#drawn to this place and ended up getting stuck there rip

[arolesbianism]

Oopsie doopsie slips and makes another batch of side characters their own story in which they're the main characters

[lilyrizzy]

continuation and happy ending for this break up fic. i fixed it! (and maybe did a sloppy job of it oops) BUT I hope this brings someone, somewhere joy.

When Daniel gets to the door of his apartment, there is a tall, cardboard box propped up against his door. He doesn’t know when it was delivered because he’s spent the last few nights since being back in Monaco bouncing between Scotty’s place and Blake’s, drinking more and sleeping less than he should.

It’s how he ended up in this mess in the first place; stuck in the minor injuries unit, bleeding and embarrassed, waiting for Max to come and rescue him. Because even now, six fucking months later, he still hasn’t changed his emergency contact information back to Blake.

Sighing, Daniel balances the box in one hand and fumbles with his keys in the other to get his front door open. Once inside he dumps the box onto the counter and pours himself a glass of water. Takes a sip, sets the glass back down, and feels lost.

The truth is, he doesn’t know what was worse. That he hadn’t expected Max to show up, or that he did, and even though Daniel saw him nearly every weekend still, like this it was- Different. Max with his mussed up hair like he’d rolled straight out of bed to come to the hospital for Daniel, reminding him of everything he didn’t want to remember.

Like how their kind of falling apart happened slowly, so slowly that the track limits crept up on them, and by the time Daniel tried to hit the break they were already in the wall. Small disagreements built on top of months of half-conversations, until resolution stopped being the goal. Instead, it was to get through a week, a day, a morning without cracking whatever tentative peace they’d found the last time.

Shaking his head is a bad idea considering he might have a concussion, but Daniel can’t stop himself from doing it. As though his brain is an etch-a-sketch from which the fights and the furious words he spat at Max regularly can be erased.

He groans out loud, tipping the rest of the water down the sink before turning his attention back to the parcel. Ripping it open gives his shaking hands something to do, gives his nail bed a rest from his anxious chewing.

A sweet smell hits him first, before his eyes can make sense of what he’s seeing, and-

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t a bouquet of tulips and a small, hand-drawn card.

To brighten your day, Uncle Daniel, the note attached said, in Isaac’s messy scrawl, but he bet the wobbly hearts underneath were all Izzy. The words all Michelle.

It’s enough to put the smile back on his face for just a moment, even as his stomach churns with the same homesick feeling he’s been unable to shake since he left his and Max’s apartment. Placing the card down, he takes one of the petals between his thumb and finger, feeling the waxy smoothness against his skin.

They’re a bigger bouquet than the tulips he’d brought for Max one time, back when their fights could be so easily fixed. Daniel can still remember the pleased flush that warmed Max’s cheeks as he’d looked between Daniel’s face and the flowers, eyes wide like this was the most romantic thing someone had ever done for him.

At the time, it had made Daniel proud of himself. Now, it just makes him sad. The idea that crappy, half-wilting tulips brought from a supermarket in Monaco could mean so much when Max deserved the world.

But this had been the way things always went. Daniel would show up with a poker chip from Vegas, a guitar pick from LA, a seashell from Perth, and Max would beam at him like he was the sun for bringing him a gift. Or just- maybe just because Daniel showed up at all.

I don’t understand, Daniel, why nothing with you is ever enough. Max had always thrown in his face whenever Daniel picked a fight as a plea for words, for attention, for affection. I am here, aren’t I? The more than you was always unspoken, but still deafening.

I’m always going to be here.

And he still was, living in their apartment that Daniel moved out of months ago. Still sending Daniel’s dad a bottle of wine on his birthday, still cuddling Izzy when he saw her at the grand prix last weekend. Still turning up to hospital waiting rooms for Daniel at four in the morning.

Why do I feel like I have to be a fucking games console to get the tiniest bit of interest from you, Daniel had spat at Max, another evening he’d come home to find Max engrossed in the sim. How am I supposed to trust that you love me when you hardly ever fucking say it?

For not the first time, Daniel wonders if maybe Max had been trying to all along, just not with words.

“Fuck, Maxy,” he says to the empty room. “Fuck sake.”

Rubbing his eyes, he paces to the window, wanting to press his throbbing head against the cool glass. He should go to bed, should crawl beneath the covers and sleep until he wakes up feeling strong enough to try forgetting Max all over again.

Needs to forget his worried eyes scanning over Daniel’s body as though trying to catalog where he might need fixing, the soft way he’d said Daniel’s name under the harsh glare of the hospital lights. His stupid fucking car, flashy even for the streets of Monaco, and far too fast at the same time, that-

That is still parked beneath Daniel’s building on the street below.

His eyes catch on it as they slit open against the rising sun, the sparkle of the paintwork against the tarmac. Daniel glances at the clock above his oven. He’s been home an entire fifteen minutes, and still Max hasn’t moved. If he’s not careful he’ll get a parking ticket.

Some things are worth it, he’d told Daniel when he’d warned him of the same thing, a million years ago now, picking Daniel up from the airport and lingering too long in the ‘kiss and fly’ lane.

In another life.

The life Daniel wants more than he can remember the reasons he walked out of it.

