aware of their surroundings. I don't think they need my help out, because they've been fading lately, so maybe they're ready to pass on. They generally talk about the movie they're watching. Sometimes they get new snacks from an unknown source. Usually they just coo at each other about how much they love each other, and what signs to look for to find each other again. They told me that Purgatory allows you the chance to return to when you died, the chance to fade completely, or to join the better place in whatever you believed in. Purgatory is for learning lessons. They both believe in reincarnation, and fully believe they'll still love each other, no matter the timeline. It's one of the nicer conversations.

Daniel and Kirby are next up. Daniel has no idea what's going on ever. His skin seems to be made from webs, and these small black creatures weave over him all the time, anytime something starts breaking down. Which happens at every move.  Daniel seems actually peaceful here. Maybe he needs to take a stand. Especially with Kirby always cheating. He doesn't even do it subtly, he straight up takes pieces, and places them where they shouldn't be. Daniel would probably tear all his 'skin' off at this point if he tried to do something.

Kirby, however, seems to increasingly be made of greasy Hawaiian print shirts. Yes, you are made of shirts. I almost slip when I pass your table because it's not, like, slightly caked on grease, it's literally dripping, and doesn't spread past a three foot radius. Maybe if you apologized for Dan, it would help. How's that sound?

Okay, three more rooms, then I start getting ready. So, I leave the other side of the parlor, head into the hall, and head to the basement. Shimi is down here. They're just a long, skinny eel at this point. With multiple heads that bite at Shimi's main body. I'm not even sure when Shimi showed up, and I've never seen much else, so I'm not sure they can leave. I don't try to go into the water. Too scared. It's undefinably deep. Some places you can see the ground, others are holes, others are so obfuscated by flesh that has yet to melt down and turn into water. I'm sure Shimi's been here for thousands of years.

Heading back upstairs, I check on the, what I can only assume, ballroom. It's huge, and usually has a few dancing couples. This room changes a lot, and has the least mutated people in it. I remember I helped one couple realize the intense emotion they couldn't move on from was rage, at the fact that they had cheated on each other. They both felt wronged, but they were both no better than each other. The puzzle they solved involved them no longer dancing together, and finding new partners. Today it stood completely empty. Not unusual, but still. The room always unnerves me.

Next up, I like to call the nook. It's not quite in the library, but it's very cozy right outside it.

A rough, sweet voice says, "what took you so long?"

I smile at Ronnie. She's very nice. I think she is, maybe was, actually my age when she died. We're both around seventeen. She however has skin made from literal porcelain, although that does mean when she moves too much, her body starts leaking blood, like from her eyes and joints . Her hair is nearly laid around her head, a warm auburn. And I don't mean that figuratively. It literally feels the way a room with plenty of blankets and a fireplace would feel like. The nook doesn't have a fireplace, it just has Ronnie.

She rasps out, "well, are we going to have a nap? You're my favourite snuggle buddy, and I can't have one without you."

I'm pretty sure she can't leave because she's trapped in her childhood. She's told me about all her dolls, and toys. I think her house might have burned down, and she wouldn't leave them behind. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get her to leave.

I give her a closed mouth smile, and step forward, "yeah, I can help you take a nap."

I wind up cuddling up to her. And, I think I won't write much until after I get ready. Too tired. Need to wake up more.

When I'm finally up, I look up to see the hollow attic. No floor at all. Grandmother Gin rocking away in her rocking chair, completely unaware of the lack of floor.im not sure if that's actually her name. Sometimes I get up so late that her blanket actually gets in my way trying to get up. At least I don't usually get dressed up to do my first round. I don't think the dead care about when the living stink. They don't seem to care about much. I do. Speaking of stink, I am doing this for my pal Kirby. Try to keep a record and write down everything that happens. Maybe I can help him, and some of the others, out of here. That's why I'm writing this. Right here. Blank page. Well, not blank anymore. But, hey, first page, first to go.

[ksooandwoozi]

Cursed Part Two

So I’ve been getting a lot of requests to make a part two of cursed. It pained me to write, but here it is! I know I haven’t posted in forever and this was promised almost a year ago, but it’s finally here. It’s in Hansol’s pov, and it’s very angsty so please don’t read if you’re feeling sad :(  Hopefully this gives some closure into how Jihoon was feeling, and now I kind of want to make a third part with a happy ending to cursed, because I very sad after writing this. 

I’ll be writing more new stories as well so please look forward to some writings that are fluffy in the future! 

Hansol couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something terribly wrong. After you had left the party in a flurry of tears into the torrential downpour, your sister had asked everyone there to assist in looking for you. Although your sister wasn’t the most attune to your emotions and feelings, even she could see that there was something wrong in the way you had left the party so suddenly. Your family was obsessed with appearances, and even though the party was only filled with yours and your sister’s friends, she knew that you wouldn’t just leave like that without a proper and good reason. 

Currently, Hansol was checking the gardens for you, shouting your name in a shrill voice, cold racking his body. He had no clue how you were surviving out here right now; he had only been outside for ten minutes and yet he was shivering, fingers beginning to turn numb and the cold rain biting into his skin. He had seen you go up to your room earlier in the night, and had assumed it was to cough up the roses that symbolized your love for Jihoon, but he hadn’t actually seen the boy for the entire night. 

Hansol wondered where the boy could be. He figured that the sight of seeing him after so many days was a shock to your system; maybe that was why you left the party in a rush. Maybe that was why you had left without a warning. 

He had never had the hanahaki disease, never had been subjected to the utter torment it put its receipts in, but after seeing two of the most important people in his life go through it, he decided then and there that he would do absolutely everything he could to help you through it. He would move to a different country with you if needed. He would do basically anything. 

Hansol calls out your name again, this time with renewed vigor. If you didn’t prove to be here, then he would check all your other favorite places. You were bound to be somewhere. But before he’s able to check behind the little stone wall that was situated towards the front of the garden, he hears his name. 

Hansol turns around and sees the last person he would’ve expected to hear call his name. It’s Jihoon’s girlfriend, the one he had been introduced to a week or two ago. He couldn’t recall her name in the slightest, because the only thing that had consumed his thoughts during their introduction was the fact that this girl was the one that made it impossible for Jihoon to fall for you. He couldn’t help but hate the girl, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault at all. She hadn’t even met you yet. 

“Hansol?” Jihoon’s girlfriend says again, “It’s Jihoon- could you please help me? I don’t know what to do and I know you’ve known him for longer. Please.” She whispers the last part, and Hansol is barely able to catch the plea because of their distance. 

“Uh sure, I guess. Where is he?” Hansol asks, turning to follow his girlfriend back inside the house. Frankly, he wanted nothing less than to check up on Jihoon. Not when you were still outside, cold and wet and broken. 

“He’s in here. He just started breaking down and he literally won’t stop crying.” Jihoon’s girlfriend states, before pushing open the door into the parlor. “I’ve been trying to calm him down, but nothing’s working.” 

The sight that greets Hansol is nothing short of heartbreaking. Jihoon is curled up into a ball against the back of a chair, sobs racking his body. Hansol finds a wicked sort of glee that courses through him at the sight of normally stoic and calm Jihoon breaking down. Maybe he was beginning to feel even just an ounce of the pain he was putting you through. 

Regardless, Hansol moves forward to kneel in front of Jihoon. No matter what, Jihoon was still his friend, even though he hated the man’s guts just a little bit for being so freaking dense towards your love. 

“Jihoon. What’s wrong?” Hansol asks, bringing a hand to brush his friend’s shoulder. He figured Jihoon had found out the truth, nothing bringing more shock to your body than the fact that your best friend of seventeen years was head over heels in love with you. He couldn’t imagine the emotional turmoil that was racking through him right now, but knew it was nothing close to what you were going through. 

“It’s (Y/N).” Jihoon manages to choke out through his crying. “She has hanahaki and I fucked up Hansol. I royally fucked up.” 

A cold feeling settles on Hansol’s chest at that point, not sure how to respond to the fact that Jihoon “fucked up.” Did he do the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do and mention the love he had for his girlfriend? Did he break you beyond repair this time? 

“What do you mean fucked up Jihoon? Just so you know she’s not even here anymore. She left through the front door and it’s a torrential downpour out there. Her sister is having everyone at the party look for her.” Hansol fills the other boy in, not sure if he was caught up with the current happenings. He had no idea how long Jihoon had been in the parlor for. 

“What?” Jihoon sputters out, his head raising from where it had been pressed against his knees. “She’s gone?” 

Hansol watches as Jihoon stumbles to his feet, legs almost giving out as he struggles to use them. He reaches forward to catch his friend, looping an arm around his shoulder to keep him steady as Jihoon’s girlfriend steps forward to help as well. 

“Hansol, I think I might know where she is. I’m so fucking scared though.” Jihoon manages to say, voice cracking with pure and unfiltered emotion. 

Hansol’s heart clenches at those words. “What do you mean scared? You don’t think anything’s wrong with her do you?” 

Jihoon turns to look at him, torment flashing through his irises. “I sure hope not Hansol. I can’t lose her.” 

Hansol chose to keep his mouth shut at that comment, not really sure how to state that it was his fucking fault they were in this situation to beign with. How it was his fucking fault that his best friend was in an unprecedented amount of pain because of him. How it was his fucking fault that you were currently outside in freezing rain, possibly hurt and surrounded by roses and a constant reminder that you were not loved back in the same way. How it was his fucking fault that all of this was happening. And Hansol didn’t know how to get all of that out in a tone that wasn’t angry and condescending, so he just chose to stay quiet. 

“Where do you think she is then?” Hansol chose to say instead, sort of curious as to where Jihoon thought you were. 

“You remember the cliff? The one we used to go to during the summer? For some reason I just have a feeling that she’s there.” Jihoon says, eyes unfocused as the three of them begin the walk towards the door. And even though she had been present for the whole thing, Hansol has to give credit to Jihoon’s girlfriend for managing to not say anything and not show a lick of emotion at this whole event. 