“Max,” Daniel finds himself calling out stupidly, even though it’s obvious Max can’t hear. He opens the balcony door, stepping out onto it and calling it louder. “Max!”

Though the traffic on the street below is quiet, almost non existent at this hour, Daniel’s shouts still don’t seem to carry far enough. There’s no sign Max has heard, no opening of a car door, no emergence of his blonde head from the drivers seat.

Daniel needs to do more, he needs-

Stepping back into the apartment, his eyes search his kitchen frantically until his hands grab the flowers on instinct. For a moment, he considers walking down the stairs and handing them to Max, an offering, an apology, a chance, but-

Daniel can’t let him drive away. He can’t risk running down the stairs only to find him gone when he reaches the pavement and steps back out into the Monaco sunrise. This moment is his tenth of a second, small but capable of making all the difference as long as he doesn’t take his foot off the pedal.

A split second of madness passes, and he finds himself back on the balcony pulling one of the stems loose from the bouquet. Before he’s thought about it anymore, he’s watching it hurtle off the edge towards Max’s car. It misses, landing just to the side by his front left tyre, Daniel isn’t giving up.

Stem by stem, he pulls the flowers loose, throwing them down onto Max’s car. His aim gets better, and soon nearly each one is landing on his bonnet or his windshield. Their petals make a soft sound as they hit the shiny bodywork of the car. Sunshine yellow against Ferarri red.

Finally, the car door opens and Daniel waits, arm suspended backwards in midair, still clutching a fistful of stems.

“Daniel, what the fuck are you doing?” Max shouts eventually, scrambling from the car looking pissed.

He covers his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the growing daylight, face screwed up as he squints up at Daniel. His expression should be a reminder of so many bad memories, and it is, but it’s also something Daniel doesn’t want to miss anymore.

“Maxy!” He shouts, letting the rest of the flowers drop to the floor in favour of leaning over the balcony. His heart is pounding so hard against his rib cage that he’s surprised the railing beneath him isn’t vibrating with it. “Can you- I love you. Can you come upstairs?”

For a moment, Max’s face just melts into blankness. The moment stretches, long enough that Daniel’s brain starts scanning for a joke to make, to backtrack, to just get out, but then-

Max smiles. A different kind of sunshine, but still so fucking bright.

“I love you too,” he calls up, his voice more than a little croaky. “I think- I think it would be better if I told you this more, before, but- But also I think it would be better if you came home.”

Daniel’s trainers slap quickly against every other step on the way back down the stairs.

[love-toxin]

oh my god ur eric draven piece….. him finishing his revenge spree and still continuing to live afterwards is just insane. like grappling with the fact that he’s Still here and stuck with the grief and emptiness even after he’s killed everyone who hurt him and shelly…… im sick. im ILL!!! resenting becoming human again bc its torture…. he needs to be comforted and by god i’ll do it (LMAO)

ugh!! i love it!!!! the absolute horror of putting all your rage into a single act of self-sacrificing vengeance only to realize there's no going home in the end....just have to sit with what you've done and realize you don't belong anywhere anymore. everybody you love and hate are dead, and the few people of the former that aren't you can't have anything to do with because being near them will only hurt them worse. knowing you're probably a monster and you'll never find love or comfort again, but even worse, you don't know if you even deserve that much in the first place.

so when you come along and you try to get close to him, he shies away. flees if he has to. hides. you remind him too much of the life he loved before his death and it's too painful knowing he'll never have that again. he forgot there were sweet people and kind people and people who love indiscriminately and because you're one of them, he finds himself inexplicably drawn to you despite telling himself it can never go any further. he has to hold back. you deserve someone alive and...happy. you don't need his burdens weighing you down, you've got a whole life to live and people to meet and lovers to spend your life with.

but because he's drawn to you, he finds purpose. people in this city love to prey on the vulnerable, the weak, and the fragile, they would even eat each other alive if it came down to it. and the thought of you ever being in pain, in trouble, of you being accosted on your way to work or grabbed on your way home--oh, it boils his icy blood. he would rather rip his own limbs off than ever see you taken advantage of by some filthy scum off the street.

so even though he hates it--hates being alive, hates having to live with his regrets and suffer his pain--he seeks his purpose through more destruction. remorseless life-taking. nobody who hurts you or tries to hurt you is innocent, so they all deserve to be taken out with the trash in the worst ways possible. the man who drugged your drink is dragged out the back door of the bar. the guy who bugged your car has his own blown up while he's in it. the creeps who jiggle your doorknob at night hoping it's unlocked? they'll never find all the pieces of those ones.

because you're deserving of so much more than a life of feeling scared and being alone. Eric tells himself that if you ever find a partner that can protect you he'll stop following you around, but he knows deep down that's not really gonna happen. he'll follow you to the grave. besides, you have so much love to give and he can't deny that he deeply enjoys how badly you want to get close to him, to know the man that is always in your peripheral but can't quite work up the nerve to say hello. even though he's convinced it can never be, he can't help wondering whenever he stops and stares at you from across the street in the rain, watching you through the window as you work....could you be the reason he's still here?

[eksvaized]

[ Previous ┃ Next ] part 9

Simon was fiddling with his balaclava. The fabric was coarse and suffocating. It stuck to his skin, causing a persistent itch that seemed to spread across his face. He had to resist the urge to yank it off. Matt has seen his face, but with a little bit of luck, he might have knocked that image out of his head when he beat him up, and if he keeps his features hidden, Matt might not remember him by the end of all of this.

Matt was awake. His face was smeared with dried blood, his nose was broken, and his clothes were ripped. He was locked in the cell, which was in the damp basement of the old shed. Simon refused to engage in conversation, leaving Matt to stew in his fear. However, Matt was far from docile. He banged on the bars, threw his body against them, and did everything he could to draw Simon’s attention. He even tried to negotiate his release, foolishly hoping that words could somehow set him free.

“What the hell do you want from me?!” At first, Matt was timid and sat in the dark corner, too terrified to even raise his head. But as Simon continued his ominous silence, it gave him the confidence to speak, which eventually led to him yelling and shouting. He lashed out, and his fear turned into anger. “Is it the money you need? I’m loaded... my family is flush with cash!” At this point, he was practically tearing his hair out. “Just let me out and... and I swear to you, I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Fuck, I’ll even pay you. Just name your price and let me go”

Simon bought this property many years ago. However, it had been just as long since he last set foot in this old, weathered shed. He used this place to control his urges when his impulses would drive him astray. Whenever he found himself in a mess of his own making — a situation that seemed impossible to resolve — this shed allowed him to slow down, pause and think, and figure a way out.

Admittedly, most, if not all, people who found themselves in a similar situation as Matt’s, trapped in a cold cell, did not get out of here alive. But Simon wanted to believe that this time, it would end differently. Killing Matt, no matter how much of a scumbag he was, would upset you, and Simon didn’t want to do anything that could cause you pain.

“Shut up!” Simon eventually roared, unable to endure Matt’s incessant whining for a moment longer. He had been trying to unlock Matt’s phone for the past half hour, but he couldn’t figure out the passcode, and he was sick of having to wait every time his guess was incorrect. “How do I unlock your phone?”

Matt hesitated, his cheeks squished between the bars. His eyes darted to the phone in Simon’s hand. But as Simon rose to his feet, Matt immediately took a step back and blurted out a sequence of numbers and random letters. Simon sat back down and entered the password. The phone unlocked.

Simon started looking through the contents of it. His eyes were drawn to a series of notifications that littered the screen. There were two missed calls and five unread messages. None seemed important, except for a text from someone named Carl, who appeared to be furious because Matt hadn’t shown up at work. In an attempt to maintain the illusion of normality, Simon responded. Pretending to be Matt, he explained he needed to take a few days off because he was feeling unwell after a heavy night out.

Simon realised that it was important to preserve the impression that Matt had not disappeared.

Once that was done, he swiftly navigated to the conversation thread between you and Matt. This was, after all, the primary reason he had this phone. Simon wanted to know what it was Matt says to you, what he tells you to make you fall at his feet. Yet, to his surprise, there were merely a handful of text exchanges. Most of them were from Matt, asking if you were free, if you were at home, and if he could come over.

He then clicked on the gallery. It was filled with many pictures of Matt with a different woman by his side each time. Also, there were two or three shots of his dick, which Simon scoffed at (and which made him grow confident, knowing there was no way he could please you with that tiny thing). As he tried to erase those haunted images from his mind, he stumbled upon something that piqued his interest and ignited a flame of anger within him.

Matt has taken multiple pictures of you. In all of them, you were asleep, completely oblivious that a camera was pointed at you. If it had been Simon who had captured these, he would have paused, perhaps even taken the time to admire them. But knowing that Matt had taken these without your consent infuriated him. Simon’s grasp on the phone became so tight, his fingers pressing into the device with such force that he was on the brink of shattering the screen.

Simon was buried so deep in his thoughts that it took a long time for Matt’s muted voice, as he talked to himself, to reach his ears. Simon didn’t raise his head to look at him, but he paused to listen.

“... if I’d known this night was going to end like this... Fuck, I would never... ever have gone to see that bitch and got drunk... I—”

“Don’t call her like that unless you want me to rip out your tongue and feed it to you,” Simon hissed. He should have kept his lips sealed, but he wasn’t going to let that jerk talk about you like that.

“Who? Y/N? She’s a bi—” Matt was about to repeat the same mistake. But before the word could slip past his lips, Simon sprang to his feet and moved closer to the bars that separated them. Simon’s eyes darkened, and he made no effort to hide the raw anger that was seeping out of him. Matt got the memo and shut his mouth; at the same time, everything seemed to connect in his mind, and clarity hit him. Everything began to make sense. “So she’s the reason I’m there?” He spat and began to pace around the cell, his fingers running through his dirty hair. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re just some bitter ex-boyfriend of hers, aren’t you?

Simon maintained a stony silence. He feared that if he opened his mouth, he might say something he would later regret. There was still a chance that Matt might walk out of here alive, so the less he knew about Simon, who was still just a masked stranger to him, the better it was. He tried very hard not to let Matt’s incessant chatter provoke him, but the idiot wasn’t shutting up.