“Yeah I do.” Hansol states, vaguely recalling you mentioning something about a cliff that you frequented with Jihoon. He had never asked to be brought there, understanding that it was a special place to the both of you. Hansol knew that while he considered you to be his best friend, Jihoon was and had always been yours. Even though the amount of years didn’t really matter in regards to friendships, a whole seventeen years versus the five he had known you, seemed to outweigh the level of their friendship that you and him shared. 

The rain is heavy and weighs them down as they begin the walk towards the cliff. After a while Jihoon is finally able to walk again, albeit a little wobbly and he takes the lead, leaving Hansol and Jihoon’s girlfriend trailing behind him a couple of steps. 

Hansol takes the time to give Jihoon’s girlfriend a glance over, a little guilty that he can’t remember the girl’s name in the slightest. He knows it’s not her fault, but he still can’t help but feel a twinge of anger whenever he looks at her, knowing that she’s half of the reason why you were in pain. It was hard to have any sort of sympathy for her when Hansol didn’t even know her name. 

“We’re almost there.” Jihoon mumbles from in front of them, voice hard to hear over the pounding of the rain. Hansol’s entire body is soaked to the bone by this point, and once again he doesn’t know how you’re dealing with the cold. You must have been out here for over an hour, whereas the three of them had probably only been out for thirty minutes. 

If it’s even possible the rain gets harder, making visibility almost comically impossible, and Hansol has to put a hand over his eyes and strain them to even make out Jihoon’s back. That’s why they don’t see the crowd of people gathered until they’re right upon them. 

 He hears Jihoon mutter out a “what the-” clearly not expecting the crowd that’s gathered. Hansol breaks away from Jihoon and his girlfriend and fights his way through the people, not liking this one bit. The dark feeling that he had been feeling since the beginning has settled over his heart now, clawing its way and latching itself to him. As he gets nearer to the edge, he hears the sobs and tormented cries of your sister, her crunched up form becoming clearer and clearer the closer he gets. His stomach drops at the sight and he races towards her, not even knowing what to think at the moment. Fear courses through his body and he starts praying to whatever being that is up there that his best friend is okay. 

“What’s going on?” He spits out, voice cracking as he crouches down next to your sister, hand going up to rub a comforting hand on her shoulder. Your sister immediately latches onto Hansol, fingernails digging into his chest, head crashing into his shoulder, and her sobs increasing tenfold. 

Hansol, without a second thought, holds her, pressing his chin onto her head, too freaking scared to ask what’s wrong. He can only imagine what happened for your sister to be acting like this and he hopes it isn’t true; he’s never wished for anything more in his entire life. There’s muffled shouting behind him and suddenly Jihoon is next to them, perched on his knees, fixing Hansol and your sister with a worried glance. 

“What’s going on?” He whimpers, tears beginning to make their way down his cheeks. Your sister wails at those words, fingers clenching tighter into Hansol’s chest, nails scratching and slightly tearing at his soaked dress shirt. 

Hansol goes back to rubbing your sister’s back, not even being able to spare a word of comfort for your grieving kin. He doesn’t even feel anything at this point, somehow knowing what has happened before your sister even has a chance to speak. Jihoon must know too if his tears are anything to go by. There’s only one reason why a crowd would be gathered here and only one reason why your sister would be crying this uncontrollably. 

“She’s gone.” Your sister cries and at those words Hansol’s grip tightens. He can feel his heart stutter and then it drops, a coldness settling on top of him that has nothing to do with the freezing rain. 

“Gone? What do you mean gone?” He hears from next to him and suddenly Jihoon is gripping onto your sister’s arm, eyes crazy and voice higher pitched than it normally was. “She can’t be gone. She was just at the party only an hour ago. There’s no way.” Jihoon is fumbling over his words at this point, a hand going up to push his soggy bangs out of his face to fix Hansol and your sister with a heartbroken look. 

“There’s no way.” He repeats, softer this time, eyes flitting to where the edge of the cliff stood. And through the haze of rain filtering around them, he zeros in on a dash of pink. Hansol watches as Jihoon unsteadily gets to his feet, stumbling across the uneven ground to reach the small heap of pink roses that are gathered there. He reaches a hand out, fingers grasping one of the flowers, a thorn digging into the tip of his index finger as he clutches it close to his chest. 

Hansol is forced to watch as Jihoon grips the rose tightly, blood trickling out of his palm to fall on the dirt and rocks as he bawls, crumpling into himself. Hansol wants to do the same thing himself, but he has to remain strong for your sister, and for you. He wants nothing more than to join Jihoon in his wailing, wanted nothing more than to just collapse on the ground and let his utter despair consume him. But he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t. Not when your sister was sobbing in his arms, not when your former love was bleeding and crying over you. He had to be the strong one. 

He chances a glance up and that’s when he notices a figure making their way up the side of the cliff. There was a little path that led down to the water and rocks below and he hadn’t noticed it when they had first arrived, too consumed with the need to find out what happened. As the figure gets closer he makes out that it’s your father and in your father’s arms there’s a shape. Hansol’s heart lurches at the sight and then he’s calmly disentangling your sister from in between his arms to make his way towards your father. As he gets closer he notices that the shape has your exact same hair color and is dressed in the purple ensemble that you were wearing earlier at the party. 

Hansol doesn’t want to believe that it’s true, but he can’t help it, wanting to make sure that you’re the broken body held in your father’s arms. He stumbles forward and sees that your dad is crying, tears leaking out of his eyes to make their way down his wrinkled cheeks, arms held protectively around you. 

He stops when he’s right in front of your father and looks down, seeing your face, lifeless and pale, blood staining your blue lips and the front of your dress. Hansol feels his limbs seize up and then he’s collapsing, not being able to handle the sight of seeing you without the usual blush that colors your cheeks. For the first time that night he’s crying, bringing his knees to his chest. He had never ever seen a dead body before and the fact that his first one was you, his best friend, was too much to handle. 

Your father settles down next to him, still clutching onto your lifeless body, and Hansol notices that your fingers are wrapped tightly around a pink rose. He doesn’t know what compels him in that moment, but then he’s reaching forward and untangling your fingers from around the thorny stem, choking on his sobs as he brings the flower close to his chest, much like Jihoon had done. 

And then said boy is next to him, once again, and Hansol watches through his own tears as Jihoon takes in your cold and limp form. He’s still holding the rose that he had picked up from the edge of the cliff, his grip deadly tight around it as he rakes his eyes up and down your body, looking for any sign of life. 

Jihoon’s quivering hand reaches out to caress your cheek and Hansol almost wants to stop him, wants to scream and shake Jihoon, wants to yell at him until his throat is raw, wants to say that he lost the right to touch you with how freaking dense he was. But he does none of that and instead watches as Jihoon’s hand makes contact with your pale cheek, watches when he touches your skin and breaks down almost immediately. 

Jihoon’s then wailing, hands brushing your arms up and down as he starts muttering about how it’s all his fault. Hansol hears him choke out a sound that resembles your name and then he’s taking your limp body from your father and holding it close to his chest, rocking back and forth as he cries. 

“No. I’m so sorry (Y/N) It’s all my fault. I love you so much.” He stutters out, leaning his forehead down to meet yours. His tears leak out and drip onto your cheeks and that just makes Jihoon cry harder. 

Hansol can’t help but feel heartbroken over the sight. Even though he knew it was Jihoon’s fault, he could feel the utter despair radiating off of the smaller boy. Maybe Jihoon had discovered that he could’ve fallen in love with you after all. Hansol didn’t even know what there was to not love about you. 

Jihoon continues to repeat those same words over and over, still crying his lungs out as the rain falls around them. It almost seemed as if the heavens knew what was going to happen today and they were mourning with them. Hansol turns his gaze up towards the sky, to where he thought the moon might be and curses it. He had never wished the heavens for anything and he finds it kind of cruel that they were unable to even grant him this one thing. He knew that you were one of the only ones that didn’t deserve this fate. You were good and kind and so full of love for the people and animals around you. 

He almost wishes you had fallen for him instead, because he would’ve tried to return your love and knew he would’ve succeeded. You were just that easy to love. And just like that, the sick tinge of morbid glee flooded his system once again, knowing that Jihoon was probably in just as much pain as you had been in. Losing your best friend of seventeen years definitely had to be agonizing. And he can see how much excruciating pain Jihoon was in as he rocked your lifeless body in his arms, having not once stopped his continued words. 

Hansol figured he probably had no idea what he was saying anymore at this point. 

It’s a couple more moments before your dad is trying to grab your body back again, probably wanting to get you and the rest of the crowd out of the rain and back to the house. But Jihoon just clutches onto your body tighter, refusing to relinquish his hold. 

“No. Please don’t take her away from me. It’s all my fault.” He whimpers, putting his forehead on yours again. 

Your dad shakes his head, but stands up and helps Jihoon and Hansol to their feet as well, before they all start the journey back to the house with heavy hearts and heavy steps. 

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

The funeral happens the next day and Hansol and your sister give speeches, Jihoon being physically unable to handle speaking more than one sentence before breaking down into a mess of sobs. 

And after the funeral, there’s just nothing. 

Hansol honestly doesn’t know what to do now. Does he just go on existing now that you were gone? Does he find a new best friend? Does he just continue on with his life when you were never given a chance to continue yours? 

He doesn’t know. 

Then it’s already a month later and Jihoon announces he’s moving. He’s going overseas to start a new job, having broken up with his girlfriend a couple days after the funeral. Hansol is happy for him, he really is. It must be nice getting away from the suffocating city they live in; must be nice to be able to leave the bad memories here and start anew. It must be nice. 

Hansol goes to send him off and sees Jihoon for the first time since the funeral. The boy is pale, eyes sunken, dark circles prevalent. He knows it’s not what you would have wanted. You always wanted Jihoon to be happy, ready to sacrifice yours in a second to make sure his stayed. He knew that if you were to see Jihoon now, your heart would’ve shattered into a million pieces, the bright, smiling, dimpled boy that you were so fond of replaced with this empty husk of a person. Hansol knew he probably looked no better. He couldn’t even remember the last time he showered. 