“I don’t care about her... she’s yours! Honestly, I only reached out to her because I was curious. We dated in high school, but she was always such a prude, and I...”

Matt truly believed that he was doing the right thing by giving up you, allowing Simon to have you all to himself, promising he would disappear from your life. His desperate speech was working. But the problem was that Matt didn’t know when to stop talking.

“I only kept coming over because she kept inviting me. She seemed ecstatic to reunite with me... I was initially apprehensive, but after the first time we slept together, I knew I could exploit her.” Matt paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with air before continuing. “I knew I could text her whenever I wanted to fuck. She never turned me down, and whenever I came over, the night always ended with me in her bed. I let her believe I liked her, that there was a chance we may be something more in the future... all because she was fantastic in bed and made herself easy.”

Simon had reached his breaking point. He could no longer tolerate Matt’s disrespectful comments about you. You weren’t easy, and you weren’t an object that he could use anytime he wanted to show his dick into someone. Your innocence and naivety led you to believe that Matt genuinely liked you. This belief is what kept you going back to him, time and time again. You were too blind to recognise that Matt was taking advantage of you. And you would probably never see it, but that doesn’t matter. Simon will handle this. He won’t stand by and watch you get hurt, nor will he let Matt break your heart. He will make sure that Matt will never touch you again.

Matt was gripping the cold bars, standing perilously close, his knuckles turning white. Simon’s mind went blank, and he closed the gap between them. His calloused hand wrapped around Matt’s throat.

Matt immediately began his desperate struggle, his every muscle strained as he tried to push Simon away. His fingers dug into Simon’s arms, his nails clawing at his skin in an attempt to break free. But Simon, without a single thought in his head, fuelled by rage, remained still; he was stronger and his hold was firm. He kept squeezing and squeezing, preventing the air from filling Matt’s lungs. His eyes, devoid of mercy, fixated on Matt’s face, watching as he began to run out of oxygen and strain to breathe. A minute passed. Matt’s face turned a disturbing shade of blue, his eyes started to water, and the tears rolled down his pallid cheeks.

Simon was so focused on keeping his grip secure, refusing to let go, that he failed to register Matt’s frantic movements. He didn’t notice when Matt’s fingers curled around the fabric of his balaclava. He was oblivious until the very moment when Matt tugged Simon’s mask off. A sudden realisation dawned on Simon, and his eyes grew wide. Now, Matt knew who he was, he had seen Simon’s face, the one thing that Simon was determined to keep hidden. Without realising it, Matt had thrown away his chance of getting out of this cell alive.

Before, Simon intended to kill him out of jealousy, for the way he spoke about you, for the way he treated you... but now, killing him was a necessity, and Simon only stepped away from the cell bars when Matt’s body went limp in his hands.

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 3)

Part 1 Part 2 jfc you guys are hungry next: Part 4

Eddie’s not at school. He’s been marked absent since homeroom started according to the secretary.

“For the seventh time, Mr. Munson. He won’t even graduate if this continues.” The lady adds.

Anger brews slow in Wayne’s blood. The shimmering kind, like you think the pot is safe until you touch it. But none of that is aimed at Eddie. Never.

He doesn’t leave after politely thanking the secretary. He racks his brain for a moment and asks if it’s possible for Jeff Endes to come down and speak to him.

It takes few minutes longer though. The secretary tells Principal Higgins, who asks him what he even wants from a seemingly random student. Wayne gives a small lie about Eddie being sick and needing some homework from one of his friends.

They raise their eyebrows with subdued judgement, but Higgins offers a small staff room for Wayne to wait in private.

Jeff is soon brought in, his face drawn with confusion. “Mr. Munson?”

“Told ya kids to just call me Wayne, I ain’t married.” He jokes, mostly to try lighten his own mood. It barely works, but it makes Jeff crack a smile.

“Sorry, but what’s going on?” Jeff sits down opposite from him, glancing at the now-closed door. “Is Eddie okay?”

Wayne closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He sees the van behind the lids and the bloodstained wheel and Eddie running through the woods from Lord knows what.

He opens his eyes and instead asks, “Did Eddie stay after school for that band practice?”

Jeff’s eyes narrow slightly but he nods. “Yeah. Entire time aside from couple breaks.” Then quickly, “I played the trombone.”

“Did anything happen during then? Anyone gave him a hard time?”

“Nope. He got left alone. There was one guy flipping his knife like a show off after practice ended and Eddie wanted to try. Cut his wrist by accident, but it was a little scratch.”

“And after? When the practice was done?”

“He got to his van and left the parking lot. He said he was going home.” Jeff’s eyes narrow again. “Did he?”

Wayne rubs the front of the temple with his thumb. “No.” He says quietly. “That’s been worrying me.”

The teen straightens, the worry reflecting him. “Wait, he didn’t?”

“That’s why I thought to ask you. If you know any place that I don’t on where Eddie might’ve gone. I haven’t checked the entire town yet but…”

Jeff is already taking out a notebook from his bag, flipping to a blank page. “Yeah, yeah, I know a few of his spots! I think he might go to the Hideout first-”

“That edge of town bar?” Wayne frowns. He’s been there himself once or twice. Good drinks and music, little seedy. Not really his place to frequent. But if his nephew went there instead of home last night, then Wayne is going to drag him back grounded.