Jihoon notices him and walks over to him, immediately pulling the younger boy into a hug. It’s an all consuming embrace, full of emotion and pain and sadness, and Hansol revels in the fact that someone still feels what he feels. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” Jihoon says, and Hansol agrees. He hasn’t been out of his house to actually see anyone and he’s sure Jihoon’s been holed up in his as well. 

“Yeah it’s nice to see you as well. I’m glad you’re getting out of this horrible town.” 

Jihoon nods before reaching into his back pocket to pull out a small notebook. It’s the size of his hand, small and leatherbound with a strap to tie around and keep the pages closed. He opens it to a particular page and turns it around so Hansol can see. 

It’s the pink rose Jihoon had picked up from the edge of the cliff, dried out and preserved between the pages of Jihoon’s notebook. There’s little flecks of blood that stain the petals and Hansol isn’t sure what person they’re from. 

“It’s kind of awful how I feel now Hansol. On that night I was so sure that I could never return her feelings. She was my best friend since we were toddlers. It’s hard to look at someone in a new way after you’ve seen them eat grass while at a playground. After she confessed it was so hard to wrap my head around the fact that she loved me like that. But now I just think about all the moments we’ve had together and now I’m so positive that I could’ve loved her like she loved me. Now I can’t help but think that we would’ve been great together. And now she’s gone and it’s all my fault-” Jihoon pauses, looking down.

“I knew she was hurting and yet I still said that I could never return her feelings without even thinking about it. Like what kind of horrible person am I?” 

Jihoon finishes, closing the book and putting it back in his pocket, before grabbing his suitcase. Hansol sees wetness in his eyes before Jihoon’s blinking rapidly, trying to get them to disappear. 

“You know I blamed you for her death for a while after. But now I know it’s not your fault. You didn’t have to love her back. I mean you should’ve because she’s amazing, but it’s your own heart and your own feelings. Please don’t blame yourself Jihoon. She would’ve wanted you to be happy.” Hansol says, putting a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder. 

Jihoon just nods before giving Hansol a weak smile. “Thank you. Really. She was lucky to have a friend like you, and I am too.” 

Hansol returns the smile. “Thanks Jihoon. Come back and visit.” 

And then Jihoon is gone, boarding a train without looking back. 

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

Hansol finds himself returning to the cliff after that. He dangles his legs over the side and leans back on his hands, gazing out upon the vast ocean, its waters looking dark and forbidden. He’s developed a hate of the ocean now, but returns to this spot every once in a while to ask the sky how you’re doing. It’s therapeutic, in a way. 

“Hey love. I’m back. Just wondering how you’re doing up there. I’m sure you know but Jihoon’s gone. I kind of wanted to join him too. This city is kind of horrible to be in alone now. Everyone’s asking if I’m okay and I don’t know how to tell them I’m not. It’s hard.” 

Hansol turns his gaze up to the sky, the sun starting to shrink as it sinks beneath the horizon. The first stars are starting to become noticeable and Hansol fixes his eyes on one particular one. It’s twinkling in the slightly darkening sky, and he stretches his fingers and cups it, almost like he’s holding it in his grasp even though it’s a billion miles away. 

“I miss you.” He murmurs before closing his eyes. 

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4]  Also on AO3

Chapter 5: Tim

Tim wonders where the hell everybody is. Jon’s not in his office, which is…unusual, to say the least, since they usually have to pry him out of it with a crowbar at the end of the day, and lately he’s been acting like lunch breaks are something that happen to other people. On the other hand, he might be poking around the Archives looking for more out-of-place statements to sneer at. Martin isn’t at his desk, either, unless he is and Tim just can’t see him; sometimes he swears Martin’s part chameleon, like he doesn’t exactly go invisible but can just fade into the background and not be seen. At least Tim knows for a fact that Sasha is off getting lunch, because she actually told him where she was going.

“If this is a game of ‘Let’s Make Tim Think the Archives Are Cursed’, I think the Archives themselves won that game several weeks ago, so give it up, guys,” he says to the room at large. The room, thankfully, does not answer him.

Walking around aimlessly, looking for his colleagues, Tim appreciates for the first time why Martin is so jumpy lately. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, creepy. Wandering through rows upon rows of files containing the stories of scary encounters and eerie presentiments and the like, no sound but his own muffled footsteps, and he swears he can hear a faint susurration from the shelves, like they’re whispering to him. Or like something is…crawling on the papers, rustling them ever so lightly. Makes his skin crawl and his fingers itch for the comforting weight of a fire extinguisher.

And it’s the middle of the day! It’s barely lunchtime and the lights are up and the window slits near the ceiling that let in enough daylight to help visibility but not enough UV light to damage the paperwork (honestly, it’s a shockingly well-designed and well-thought out archive for how old it is) are at full glow. And it’s still creepy as hell. It has to be worse after dark, when there’s for sure nobody here. The fact that Martin hasn’t run screaming from the Institute or had a complete nervous breakdown honestly has Tim feeling a surge of newfound respect for him, and for his courage—or at least his sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. There’s a fine line between the two and Tim rather suspects Martin uses it as a skipping rope.

“Hello?” he calls out, and then instantly curses himself. For God’s sake, he’s read the statements! He’s seen plenty of horror films, too, and then there’s…well, his own experience, which he’d rather not think about, thank you very much. Anyway, he knows damn well that nothing good ever happens after the person wandering alone through the spooky whatever calls out “hello” into the empty nothingness. Ominous music tapers off, split second of utter silence, sudden surge of discordant musical sting, cut to black, and the next day someone stumbles on his desiccated corpse.

There’s a clatter from the next aisle and it almost has Tim running for the hills, but he pokes his head around the shelf and relaxes. “Oh, hey, Marto. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Tim! Christ, I—shit, sorry.” Martin is clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand and steadying the shelf with the other and looks flustered.

“You know, you’ve really got to stop apologizing when someone else spills soup on your lap.” Tim has no idea if Martin’s going to get that reference. He doesn’t seem like the type to be into American comedians, but you never know. “Was wondering where everyone was. I know Sasha’s at lunch, but I couldn’t find anyone else either.”

“Jon’s got a meeting with—Elias. Something about the budget, I think. I can hear him now. ‘I have acceded to your…concerns in regards to the fire suppression system, but really, Jon, it was quite expensive, so we’ll need to have a serious discussion regarding some of these other requests you’ve made.’” Martin’s impression of Elias’s voice is amazingly spot-on.

Tim frowns a little, though, because it’s also amazingly biting and bitter. He mocks Elias all the time, usually making Sasha and Martin laugh when he does, and occasionally Sasha joins in, but he’s never heard Martin do anything but laugh or nervously try to stop them. He’s certainly never heard Martin speak about Elias, or anyone else for that matter, with that much anger—no, not anger. Hatred. Tim didn’t even realize Martin had that kind of hatred in him, let alone directed at Elias.

“How long have you worked here again?” he asks.

“F—eleven years, give or take. Why?”

Tim studies Martin. He looks…tired isn’t the word. He looks exhausted. He’s pale, although that  could be because he’s been basically underground for almost two months and it was winter before that. His glasses sort of hide them, but looking closer, Tim can see shadows under his eyes so deep they’re nearly bruises. The papers in his hand waver a little, and it’s not because of air currents in the Archives, it’s because Martin’s hands are shaking, ever so faintly. He looks like a precariously-built structure that’s just had the support props removed—standing on his own, for the moment, but with a sense that it won’t take long, or much effort, to send him crashing to the ground.

It’s that that makes Tim decide to change tack. He was about to ask why Martin doesn’t quit if he hates Elias that much, but in the state he’s in, Martin might just do that, and if he quits he can’t stay living there, and if he leaves he might get hurt. Besides, he knows why Martin—usually—puts up with so much crap, and not just from Elias.

Instead, he says, “Well, I guess that’s long enough to build up a good reserve of aggro against the Big Guy. Aren’t you worried he’ll overhear you, though? After all, ‘nothing escapes his notice.’” He does his own impression of Elias, and it’s about as spot-on as Martin’s, but even he can hear the difference in tone.

“I’m not worth his attention.” There’s still that spark of bitter anger in Martin’s voice, but also a note of resignation. “Besides, he’s busy with his meeting. He won’t be looking at anything down here.”

The first part of Martin’s reply has Tim wanting to storm up to the office and knock both his bosses’ heads together—nobody has the right to make Martin feel like that—but the second part gives him pause. Martin makes it sound like Elias is…spying on them. Tim knows there’s no CCTV equipment in the Archives, something about interference, but could Elias have the place bugged?

“You get that feeling, too, do you?” he asks quietly. “Like you’re being…watched?”

Martin laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Yeah, get used to that, it’s not ever going to go away.” Before Tim can say anything, he rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just…sorry.”

“You really don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Tim glances at the papers in Martin’s hand. “So what’s that, then?”

“Oh. Erm, Jon asked me to—to pull some statements that might be helpful, so I was looking through and seeing what we’ve got.” Martin holds up the paper to study it. “Thought this one might be useful.”

Partly because Martin is so visibly tired, and partly because Tim’s not actually capable of carrying out a conversation without being at least a little lighthearted, he smirks. “Wow, I knew you were good, but I didn’t realize you were so good you could read a statement upside down.”

He expects Martin to blush. Instead, his face goes almost bone-white and his eyes get as big as saucers. He says something in what Tim is pretty sure is Polish—something Eastern European, anyway, and he knows Martin speaks Polish—and is also pretty sure is profane, but then he recovers and looks up at Tim. “Well enough to pick out the salient points, anyway. Here—take a look. What do you think?”

He thrusts the papers at Tim, who decides—again—not to mention that Martin’s hands are shaking and takes them. His eyes fall on the name on the document, and his eyes widen.

“Okay, I take it back,” he says. “You said you saw salient points—did you see the name?”

“No, but—” Martin pauses. “Christ. It’s from her, isn’t it?”

Tim doesn’t need Martin to clarify who she is. “Yep. You should take this to Jon. Like, now. He’s definitely going to want to see this.”