“We performed there a couple times as our own band. I think the folks like our music, even if they’re just covers.” Jeff rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Please don’t tell my parents I’ve been there.”

“Can’t promise that.” Wayne says lightly. Jeff finishes writing and rips the paper out, giving it to him.

“I added some directions the best I can for a couple of them, in case you’ll miss them. Like Skull Rock is deep in the woods and some students go there for, um, stuff.”

Wayne skims over the list and folds the paper. He’ll check these locations soon, but he has to be sure if Eddie is somewhere in Main Street. “Thank you, Jeff. I cannot thank you enough.”

As he gets up, Jeff says, “You didn’t answer my question. About Eddie being okay. Is he okay?”

Is he?

“If he is, he’s grounded until graduation.” Wayne tells him. Then he leaves the room and out of the school.

—

The trailer park comes into view, thank god. But just like the woods, it’s covered in vines. What also frightens Eddie is that it’s devoid of people. There are cars, stuck and swallowed by the vines, but no passengers inside. Even the trailer homes themselves, when he peeks through the dusty windows and sees their items and furniture but nobody using them.

The lack of lights - at least ones that don’t shine pale from the streetlights - don’t help either.

Yet he can hear them.

He hears Mr and Mrs Caroline starting another argument, the shot firing of Mr. Meier’s car, the four year LaChance twins shrieking at their sandbox, and Josephine the collie barking.

Eddie looks at Little Byers, wondering if he’s already gone crazy. But the kid nods and says, “I hear them too. You can hear everyone but not see them.”

He doesn’t know if he should let relief or misery win over him.

As they walk to the Munson trailer, he picks lightly at his bandaged wrist, where the blood stopped flowing out at some point. Thinking.

He’s thinking a lot, even more than during the boring classes at schools. Mostly about Wayne and if he’s doing okay and if he had noticed Eddie didn’t leave out his breakfast note. Also about if Jeff and Frankie and the rest of Hellfire noticed either. About their campaign that he would miss if he could find some way out of here. And how admittedly cool this viney nightscape is. The Vale of Shadows, Little Byers calls it.

At least his new companion plays D&D.

“Why did you call me Little Byers?”

“Huh?” He shakes out of stupor and looks down at the boy beside him. They haven’t really spoken to each other since they started walking. He knows twelve year olds are weird creatures in a state between kids and teenagers, but this boy is tiny. Probably because of the bright vest almost engulfing his frame.

”You called me Little Byers earlier?” He scrunches his nose. “Is that supposed to be a dumb insult?”

”Oh, of course not! It’s just that, you know, some people refer to others by their last names. And there’s your brother at school who’s a Byers and you’re-” Eddie lamely gestures at him. “-the little Byers. I promise it makes more sense in my head.”

Little Byers blinks before smiling softly. “You can just call me Will.”

“Or that. Yeah, Will sounds better. Because that’s actually your name.” Eddie squeezes his hand. “You can just call me Eddie. No weird names required, unless you get bored.”

Will snorts.

They get to the front porch of his trailer. There’s a vine close to the knob which Eddie very much ignores and hopes isn’t locked. Thankfully it’s not, but it takes longer to get the door open. After another shove by his shoulder, it bursts open.

There’s a faint musky smell but otherwise, nothing appears unchanged. Except for the vines and snowflakes everywhere, of course. Though Eddie has a sneaking suspicion that they might be more ash than snow.

“Woah…” Little Byers - Will, Eddie keeps his promises - release his grip from Eddie’s hand as he stares around the living room in wonder. He giggles as he points at Wayne’s proud mug collection. “One of them is Garfield!”

“Wayne!” Eddie calls out, giving no time to comment back. He goes around the living room, tripping over a couple vines. He keeps calling as he goes to his bedroom. “Wayne! Can you hear me?! Uncle Wayne!”

Silence.

Okay, don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. DO NOT freak out.

He quickly runs back to Will, who’s moved to the couch. “You said I could talk to him, right? How do I do it? How did it work for your mom?”

He says it too fast that he’s not sure Will could understand him. But the kid’s face lights up and answers, “I used the lights!”

Eddie stares.

“I mean, it’s kind of a project in progress?” Will says sheepishly. “But I swear my mom knows it’s me! I know she’s trying hard to understand and I’m trying my best too.”

“…use the lights how?”

Will looks around and shuffles to the lamp besides the couch. “It’s a bit harder because I think it’s daytime right now and the lights are off.” His hands hover around the lamp with a concreted stare. Eddie watches with a drop in his gut as absolutely nothing happens.

Will glances back, the sheepish smile back on his face. “I’m sorry. But it might be better to wait for your uncle to come home. We can try it together!”

Eddie nods numbly. He’s been in the Vale of Shadows no longer than Will and he’s already losing hope.

Fuck.

His stomach growls. So does Will’s.

Ah right. That’s another problem.

Eddie gets up and walks to the kitchen. The fridge and cabinets are unsurprisingly webbed with vines. He checks the top cabinets, opening them hard enough that the thinner vines fall off.