Martin nods. “I’ll just—put it on his desk then. Unless you want to.”

“No, you go ahead. This is your find, you deserve the credit. I’m going to—” Tim waves vaguely over his shoulder. “It’s lunchtime. Want me to bring you back anything?”

“I’m good, but thanks, Tim.” Martin smiles. There’s something sad about it. “You’re a good friend.”

“Of course I am.” Tim grins to cover up his confusion. “Right, see you in an hour or so.”

“Right-o.” Martin hesitates for the barest of seconds, then starts off down the row of shelves. Tim hears a clang and a curse as he rounds the corner and suspects he’s run into something, or at least banged the fire extinguisher dangling from his hip like a gun in a cowboy movie into something.

Figuring Martin will be embarrassed and not want anyone fussing over him, Tim heads in the other direction, looking for Sasha. He lucks out; she’s just coming in the side entrance, stomping hard as she does so before shutting the door firmly. She looks over at Tim and grimaces. “Worms,” she says succinctly. “What’s up?”

Tim glances over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone, then quietly tells her, “I’m worried about Martin. Frankly, he looks like hell.”

Sasha frowns. “I mean, he is under a lot of stress these days.”

“I know, and I don’t think he’s sleeping.” Tim quickly recounts the encounter he’s just had with Martin, as well as what preceded it. “As bad as it is being alone down here in the daylight, it must be a thousand times worse after dark. No wonder he isn’t getting any rest.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

Tim grins recklessly. “How do you feel about a sleepover in the Archives?”

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take him long to get Sasha on board; it’s obvious she’s been worrying about Martin, too, and there’s strength in numbers. Tim spends most of the rest of the day pretending to be working while really he’s plotting out how to stick around for the night without letting Jon know. It’s not that he thinks Jon would mind…well, he does, actually. He can almost hear Jon’s voice in his head: This is a place of business, Tim, not a sleepaway camp. Also, Tim doesn’t want Jon to decide to stay as well; he relaxes—some—when they’re all together off-duty, on the whole one occasion they managed to do that, but if they’re still in the Archives he’s perfectly capable of trying to make them keep working, and Tim very much wants to distract Martin from all the things he’s stressing about tonight, work included.

Besides, he’s also trying to surprise Martin, despite that probably not being a great idea.

In the end, it turns out to be pretty easy. Jon doesn’t linger at the end of the day, so Tim and Sasha walk out with him, calling cheerful good-nights to Martin before trooping out the outer access door. Tim, the only one who drives to work regularly, offers Sasha a ride home; she pretends to grudgingly accept. He offers Jon one, too, but unsurprisingly (and thankfully, as Tim has conveniently omitted to mention that he didn’t actually drive in today), Jon declines, citing as his reason that he lives in the opposite direction as both of them. As they reach the edge of the grounds, Tim slips his hand in his pocket for his keys. Nothing.

“Oh, hell,” he says, trying very hard not to overdo it as he pats himself down. “Where the hell are my keys?”

“You had them in your hand when you got back from lunch,” Sasha volunteers. “Maybe you left them on your desk?”

“Or I dropped them. Hope I didn’t throw them out by mistake.” Tim turns back towards the Institute. “Front door’s still unlocked, I can just pop down and check for them…you want to wait out here, Sash?”

“Not likely.” Sasha falls into step with him. “Four eyes are better than two, and those steps are spooky after dark. I’ll come help.”

Tim glances over his shoulder briefly as they head up the steps. Jon is halfway down the block towards the Tube station. “I don’t think he heard a word of that, actually.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” Sasha nudges him. “Come on, let’s see if we can slip past Rosie.”

Fortunately, there’s a big crowd heading outside about then, so they’re able to escape attention as they head back down the steps leading to the Archives. The first thing Tim does is head over to his desk and hold up the keys he deliberately left sitting there with an air of triumph. “Here they are!”

“Tim, you’re an idiot.” Sasha shakes her head in amusement.

“But a devious one.” Tim drops the keys into his jacket pocket before hanging it on the back of his chair. “Come on, let’s go find Martin and rustle up some dinner.”

Sasha hangs up her jacket, too, and the two of them head into the Archives. Tim at first is going for the little room where the cot is set up, where Martin’s been sleeping, but then he hears…voices? A voice, at least. It sounds like Martin, and it sounds like he’s having a conversation with someone, but…

“Martin?” he calls, not wanting to startle him again. “You talking to yourself over there?”

“Tim!” Martin’s voice is high and strained. “Y-you’re supposed to—yes! Yes, I am talking to myself, sorry about that.” He pops out from behind a shelf and forces a smile. “Sasha? What are you two doing here? Did you forget something?”

“Yes,” Sasha says. “We forgot that we get to go home safe every night while you’re stuck here in the middle of the spooky, whispering, singing Archives.”

“Singing?” Tim and Martin say in unison.

Sasha frowns at them both. “Yes. Neither of you has heard it? That faint singing, when there’s no other sound to be heard?”

Tim gives Martin a confused look. Martin looks both confused and worried. “No? No, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed it.”

There’s a clatter from somewhere else in the Archives, and Martin casts a nervous glance over his shoulder. Tim stiffens. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Nothing. It’s—it’s probably nothing.” Martin runs a hand through his hair, looking worried. “Anyway, you two should—go, maybe. It’s getting dark and all.”

“Nope, not tonight.” Tim slings an arm around Martin’s shoulders. “I’ve decided not to leave you alone anymore. Sasha’s staying tonight, too, it’s up to her if she stays after this, but from now on, I’m not leaving the Institute until you can, too.”

“Erm—thanks, Tim, but…” Martin wrings his hands. “I don’t mind staying alone tonight. There’s something I need to do and—it’s best I do it myself, so—maybe another night? Besides! Besides, you’re not even prepared for this and…”

“Martin,” Sasha says, looking annoyed, “what’s going on?”

Tim should probably be annoyed, too, but he’s just worried. He tries not to show it, though. Whatever it is Martin is planning to do, or whatever reason he thinks he needs to be alone, Martin is pretty damn stubborn and it’s going to take a gentle application of pressure rather than a show of force to get him to yield. Persuasion rather than intimidation.

“We’re friends, right?” he says, as gently as he can. “You can trust us.”

Martin’s shoulders slump. “I know. It’s just…you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Tim spreads out his hands, palms up. “You were held hostage in your flat for two weeks by a thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat, which followed you home after you broke into a basement to investigate a man who was stalked and murdered by the ghost of a spider he killed twenty years ago. Sasha was attacked by a man with knives for hands and a smile that didn’t fit his face, and now she’s talking about the Archives singing. I haven’t even ever told you why I came to work at the Institute in the first place, but believe me, it makes the rest of that seem normal. Whatever you’re going to tell us, I promise you, crazy is the last thing I’ll think you are.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Besides, you’re wrong about us not planning anything for this. I bought us dinner when I was out on my lunch break, so let’s all head to the break room and eat, and you can tell us what’s going on.”

Sasha loops her arm through Martin’s on one side, and Tim takes the other, so he can’t escape them, and together they proceed to the break room. The halls are set to emergency lighting only, and the break room is completely dark, but when Tim fumbles for the switch, Martin extracts his arm and clicks on a torch.

“The lights are centrally controlled,” he explains. “There’s a master switch somewhere. I don’t know if Rosie or Elias turns it off when they leave, but one of them does, so it’s nothing but emergency lighting, and I’ve only seen that in the Archives.”

Tim wonders how he’s never known that, but then again, it’s not like he stays late all that often, maybe twice in the whole three years he’s been with the Institute. (God, has it really only been three years?) And it’s not like he’s ever gone around looking for light switches before. Never been a priority.

“Well, then,” he says, “I guess we’ll take our food back to the Archives. We can have a picnic on the floor or something and you can explain what the hell is going on there.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just shines the light on the refrigerator. Tim retrieves the takeout containers he placed there with PROPERTY OF TIMOTHY STOKER, CONTAINS POISON, ELECTRIFIED, DO NOT TOUCH, THIS MEANS YOU, SCOTT scribbled across the tops and sides, then comes back to the door. “If this didn’t work, I’m going to figure out a way to actually electrify them next time,” he informs the others.

Sasha snorts. “You really think it’s Scott who keeps stealing your lunches?”

“It’s either him or the monster under the fridge.” Tim regrets saying it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, because there are times jokes like that don’t feel all that much like jokes.

When they get back to the Archives, Tim is about to suggest a comfortable corner to have their dinner in when there’s a loud banging noise that almost makes him drop the containers. Sasha about jumps out of her skin. “What was that?”

“Who’s there?” Tim yells, despite having already realized that not doing that is practically Horror Film 101.

The answer makes Tim’s blood run cold, for two reasons. One, it’s coming from Jon’s office, the door of which is now ajar…and two, it’s Martin’s voice. “Storage room! Now!”

“Come on, come on!” Martin—the real Martin—grabs Sasha’s wrist on one side and Tim’s arm on the other and practically drags them across the floor. Sasha screams, and Tim follows her gaze and can’t help a shout of fear as well. Pouring out of Jon’s office are hundreds—maybe thousands—of small white worms, wriggling wetly and coming straight at them.

Martin makes a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and a defiant yell and hauls both of them over to a door off to one side. He lets go of Tim long enough to yank the door open, then shoves the other two in and slams it shut once they’re all inside, breathing heavily.

“What the hell is going on?” Tim demands, wavering somewhere between outrage and fear.

“The worms,” Martin gasps, which isn’t really an answer. “This room is sealed. I checked it myself when I moved in. Also climate-controlled. Sturdy door. Soundproof. These old documents are better protected than we ever were.”

He sounds like he’s repeating a lesson. Sasha shoots him a sharp look. “And that voice from Jon’s office? The one that told us to come in here?”

“The one that sounded like you?” Tim adds.

“It is me,” Martin says, his voice high and sharp. Clearly he’s at the end of his tether. “From the future. He came back to stop the world from ending and this is apparently part of the plan and I, I knew he was going to start it tonight, he told me after we thought all of you had left that he had something to do and I was supposed to help him with it, but I wasn’t counting on you two sticking around. I also didn’t expect him to start this fast, but—” He breaks off abruptly and leaps back from the door. “Christ!”

Sasha looks stunned by the barrage of information. Tim is, too, but he’s also worried about whatever Martin sees out there, so he thrusts the takeaway containers at her without conscious thought and peers out the window in the door. What he sees turns his stomach.

“O…kay.” He takes a deep breath. “That is…a lot of worms.”

“Any sign of Prentiss?” Martin asks anxiously.

“Not yet.” Tim realizes what he just said and turns to look at Martin. “You think she’ll show up?”

Martin makes an exasperated gesture. “No, Tim, I think worms are just randomly pouring into the Archives undirected. It’s just your basic insect infestation. Maybe somebody left food out!”

“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Tim steps back. He really doesn’t want to see what’s out there.

Sasha hands him back the takeaway containers and steps up to peer out herself. “Martin…are you sure it’s really…you know, you from the future?”

“Positive. He knows things about me that I haven’t…really told many people? He told me to—” Martin takes a deep breath and looks away from Sasha. “To, erm, tell Jon that I lied on my CV, I don’t actually have a master’s degree in parapsychology, I just really needed the job. He said Jon wouldn’t be mad at me, and…well, he was right. He told me the worms were under the Institute, but they weren’t really after me, so I’d be safe.”

“This is safe?” Tim demands.

“Well, I think he sort of—broke into the walls? He’s going after them now. I’m—I was supposed to set a fire, not a big one, just small enough to set off the suppressant system so that whatever got in here would die.” Martin swallows hard.

“You’re not going out there alone,” Tim says firmly.

“You’re not going out there at all,” Sasha says. She backs away from the door and leans against the wall, rubbing her temples. “God! Tell me you can’t hear that now.”

“Hear what?” Tim asks.

Martin cocks his head. “I don’t hear anything. And we shouldn’t be able to hear anything. I told you, this room’s soundproof.”

“I can hear the singing. Like…” Sasha frowns and moves away from the wall. Her frown deepens and she moves back. “Wait…it’s louder over here. Like it’s coming from inside the wall…this wall.”

“Isn’t that an exterior wall?” Tim asks.

“Should be.” Sasha thumps on it, hard, and manages to put a fist-sized dent in the drywall.

After that…things happen rather quickly.

[hearse-song]

FUCK I love all those titles spill the tea

aaaa okay, this is going to probably going to be Vague and Rambly and Incredibly Long but hell yeah let’s go! (possible spoilers for things that I don’t know if/when they’ll actually be written)

The Daydream That Started It All

Probably the most developed out of all these the OCs have names and everything, but still mostly an unplanned mess bridging more clear scenes. This one started out as a vague daydream that I eventually decided that I wanted to try (keyword being “try”) to actually write. Basically, the soon-to-be-whumpee, Holly, has the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time during a road trip, and they end up a captive of a whumper who turns out to be an anthropomorphic personification of violence currently going by the name Kate (”currently” because she doesn’t actually think of herself as having a name, and because she’s collected a lot of temporary names during her very, very long time of being around solely to cause problems on purpose). Holly’s able to bargain their way out of being tortured to death, but the captivity part’s still a thing (Kate says they’re friends, Holly Very Much does not agree). They’re later joined by a second whumpee, James, who fun(?) fact was originally intended to be there just to be killed, but I decided it would be more fun to write if Holly had someone else to talk to, and also I ended up liking him too much. I’ve actually started writing this one, and I’ve got some outlines of Shenanigans that will Ensue.       

A Family Can Be Three Unrelated Serial Killers And An Anthropomorphic Personification Of Violence

This one’s actually related to the one above. What’s the fun of having an immortal villain if you can’t play around with them having a historical rap sheet of some sort that lets me fit in more references to my horrifying historical special interests/obsessions? I decided pretty early on when developing her that Kate would have been her universe’s equivalent of at least a couple historical serial killers, including as part of her universe’s equivalent of the Bender family, who I’ve tentatively called the Gebhardts in my story’s universe (big general warning for that link). Because sometimes, Kate comes across humans who know how to party are also super into murder and she decides they’d be fun to hang out with for a while.

I’ve got some ideas for like, how they meet and some Murder Shenanigans, but also, as much as this idea absolutely fascinates me, and as much as I really want to write it, this series is also kind of intimidating? Because a) now there’s four of these assholes to keep track of, and b) I know for certain my perfectionist ass will overthink the historical accuracy of the thing despite this deliberately being an alternate universe/alternate history deal. But, I guess we’ll see. This one, though, is one of the ones that has an actual title. If I ever write it, the series if going to be officially called “Likely Companions”.

All Roads Lead To Cannibalism

This one is still just a vague idea of “I should really write a survival cannibalism piece one of these days, that’d be fun.” I’m not really sure yet the events that would lead up to said survival cannibalism, or what time period I want to set it in, just that sometimes when a group of people get lost in the mountains, sometimes things happen. But! This is the only other story that I might have a real title for. I’m thinking if I ever actually finish it it’s going to be called “’Tis A Curious Place” as a reference to my favorite lines from the song “Words From The Executioner To Alexander Pearce”:

And tell me how do we taste It's a curious place, a mountain To resort to customs of the sea

because listen, this piece is already going to be incredibly self-indulgent, I may as well get a reference to a special interest in there too 

Local Immortal Straight Up Not Having A Good Time Right Now

Oooh, now this one’s the most recent, and is a bit of a half-formed thing. I actually got the idea as part of a dream, and it was fun enough that I wanted to try making it into it’s own thing. It’s more captivity whump, and the bare-bones basic idea from the dream was of a whumpee as the shared captive of two serial killer whumpers. I actually decided on the whumpee later on, but I figured that both me and the whumpers could have way more fun with a whumpee with regenerative healing powers. I’ve got some incredibly vague ideas for this (there will absolutely be cannibalism at some point, I’m certain of that) but I’m still at the stage of figuring out who the fuck everyone even is.

That said, some things I do know about this nonsense. Whumpee has been on the receiving end of being whumped at least once before in their past (though nothing quite like this situation) and Cannot Believe they’re having to go through this bullshit again. And, the whumpers were already friends but neither of them knew that the other was also a serial killer until they both went to dump a body at the same place at the same time because I thought it would be funny and then team-up happened.

Victorian-Era Surgery Is A Hell Of A Thing

This one is actually probably the most vague, another “I should try writing this, it sounds fun” thing. Basically like, I’d never been all that interested in medical or lab whump until I saw this post (that I can’t find again for the life of me) on ideas for steampunk whump, and one of the ideas was essentially lab whump but with Victorian era surgical and medical capabilities, pre-anesthesia and all, and I was pretty much just *slams a copy of Lindsey Fitzharris’ “The Butchering Art” down onto the table* count me the fuck in (my story probably won’t end up being steampunk, I really like that genre but I’m feeling writing a more historical piece, if I ever get an actual idea for the thing)

[galadrieljones]

writer’s review

tagged by @ma-sulevin and @a-shakespearean-in-paris. thank you! i’ve never done this one before.

I will tag @thevikingwoman @shallow-gravy @littleblue-eyedbirdchirps @roguelioness @pikapeppa and anyone who’d like to do this. Please tag me if you do!!

Rules: Post two snippets of your writing. The first should be one of the oldest examples of your work that you can find (the older the better!), and the other has to be an excerpt from something more recent. Compare the two side by side to see the difference between what your writing looks like now and how it did then.

Since I have way too much old writing from my life, I am just going to stick with my fanfiction. I chose to compare an excerpt from my older Solavellan work The Dead Season (2016) to my current The Last of Us fic As You Were (2020). 

I put this under a cut, as it’s a little long!! 

From The Dead Season - Chapter 8: The Emprise du Lion

For the first three nights, they’d had to camp in a quarry surrounded by the dead lit veins of red lyrium. The lyrium glowed through the fire, illuminating the snow, keeping everyone awake, bandaged and bruised, all four of them piled into the Inquisitor’s tent where nobody wanted to be alone. Death was too nearby, they decided. Things were better together. Exhausted, hardened, dirty, cold to the bone. Drinking warm ale brought in by Scout Harding’s people, gnawing pieces of rabbit Sene had hunted herself and then cooked on a spit. Iron Bull tried entertaining with mad stories from his stranger youth. He and Solas played whole games of chess through the power of memory alone, and Sera braided Sene’s hair, and asked her all kinds of questions about her childhood and her love for the elven man. She told her about Dagna, that the two had started a quiet affair, and she had such stories of Red Jenny and her foreign life as an elf of the city. Sene listened eagerly, all the time, finding Solas with her eyes, and he would give a small touch. Security in a place of death and blood in the snow.

Despite Sene’s dreams, whenever they slept in the Emprise du Lion, Solas held her with serious possession. He slept deeply when he drifted, without stirring, and his arms hardened around her as stone. A carefulness and new severity imbued them, each movement guessed and exchanged as mind-reading. Somehow, it felt new. Sera noticed one morning, as Solas helped Sene into her jacket: “You do that like it’s all you’ve ever done,” she said to him.

“Perhaps it is,” said Solas. “Perhaps each night I help Sene out of her jacket, and then each morning, I help her back in again. Would that shock you?”

“The two of you,” said Sera. “Like green on sky. Eggs on toast.”

“Interesting perspective,” he said.

From As You Were - Chapter 6: La Crosse (Pt. 1) / The Lapp Farm (Pt. 1)

Joel and Noah drove until they hit what looked to be the town. They parked at an O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, hauled their backpacks onto their backs, and loaded their guns. The signs continued, most of them nailed to other kinds of signs: COTHS, they read. C.O.T.H.S.

C O T H S.