“Oh thank you, baby Jesus.” He practically weeps on the spot when he sees the canned soups and cereal. He grabs the soups because this Vale of Shadows is cold as shit and a warm breakfast is what he and Will needs right now.

“Good news, there’s chicken soup ready to be heated up and devoured.” Eddie calls out with a grin. A couple cans tumble out, but he catches them before they hit the floor.

Wills runs in, his eyes widening as if he dug up treasure. To him, canned soup might as well be.

“Now it would be extra lucky for a nat 20 right now…” Eddie mutters as he digs into the drawers, cringing when his hand touches some vines. Ew ew, they’re slimy. His hand clenches around the familiar utensil and brings it up to the air. “Can opener!”

Will claps, giddy with excitement. Eddie crouches down next to him as he starts cutting open the first can. Please make it edible and not rotten looking please please-

When he gets the lid off, he and Will share a sigh of relief at the sight of normal chicken soup.

“Okay, Little Byers, do me a favour and turn the stove on.” Will nods and does so, although he has to climb on the counter. Eddie grabs another can and starts opening it as well.

“Uh, Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“The stove isn’t working.”

He stops. “What?”

“I-I thought it’s just at my house but-”

Eddie stands up and turns the power dial on the stove around. The light indicator stays dark. He does it again, hearing the click repeatedly but feeling no heat.

He looks at Will, who looks back helplessly.

“You said- you said the lights…” Eddie starts and then stops himself.

Will’s eyes are shining with tears. “It’s just the lights. I’m really sorry. I didn’t know about the power.”

Eddie slides down to the floor, canned soup abandoned in his hand. Then he curls himself up, trying to feel his own fading body heat as he quietly breaks.

- -

Taglist: @unclewaynemunson @steves-strapcollection @hellion-child @sidekick-hero @mmmmwaffles94 @demolitionjetstar @hbyrde36 @princessstevemunson @sirsnacksalot @tartarusknight @lyriclight @kodaik97 @plsdontdrinkmylavalamp @wuttttttttttt

[morsmortish]

okay i adore your dorcas take, do you have any thoughts on dorlene 🧎‍♀️

i do!! i think about them lots and lots and lots…

i generally don’t like to imagine that anything happened between them in school, apart from a very severe quidditch rivalry (one of the only tiktok tropes that you will have to pry from my cold dead hands). to me, it’s most compelling for them to re-encounter each other in the order, and both are forced to reconsider their views of the other. in general, i feel like they are very different people, and seem to embody their respective hogwarts houses: dorcas is intelligent, ambitious, calculating, but can come across as cold, whereas marlene is hot-headed and impulsive, but also courageous, loyal, and believes in doing the right thing. they are natural enemies in school, but the circumstances of war blur the lines and they find themselves as two new people, drawn to each other.

during the war, they’re both two lost souls. anyone dorcas was associated with before, at school, is now on the other side. she’s completely alone in the order, as most of the other members are old friends or family or at least ran in the same circles prior to all this. but as a slytherin muggle-born, she never got the chance to form any of those connections. the prejudice against slytherins during these times is high, and i like to think of marlene as very involved in this; she mistrusts and dislikes dorcas due to the fact she was in a certain hogwarts house (even in school, their rivalry was very much borne from this). the stereotype that all dark wizards come from slytherin, and all slytherins are bad, runs rampant. it’s a common sentiment, and dorcas feels the brunt of it. she’s no less discriminated against here than anywhere else. and she’s just as lonely.

marlene perhaps feels equally as alone, in a different way. she’s in the order with her friends and her family, but she starts to feel estranged from them. mary doesn’t want to be involved. lily is having a baby and starting a family. her parents and siblings are being sent on progressively more dangerous and secretive missions. she feels left behind. she struggles with feeling fulfilled, or feeling like she’s accomplishing anything. it feels like everyone is moving forward and marlene in stuck in the same place, waiting for things to happen. nothing feels like it’s changing, the war doesn’t feel like it’s being won, and she feels isolated from everyone else.

they get sent on a mission, or they are the last ones left at a meeting, or they just end up together somehow. it doesn’t take long for them to start using each other to feel less alone. and it takes even less time for them to both realise that they aren’t alone anymore, because, against all the odds, they’ve found each other. and when marlene is killed and dorcas loses the only thing she has left, it’s a good a reason as any to lose it and go on a suicide vengeance mission. because this whole time, she’s been fighting for herself, but as soon as she started to feel like a person again, that is also ripped away from her. the one thing that made it all seem worth it is gone, and so…it just isn’t worth it anymore!!! her whole life, dorcas has been trying to justify her existence. now, she’s given up. IT MAKES ME FERAL.

[brighttears]

Self-preservation

Joel Miller x reader

No physical description, gender neutral, no use of y/n

Summary: Joel struggles with loving and being loved, you've already given in.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: language, mention of god

A/n: just a lil drama  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also: multiple lines are from these two prompt lists and another part is inspired by this post (i can link the lines directly if that's preferred)

— 

“I don’t want you to love me. I don’t wanna be loved or love someone else.”

You shake your head slowly. “I wish that mattered.”