La Crosse had never been a big city. Joel didn’t know a lot, but he could gather as much. It wasn’t big, but it was a college town, and that college was big enough to have a football team. It would have been home to a lot of people during the initial Outbreak, probably forty or fifty thousand, and it was probably a metro-hub for these little Driftless, farming towns, too, with a good hospital, warehouses, factories, and some semblance of a retail industry. It would have been a lot of meth, he thought. Maybe not so much in the city proper, but in the outskirts, in the tin cans and the trailer parks. As a city on the banks of the Mississippi, it would have pretty pockets but mostly, it was just franchises and mini-malls, like anything else.

But this was strange, thought Joel. The goddam of it was, it seemed empty. Really empty. Like, god no longer smiled upon this place, as if something evil had given up on this place, gone on its way. There was nothing. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just the trees, and the nature noises, the grasses, which had grown so tall, they engulfed the cars abandoned at the side of the road. There was a McDonalds sign, growing out of a massive, twisted heap of vines and bramble and it made Joel think of small things that still broke his heart from childhood. He pushed it down.

“This is fucking weird,” said Noah. The air smelled ripe in some places. Rotten. Like an overgrowth of mold in the washing machine. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Something bad happened here,” said Joel.

“Hey, look,” said Noah. He was headed toward another one of the signs. It said: COTHS.       

“Yep, another sign,” said Joel.

“No, look,” said Noah. He got closer. He had to snap a couple saplings to get to it. This sign was on the ground, leaning against a tree. He pushed back the tall grass, and the milkweed to reveal the rest.

Comparison: I settled on these excerpts because they are both descriptions of places and situations that are new to the characters involved. The biggest difference between my writing in 2016 and my writing now, as shown here, is that I have hugely simplified my prose and my approach to descriptive writing. Four years ago, I was still very flowery, and the dark, magical setting of Dragon Age only encouraged my dreamy, expansive sensibility. I used a lot of adjectives, figurative language, and fragments, and I tended to write big, sweeping descriptions of situations, rather than setting simple scenes. Tbh, I hadn’t really figured out scene-writing yet, at that point. It took me a while to realize how to make scenes do a lot of work in a short amount of time. Notice how I barely enter the scene in that first excerpt. It’s vague. It’s all happening at once. There is not really a specific scene being set in a specific setting at a specific time. I try to avoid that sort of thing now. While I don’t hate my old writing, and I think sometimes I do a nice job of hitting on the right atmosphere, my unwillingness to just enter the scene concretely is a little sophomoric and noncommittal here. Setting scenes is actually hard as hell. In doing this, I was avoiding the hard stuff without even realizing.

Now, I will say that while I am still improving, my writing has become much more concrete and to the point. I use figurative language, but I am much more judicious with my metaphors and similes. I prefer realism, it turns out. I want to describe true things, not ideas. Most of what I describe is there to build setting, whether it be through concrete description of place or a character’s actions in a place. Sometimes I will use my language to evoke a certain kind of atmosphere, but I try not to go overboard. I want my language to be practical, not tricky and overblown. I like strong, complete sentences (with the occasional fragment) and descriptions of specific actions and scenes in real time, rather than fragmented, dreamy language or a style that is overly stream-of-consciousness. I still use Free Indirect Style at times, and I will narrate thought, because I like going into my character’s heads, but I now practice much more stoicism. I do not let my readers know too much directly about what my characters are feeling. I find that this is much more true to what I want to evince with my writing. I now try to imply thought and emotion via what my characters do, what they don’t do, what they say, and what they see. Moving away from Solas, a very “talky” and intellectual character has helped me do this. While I love Solas, writing Joel and Arthur really improved me tenfold, as they tend to speak very little. They are not terribly ponderous in all they decide. They choose their words wisely and let their actions speak most of the time, helping me do the same.

In the past, my focus was almost always on language, ideas, and atmosphere. I wanted to evoke bigness at every turn. Drama, beauty, unfolding abstract ideas and feelings made of synesthesia, using my language to elevate simple feelings and ideas into something epic. But now, and maybe it’s just because I’m getting older or I have less time, idk, but I just want things to be what they are. I want to reveal feelings and themes, not evoke them through force. I want the scenes to speak for themselves. I let the reader do a little more work. I withhold much more. In fact, I rarely write interiority these days. Inner-monologue and emotions come sparingly. One sentence here and there. Never in rambling, abstract, unfurling paragraphs, which The Dead Season is full of. I am always reaching for economy now, and efficiency. It is better for me! Though I do play around still, from time to time, with my language. I will always be a little playful.

[iriswc1995]

Ash’s Diary Of Distortion 1:  ‘Family Christmas’

What follows are excerpts from the diary Ash keeps on Cygnus’ data storage files about the various Distortions and Distortion-like effects that she encounters on her excursions into Ordina.  They are brief glimpses into the inner workings of the city and the kinds of horrors that can be found there, and by extension, snapshots of Ash’s usual routine as an explorer/mercenary-for-hire.  They do not fit into the continuity of the main story and can be perused in any order.  Ash keeps these records for the purposes of learning more about the Distortion’s possible behaviors so that she can be as prepared as possible.  Perhaps one day they will help you, as well.

-----

Once a year, at the stroke of midnight on December 25th, there is magic in the air.  Even for the dogged and downtrodden citizens of Ordina, there are those who cannot help but feel joy bursting in their hearts during the holiday season.  And no holiday with quite the peculiar fervor or saturation of Christmas’ alien greens and bright reds.  

The Schmidt family were one such unit.  Despite the many compromises of modern life, they were a clan who remained staunchly loyal to the traditions of the old days.  Family values.  A clean house.  A love of the Christian God.  They were a large family of three generations and splitting branches in their grand tree.  Trees; a forgotten luxury of the upper-class, were almost sacred to the Schmidts; they are the Family, they are the Hearth-Fire, they are what every member of their bloodline gather around once a year on Christmas Day.

“Don’t crowd each other, kids!”  Annamarie Schmidt, the mother of the house, called out to the dining room.  While certainly a modest home - there existed no other kind for those of their wealth level - nearly their whole family would cheerfully crowd around the dinner tables.  Brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins galore.  Seating was arranged in a strict hierarchy based on age and importance, which Annamarie took great pains to ensure would not offend any of her lovely guests.  Granny Taylor sat at the head of the table, the oldest among them at age 66.  She smiled and spread her arms as everyone clustered into their chairs, rubbing elbows and adjusting plates.  From the next room, a radiant light shone into the kitchen from the artificial glass star atop the plastic tree.

“Ah, it’s just so wonderful to see all of you, on this blessed day…!  To see how much you’ve all grown up like little sprouts!”

“Meanwhile you’ve aged like a steamed grape!”  Said Aunt Helen, the promiscuous one.

A chorus of hollow chuckles preceded the Granny’s measured response.  “Grapes turn into fine wine too, don’t you forget.”

“Let’s pray that we all be as wise as you one day, mother,” Annamarie said dutifully.

One of the young ones, Ryan, bounced in his seat.  “Can we say grace yet?  I wanna eat!”  His mother smiled and chuckled with the others, but would of course punish him harshly once they returned home.

“Wait, but where’s Leo?”  Mary said.  She was the oldest of the children, allowed to sit at the adult’s table for the first time this year.  Several other people echoed her words in eerie unison, looking around the room as if he would suddenly appear at the mere mention of his name.

“Oh,” Anna said, pursing her lips.  There was a painful pause as she fidgeted with a cloth.  “You know how our Leo is.  Cooped up in his room, again.  No matter what I try, he just can’t seem to get in the Christmas spirit.  To think, he’s nearly old enough to sit at the adult’s table himself!”

“Ah, well,” said her sister May, putting a hand on her arm.  “Don’t blame yourself, dear!  Kids these days just don’t value family like they used to.”  May smiled, scathing judgement behind her eyes.  A vein bulged in Anna’s forehead.  How dare that miserable boy embarrass her like this.  Perhaps physical punishment would be the only way to get through to her problem child.  

“I wanna eat!  I wanna eat!”  Came another cry from the kid’s table.

“Hehe, alright then~”  Anna said, finally taking her own place at the table.  “But prayer comes first, of course!”

Silently, the children filed over to the main table so that they could all hold hands in one large circle.  Granny Taylor began a sincere, thoughtful speech to their heavenly father.  

The table in the center, save for the plates and silverware that Anna had set down, was completely empty.

“Amen~” said Granny Taylor, dead skin falling from her hair.

Annamarie smiled.  “Time to dig in, Family~ I hope you all enjoy it!”

Two of the uncles grabbed Mary’s arms and shoved her onto the table, flat on her back.  For a fraction of a second, she looked confused, but then her eyes went limp in their sockets, the same soulless smile of the other Schmidts attaching itself to her face.  Knives flashed.

Red began to cake the dining room walls.  Limbs were sawed, extremities cut, organs scooped with bare hands.  The Schmidts continued conversing among themselves in the hollow manner of most families; with the women talking about the unseasonable weather and the men discussing how business had been.  Mary, too, would join in now and then, oblivious to her ongoing destruction, and the adults would laugh at the delicious whimsy of a not-quite-adult but far-from-child beginning to learn the ways of the Elder.  They spoke without pause even as they stuffed their faces with her meat in the manner of ravenous wild animals; choking, spitting, and vomiting as their airways required.  They continued even as the flesh dwindled and they began forcing their teeth through her bones.  There was nothing left of Mary to continue speaking, yet now and then they would chuckle as though they could hear her all the same.

And they could.  For the cabinets around the room would open and close, the very walls of the house would groan and shudder in the rhythm of Family.  Afterwards, only rarely would the Schmidts refer to the one they consumed each year; always with the presumption they were still alive and well.  But the house groaned in response all the same.  Was it the people who hungered, or the house itself?  No, perhaps not the building but the gathering - was it possible for even a time of year to lose its mind?  

Long into the night and even to the next morning, the Schmidts mindlessly feasted, until not even the stains on their clothes remained.

Finally, only silence filled the home save for the sound of quiet weeping.  Leo, hiding under the bed as he did every year, knew he would never see cousin Mary again.  

------

𝔸𝕤𝕙’𝕤 ‘𝔻𝕚𝕒𝕣𝕪 𝕆𝕗 𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟’ 𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝟛𝟡:  ‘Family Christmas’

𝔻𝕒𝕥𝕖 𝕆𝕗 𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪:  December 26th, 2164

𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕋𝕙𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕃𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝:  Probably Green, I think?  It’s definitely dangerous, but it seems completely localized to the one family.  I hope I don’t see any more of it, at least.

This one is a unique case of a Dissonance occurring on a seemingly regular period while remaining in a kind of ‘dormant’ state for most of the year.  On top of that, it seems to only affect the Schmidt family, at least from what I’ve found so far.  I guess this is proof that tips from Harvesters about ‘blood in the air’ aren’t total bullshit all the time.

Cygnus helped me get in the house, and I could tell there was a Dissonance pretty much immediately.  Red ghosts were lined up around the house like they were in a marching order, almost.  All of them were facing the wall and smiling weirdly.  The family itself seemed to be in a weird zoned-out state too, which as I can tell now is essentially the Dissonance’s ‘honeymoon period’ where it puts everybody in this weird trance and alters their memories.  Creepy, but helpful.

Most of what I know comes from Leo.  Poor fucking kid.  I doubt he’s ever gonna get out of that hospital I dropped him off at.  Even then, I only know the vague details about certain things.  No idea how many years this has been happening… but it definitely happens every Christmas.  The eldest child is killed and eaten by the adults, who seem to have no idea what they’re actually doing, just treating it like a normal Christmas dinner.  And yes Cygnus, it’s disgusting, even for me.  They treat the kid like they’re alive for a while after that before sort of just forgetting them and moving on to the next one.  It also seems like the Dissonance, or the eating itself, somehow extends the lifespan of all the adults, which explains why the matriarch was so damn old.  I also have no idea how exactly this started, since it seems like either Leo’s memories were fucked with as well, or he’s just too traumatized to even remember.  The only clue is the family’s weird traditionalist mindset about stuff, but I’ll hold myself back from going on a rant about it here.

Anyway, the Schmidts are gone now except for the kid.  I burned the house down just in case it had something to do with it.  Happy holidays, I fucking guess.

[rex101111]

2, 3, 7, 11, 15, and 19 for meta fanfiction asks!

2.  Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

Once I have more time on my hands, I really wanna get back to writing the second chapter of “She is the moonlight”, like there’s so many fun scenes in my head I wanna write down (as you should know becc;D) and I really wanna get back to it.

Also I had a few Eri ideas and it has been ages since I wrote for my daughter, which is a travesty, and I need to get back on that XD

3.  What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

gaaaah which one??? Like, there’s one where Bakugou grows a moral center and gets on his hands and knees for deku to forgive him for telling him to kill himself (but that would take an entire fic’s worth of set up to properly build up and fuuu-).

Or I would really like to write this like short inbetween scene with Inko. Just after they get the news from UA that the students will move to the dorms but the night before All Might comes to visit to convince Inko it’s a good idea, but I wanna write a bunch about Inko’s life before that, maybe expand on her own personal experience with heroes? Maybe give her some prior reason to doubt Izuku would be safe with UA? Nana cameo to explain her earlier hairstyle like maybe Inko was a hero fan but grew out of it and saw a bunch of heroes get hurt and-...fuck it:

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

It isn’t. It isn’t even slightly okay, but Izuku has that smile on his face. That fragile one, the kind she’s broken before. She remembers that night, as clear as if it were yesterday; her little boy crying and shaking in front of a computer screen after being told all his dreams were worthless.

There’s a pit in the bottom of her stomach, and as it grows the urge to tell him no grows with it. She felt Kamino from her kitchen, her TV screen a peak into the apocalypse. 

Not even a week before he son was on a hospital bed with his arms broken in two dozen places, and then his teachers, and even some of his friends, were neck deep in something even worse.

She should say no.

She has every right to tell him no.

But he has that smile on his face.

“Of course dear.” Her mouth is full of lead, her smile feels heavy and fetid on her face. “Go see what you need to pack.”

He hugs her, kisses her cheek, rushes off to his room while calling her the best, and she can barely register any of it. She finds her way, somehow, to her couch, and puts her face in her hands.

Heroes die Inko, her mother’s voice echoes out, cold but afraid, they help and they save and they win, but at the end they die.

She was young before All Might showed up, very young, be she had memories of before; of early heroes crashing against overwhelming odds, of mass funerals and of hero agencies closing down not from lack of funding but lack of personal.

She thinks back to the summer camp (do you really need to come back?), to the shopping mall (he’s smiling put keeps putting a hand to his neck), to the sports festival (his fingers are a shade of purple so vivid she can see it even when they zoom out), to that last week before middle school graduation (Where did all that confidence come from, she thought she broke it all...). She remembers her little boy, covered in bruises and wiping away his tears (Mitsuki asking what her “brat” did this time, Inko doesn’t know what to say).

She thinks of him smiling and crying as he showed her his acceptance letter, of him pouring over his homework every morning, of unwrapping bandages from his broken fingers as he promises her (again) that he’ll be more careful.

She sees, as clear as day, her son, her baby, her Izuku, motionless and bleeding as the world burned around him and some monster without a face and without a heart laughs at him.

(All Might barely made it out alive. Kamino is a warzone. Her son, with broken arms and a broken smile and broken-and broken-and broken-)

She gets up from the couch in a rush, races for the faucet in her kitchen, and vomits so powerfully she starts coughing and tearing up.

She breathes heavily for a few moments, silently wiping her mouth as she waits for Izuku to rush down the stairs to check on her. He doesn’t, mercifully he didn’t hear her. She rinses the taste from her mouth, cleans her face, sobs, cleans her face again, and then goes to her computer with a stomp in her step and her lips in a thin line.

With a heavy heart but a steady, determined hand she types in “Hero School admittance and transfer” into the search engine and spends the next two hours reading about Shiketsu, and Ketsubutsu, and Isamu, and a hundred other names she only heard about in vague news snippets.

She’ll break his heart, that smile, like ten years didn’t pass and nothing changed, but she forges onward. He’ll feel betrayed, he’ll feel lied to, but she is done with UA, she is done with her son coming home with broken bones.

She is done and she afraid and she will not let her son be chewed up and spat out like he means nothing, like he’s just another sacrifice for the system that promises All Might but only fills out graves.

She won’t take his dream, he needs to know she still believes in him, but Inko Midoriya is done trusting her child’s safety to someone else who doesn’t know him, doesn’t know his wounds and scars like she does, doesn’t know his hopes and his heart and all the tiny little things that makes Izuku who he is like she does.

She doesn’t know who will come in a few days to convince her, but they will be wasting their time. She feels guilty for that, but only for a moment. She made a list, it has a dozen or so names on it. Options, choices, for Izuku to decide and not her.

She raises from her computer chair with a groan and a pain in her lower back and the bottom of her chest. She climbs the stairs to her bedroom, stopping briefly to look at Izuku’s door. The same childish All Might sticker proudly staring back at her. There’s no noise behind the door, he’s asleep, and after everything the last few days had thrown at him, she doesn’t have the heart to take even a minute of sleep away from him.

She lays down on top of the covers without changing out of her day clothes, exhaustion in her bones. She looks at her bedside table, sees the one picture she still has of her husband. A hand on her shoulder and a baby with grass green hair in her hands.

He’s smiling widely at the camera, reaching for it with his hands.

She buries her face in her pillow and waits for sleep to take her.

(FUCK DONE HERE HAVE IT BLAH)

7.  What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?

Personally I think my style is descriptive. Like most of the time I describe what’s going on in like a “third person narrator” sort of way and dialog is actually relatively short and to the point. Like, there’s a lead up to what a person says, their expression and body language plus an action, the line, and then a follow through on that and then repeating with the next person and so on.

Also I can go on tangents if a story is character-centric, like focuses on a single character then I go ham on introspection...as demonstrated by the above ^^;

11. What do you envy in other writers?

The ability to write down and rely on an outline. Like, I just cannot for the life of me really stick to a plan for too long, like I have the general idea and just add to it as I go. Writing by the seat of my pants is the only way I know how and it either gets me something I like the look of or it doesn’t get me anything at all.

15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

Titles are the last thing I think of, so I guess that XD I usually try not to stress out about summaries too much, usually I just either pick an interesting line from the fic, say something vaguely deep, or depend on a template. Like with my Eri shorts I always use that Two Lines for the summary, “character does something, the result of that action in as vague wording as possible”

Tags are also kinda confusing, like, do I tag everything about it XDD that’d take me longer than it took to write the damn thing!

19.  s there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)

Adding shit (like this) is so much fun, though I try not to over indulge XD Also a smile either “crawls” or “forms” on someone’s face, that’s the only way. Also long sentences. Also lots of “,”

Lots of short sentences describing something vaguely.

(Long paragraphs in parenthesis describing something that happened in the past or a character having deep thoughts because that shit can’t just be a fluid part of the text nooo it needs to be it’s own separate things it needs to break up the flow for a second that’s the whole point-)

and that’s what I can think of XD Call me out on other stuff I’m sure I’m blind to plenty of my bullshit XD

Thanks a lot Becc! 

[dearlazerbunny]

Lie to Me (Ch. 24 of 28)

Pairings: Loki x Reader

Genre/Ratings: M eventually (aiming for a slow burn here); warnings for kidnapping and subsequent anxiety/PTSD (will be marked before every chapter)

Words: 2100

Summary: If you had to guess what the captured, traitor, trickster god Loki Laufeyson wanted or needed at this moment, a babysitter would be far, far down on the list. (Set after the events of Avengers 1.)

SHOUTOUT TO @molmcb and @jessiejunebug, whose faces I have cared into marble so they shall forever be immortalized as gods

Requested Tags: @deraniel, @iamverity,  @yasnooshka24, @wegingerangelica, @themusingsofmany , @dark-night-sky-99, @tarynkauai, @stuffandstuff-stuff, @angelicshinigami, @my-current-fandom-is, @geekysimmerthings,           @lokis-butter-knife, @help-i-need-a-social-life, @vodka-and-some-sass

WARNING: descriptions of anxiety, PTSD, and severe depression

When the cab finally drops you off at your apartment, you flash him your badge, tell him to charge it to Tony Stark, and then wander away without another word.