Indignation washes over him. Joel takes a threatening step towards you and barks, “You went after someone broken, you’re gonna get someone broken. And don’t you dare start with any a that ‘I could fix you’ bullshit.”

“I don’t want to fix you!” You let out a prickly laugh, your brow drawn up, and you gesture with your arms, “I love you, I loved you when I met you and I’ve loved you ever since, every version of you, I’ve loved, I love you,”

“Stop sayin’ that.” He yells. His insides are screaming. “I don’t know what you want from me.” Even though he knows the answer, he retorts, more for the sake of having something to retort. 

“I don’t want anything from you.”

He rubs his hand over his face. His head hurts. You’re perfect, and you love him and he yearns for you, he loves you like he’s never loved anything, and here you stand before him, begging for him, for anything, for nothing. 

Shaking his head, he starts, “Wrong place at the wrong time. Meetin’ me, just wrong place at the wrong time.” Joel turns away from you, almost hugging himself, gripping his biceps. “Fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut, tearing through the thoughts whipping around in his head, ripping into the stories he’d forced so much faith into to make right all the decisions he’s made about you. “From the moment I met you, everythin’ in me told me to run… I didn’t wanna look at you, I didn’t wanna be near you, I didn’t wanna know you, cause I wanted to avoid this. N’ I’m sorry I didn’t, an’ I know you can’t help it, and I don’t blame you, I blame the world and I blame god for puttin’ you here, the worst possible person at the worst possible fuckin’ time because,” he raises his voice, annoyed at his own words, “I’m no wordsmith so I don’t know how the fuck else t’ put it, but you’re perfect, in every way, you’re perfect, n’ I love you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t just pack my shit up n’ leave that first day, cause now we’re all” still facing away from you, he knits his fingers together and tighten them so that when he tries to pull them apart they’re stuck, “intertwined. I’m sorry I didn’t leave when I had the chance, I’m sorry you met me, I’m sorry I’m such a horrible person to love, I’m sorry that I love you, I’m js’… sorry.” His head bows deeply. 

After a beat, you speak up from behind him, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you love me?” 

He whips back to face you and shouts, “Because I was trying to avoid this! Because I wanted to protect myself from you and protect you from me. I mean, how did you think this would end—”

“I don’t care how it ends.” Your eyes are steady on his, voice gentle but assertive, “It doesn’t matter how it started, or when, or how much you resent it. I’m going to love you anyway. I'm going to want you anyway. I need you anyway.” You take a step towards him. He’s tongue tied, and having made the mistake of turning to look at you again, in your tragic divinity, he’s frozen. “You’re right, you should’ve ran while you could, because now I’m just gonna follow you. You should’ve ran as soon as you met me cause that’s when you caught me. I tried to let you go—I twisted the knife myself, tried to make it so I'd get sick at the sight of you, I tried to make myself hate you. But it didn’t work, I was miserable and I still loved you, I couldn’t shake you. So I gave up trying. I’ve given in.” you take another step forward, “I’m yours.”

Your words strike him like lighting and it devours all of his senses other than sight, spared by and for you. It shoots through cold but ridden by fire and it leaves him with cleaner air, each detail of your breaths now crisp, the space separating you distinct. His breath hitches. “I’m gonna break your heart.” he warns, a last ditch effort.

“Do what you want with it. I don’t care. I’ll take whatever you give me, I want all of you. If it’s ugly, so am I. If it aches I’ll ache. Put me in agony I’ll writhe for you.” You take another step towards him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s gonna hurt anyway.” you answer him quickly, “Love always does. My fate’s been decided, you’ll be the death of me,” you step forward, “I’m just asking you to draw it out.” 

“That’s stupid.” 

“I know it is.” you take another step closer, “All this training in self-preservation, doing everything I can to stay alive, to protect myself, and then you come along and it all goes out the window.” The gap between you is now only inches wide. This is the closest you’ve ever been, Joel having always ducked away any time you found yourselves closer together than ‘friends should be’, and it is lovely. Your lips are chapped and you smell like soap but still like you, he holds himself back from sucking it deep into his lungs.

“It was that day we ran into those Clickers,” you continue, “I can still see it, clear as day, you standing right across from me in that doorway. And that clicking was getting closer and closer and I was thinking that these might be my last seconds, and all I felt was regret.” You slide your hand over his jaw and up to his cheek, two fingers in his hair behind his ear. He closes his eyes at the sensation of you on his skin and when he opens them, your eyes are glued to his lips. “Hurt me, I don’t give a shit, just let me love you before we run outta time.”

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten 11, MAG 11 Dreamer

If someone came to my place of work proclaiming they had a prophetic dream about my death I would simply believe them. RIP to Gertrude but I'm just built different ig.

MAG 11 analysis, spoilers ahead!

Facts: Statement of "Antonio Blake" regarding his dreams of Gertrude Robinson, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute (Head Archivist is another odd and foreshadowing usage of proper nouns in the transcript). Statement given March 14th, 2015.

Statement Notes: Oliver I love you but I also hate you so so much.