Your hands shake as you try to unlock the door- these damn tremors, they haven’t gone away yet, even though the doctors promise they will- and it takes you much too long to finally get the key into the lock and twist and open the door and close it behind you and lock it back.

Then you secure the chain, tugging it tight. And turn the lock again a few times, just to be sure it’s latched. Paranoia has become something of a friend since the incident.

Your small home speaks volumes about your mental state. The bookshelf, normally pristinely kept, is full of tomes that have been unceremoniously shoved back into their places any which way. The sink is overflowing with dishes. You’re not sure if there’s anything remotely edible in the fridge. The blinds are drawn tight and patched with cloth to block out as much of the outside world as possible, because sometimes even seeing the sky is too much on a bad day.

Today qualifies as a bad day. You reach for the bottle of pills you know will be close at hand and pop one into your mouth, swallowing it dry. After a second thought, you swallow another.

You stand in the doorway for a moment, not sure what to do. Amongst the panic attacks, the healing scars, and the demons lurking in every shadow, Loki was the only thing keeping you functioning as vaguely as you were. Now you feel like there’s nothing to tether you from spiraling out of control- no green eyes, no warm smiles, no stories to smooth over your ragged nerves. He’s gone, facing a fate you can’t even begin to imagine, and you won’t even get to be his knight in shining armor. He’ll forever be your hero, and you can never return the favor.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a kind voice whispers, “No, my dear. I believe you saved his.”

The sweater Loki magicked gets wrapped tighter around you, even though the warmth has long since worn off. Your bed is cold, despite all the blankets piled onto it, and once you’re finally burrowed in amongst the pillows you let yourself release the sobs that you’ve been holding back, making your chest ache with emptiness.

Sleep is going to be a long time coming.

Weeks pass in a blur. You don’t really keep track. It takes you far too long to realize you haven’t been in to work- would there really be any point in going back? Did they believe you were brainwashed? Would they try and ‘recalibrate’ you?- but SHIELD hasn’t called you either, so you just let it lie. You keep up with those mandated therapy appointments a few times, and then they switch to conference calls, since you start having difficulty going outside. Eventually when your phone rings you just sit there and watch it chime until the screen goes dark once more. You’re not really in the mood to tell someone all about how pathetic you’re being.

Because you know it’s pathetic. The anxiety attacks, the nightmares, the listless spells where you’re content to do nothing but watch shadows creep over the walls as the sun moves from dawn to dusk. You can’t even go to the grocery store without someone accidentally jostling your arm and having to reflexively hold back a shriek. Most days seeing your own reflection in the mirror is enough to make you jump.

So you spend your time sleeping, though that sleep is consumed by nightmares. The taste of blood on your tongue, the sharp crack of your ribs splintering into pieces, the feeling of concrete beneath you as you make peace with your final resting place. Sometimes you see Loki as he appeared in front of you, hazy and surrounded in green magic, ready to slaughter enemies as he sees fit. Your guardian angel. But in your dreams, he never reaches for you like he did that day. He just watches as you feel breath slipping away moment by moment, an indifferent sort of smirk on his lips. You cry, you scream for him, willing your broken fingers to close the gap between you- your bones crumble to dust before you do.

When you’re tired of living your own personal hell on repeat, you make a habit of sitting at the window looking up at the stars, trying to keep him alive in your mind. You hope he isn’t in pain. You hope that Thor has kept his promise, keeping him safe the best he can. You hope… well. You hope a lot of things.

You take to imagining a thousand and one ways you might get to him. Break into Stark’s lab and demand information on the Bifrost. Sneak into SHIELD’s vaults and swipe the Tesseract; use it to do… something. Somewhere in the universe he’s standing judgement before a judge who’s been biased against him from the start- why would he think to be fair now? Thousands of years ago, a little baby frost giant was thrown into a narrative where he’d always be five steps behind, always second best. He never even got a fair shot. You wipe a tear from your cheek. Life isn’t fair, but if it’s going to be this brutal, the least it could do is offer you a happy ending.

You must’ve fallen asleep against the window pane, because for once your dreams are ethereal and covered in stars. You float past space and time, and when you reach out to touch the sparks lazily floating through the air, they collect like small galaxies on the tips of your fingers. Some invisible string tugs you forward, gentle yet relentless, and you allow yourself to follow it, wherever it might lead. Over a glittering rainbow bridge that floats in a dark, vast ocean; towards a golden castle pointed towards the heavens. There’s a strange sense of familiarity here, as though you’ve walked this path before. Perhaps in another dream; perhaps in another life. The thread winds you through the halls of the gilded castle. You pass a throne room that could hold a nation, a single dias fit for a king. There’s a library on your left, full of powerful things, illuminated by a crackling hearth. A room with a locked door that shimmers with runes and wards glowing blue. They say hello as you pass.

Finally, descent- layers upon layers of staircases, past whom you assume to be guards, with their armor and swords, though they don’t even turn an eye toward you as you float by. Your feet don’t make a whisper on the stone floor. There are glass cages all around you, similar the ones at at SHIELD, but they reek of power. Only, it isn’t glass, exactly- it shimmers and refracts in the dim light. A beckon. You fingers pass through the wall of energy easily enough, then your hand- then you start to feel some resistance. You frown and push harder, determined, though you don’t know why or what waits for you on the other side.

There’s something in the corner, and it moves with a heavy clanking noise when the rest of you finally gets through the boundary. It can sense you, unlike everyone else in this strange place. “Who is there?” A man’s voice, tired and wary. Familiar? More rattling, which you can now see comes from thick golden chains sprawled on the floor and looping off into the darkness. “Show yourself!”

Yes. You know that voice. And his hair, though it’s messier than you’ve ever seen it. His eyes, dull as they may be, are still the ones you’ve been dreaming of since the day he left. With a cry, you rush to Loki, kneeling on the ground in front of him where he sits with manacles binding his wrists and ankles. “Loki! Loki I- can you hear me? Oh god, please…” gently, you let your fingers tuck a piece of his black hair away from his eyes. He jerks back, confused, but more alert. “No, it’s okay, don’t be scared. It’s just me. I- I found you, I don’t know how but-”

“Y/N?” You don’t think your name has ever sounded more beautiful than in that moment. “Love, is that you?”

“Yes! Yes, can you see me? I’m right here. I’m right in front of you.”

“No… perhaps? A little, out of the corner of my eye.” Tentatively, he raises a hand and traces a gentle thumb against your cheekbone. It feels as insubstantial as a breeze, but you could cry from that small touch nonetheless. It’s him.

“I found you,” you whisper again. It’s him it’s him it’s him.

“So it would seem.” You giggle as a child would, proud of yourself. “And how, precisely, did you manage that?”

“I- I don’t know. I fell asleep and wandered around this castle for a bit, and then I was here. Where am I? Where are we?”

“Ah.” There’s something he’s not saying- you can hear it hiding underneath his tongue. “I think you must be dreaming, my love.”

“I- are you sure?” You glance down at your ghostly hands, still shimmering with starlight. “It seems so real.”

“You always did have quite the active imagination, Witling.”

You hum nonchalantly, taking in the dark circles under Loki’s eyes, the rings on angry flesh trapped underneath his cuffs. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I am fine, love. Do not worry about me.”

“Bullshit,” you huff. “Don’t think I can’t see these.” You reach for a chain and tug, frowning when they barely move an inch.

He easily moves the restrains behind him, out of your reach. “Stop. I am far more concerned with you than myself.” Worried eyes roam your face. “What is wrong?”

“I’m tired,” you say simply, and your voice breaks halfway through. “Sleeping is… hard. And eating. And I need…” You is the missing word there, and though you don’t say it, he hears it nonetheless.

“I know, love. I know you are.” His voice is full of regret. “I never should have left you.”

“It’s not like you had a choice.”

“All the same. I wish it could have ended differently.”

The world around you wavers for a moment, then two. You look around, confused, instinctively reaching for Loki to pull him closer. “What…?”

“You can’t stay much longer, love.”

“I’m not leaving you! How will I find my way back?”

“You shouldn’t have come in the first place.” Green eyes darken. “I wish I could see you better.”

“I’ll find you again,” you say confidently, even though whatever strength that carried you here is slowly slipping away. “I promise.”

You wish Loki’s smile was more genuine, but as it is, you’ll take what you can get. “Such a brave Witling. Sleep, now. I am with you, even when you wake.”

A feather-light brush to your nose that feels strangely like a kiss makes your eyes open. You’re in your apartment, curled up next to the window, just like when you fell asleep. No rainbow. No castle. No Loki.

Only… you trace your cheek where maybe-Loki had done the same. It was so real. He was so real. Wasn’t he? Either way, you feel more at ease than you have in months. You have no idea what happened, but you don’t care. Seeing him was worth it.

To your surprise, you’re able to repeat your little cosmic jaunt every so often. You can’t control when or why, but the wandering seems to happen on the days you need them most. Sometimes he can’t hear you even when you sit beside him and confess everything you’ve ever wanted him to know, but others he’s so tangible you can lean against his side and press a kiss to his shoulder, if you work up the courage.

It isn’t perfect. You watch each other weaken by counting the shadows that appear under eyes and cheekbones, unable to offer any substantial comfort. You still break down more often than you should, and think of him even more frequently than that. But it’s easier to sleep at night knowing that even though he might as well be on another plane of existence, not even that can keep you apart forever.

Life still isn’t fair, not by a long shot. And you wouldn’t exactly call this limbo a happy ending. But it’s better than nothing, and so you savor every last drop.

A/N: I used the link below to work out the specifics of Loki’s cell; it’s a funny read if you’re interested: 

https://missviolethunter.tumblr.com/post/105099519018/mcuasgard-afterthought-lokis-toilet-prison

New chapter in honor of my new phone! :D Now all my fanfics are in SUPER HI DEF!