It's so strange relistening to this statement. On my first listen, I was very sympathetic to "Antonio." He was this innocent man who suddenly developed psychic abilities that tormented him. Even in 121 when he describes what he did on the voyage to Point Nemo, he seems to be driven by fear and desperation. But knowing what happens after Point Nemo and who he becomes in the Eyepocalypse, I wonder how much influence the power of the End had on him. As Jon develops his abilities, he becomes less confident in "normal" social situations, but more confident and stronger in dangerous horror-based scenarios. This seems true with Blake/Banks as well. He's very nervous as his abilities are developing when he tries to talk to Gertrude or Jennifer from Grifter's Bone. As he becomes more attuned with his abilities and gives in to his desires, he becomes more powerful, shown when he is strong and devoid of emotion enough to kill the actual Dr. Pritchard. He becomes strongest when he "gives in" to the End, being most clear and charming as he gives his statement in 121 and the Coroner's Report in 168. Just being able to track this change so clearly from this first statement to the last speaks not only to Jonny Sims skills for character development, but also the power of the Entities to draw out the worst in a person.

Blake describes his dream world as an "overexposed" or "washed out" photograph. The fading imagery was very profound and strong to me. Death is a fear, a horror represented by the black tendrils, but also a simple force of nature, slowly sucking life and color from all things. Unstoppable.

I don't know why I'm harping on this, but I can't understand why Blake's dreams always begin at the top of Canary Wharf. Does that come up again in the show? Is it personally significant to Blake?

Character Notes: I already got into Blake, so my other main character concern for this episode is Gertrude.

Did she ever see this statement?

Did she simply miss it? Was she busy and didn't get a chance to look at it before it was too late? Did she read it and attempt to prepare? She was smart. She knew which statements were real and which weren't. She would have understood what Blake was capable of. Did she attempt to prepare and defend herself but just couldn't manage it? Did Elias hide it from her? Did she read it and just accept the inevitable?

But of course, I have to bring up the Graham mention. I always thought the Graham/Oliver ship was just a fun fan thing, but I didn't realize Oliver had broken up with a Graham in cannon. Moreover, I didn't realize that it was confirmed to be Graham Folger until reading about the Season 5 Q&A when working on this post.

This raises an interesting point about original Graham. Blake describes having a mental breakdown due to his job, and Amy Patel describes her office job degrading her mental health as well. Is there something about Graham that attracts people losing their minds in an office? While it could be something spooky, I do understand why people stuck in mind-numbing careers would be drawn to someone with the time and resources to explore what he actually wants to do with his life, rather than what he has to do.

Entity Alignment: This is very clearly an End episode. I very much believe that, while he may not be the most powerful or dangerous avatar in the series, Oliver Banks was one of the most deeply connected to his entity. His psyche, his spirit, and his physical body were all so entrenched in death. It's interesting that there is no "inciting incident" that causes Graham to become an avatar of the End, as usually there is one event that acts as the root of an avatar's development. You could possibly argue it was his mental health breakdown, but that seems unrelated to death or anything associated with the End.

[fortunekookie07]

Ok, so here is the warning. This one is definitely angsty sad. I wanted to write about Xavier in this kind of way when I got to chapter 8 in the game. I have my suspicions, and I used them to write this. Stellarian is what I decided to call him. Let's face it. The boy is definitely not human.

More Than Star-crossed

Xavier probably had as many secrets as there were stars in the sky. No one could ever predict his movements. He was mysterious, laid back, and cold. His personality was standoffish. He'd never allowed anyone to get close.

Jeremiah had known Xavier for a long time. He could recall a time in the distant past when he hadn't been so, but then he'd still had you. The first time you met, you'd been drawn to each other like a moth to flame. Like the sun and moon eternally chasing each other.

Xavier had said once that star-crossed didn't describe the two of you and soul mates wasn't deep enough. Jeremiah wasn't sure what the difference was. He didn't understand the level of devotion he showed you.

He knew one thing for sure, though, every time Xavier met you again he was elated, he reverted back to his old self. The way he'd been in school. The memories had been mostly good, right up to the end. Jeremiah would never forget the look on Xavier's face that day for the rest of his life.

*******************************************************

They had come suddenly, no warning or time to prepare. The hole had ripped open in space and they swarmed in. No one knew where they came from, creatures like them had never been seen before. All they sought was destruction and chaos.

At first they had been able to fend them off, they seemed relatively weak. With Xavier by your side you felled one after another. Your training and reflexes made you an outstanding swordswoman. Xavier being the only one you could never best. Those rounds you tied didn't count. He'd gone easy on you.

Then the bigger ones had come, your classmates started dropping one after another. Unable to beat them so easily anymore. You saw the one headed for Xavier's back and that he was currently unable to fend it off and then your feet were moving before you even knew it.

The first strike you had easily blocked, the long blade spinning against your own. It was the second blade you were unprepared for. Appear from nowhere and sparkling in the sun like glass, the blade is thrust through you. "Uhnnn!" A groan escapes your lips as you drop your sword and fall to your knees.

A scream peirce your ears as your name is cried with anguish. You can't even turn your head. All you can do is look down and see the large blade stuck through you. Your brain whispers that the injury is fatal, there will be no recovery period this time. Blood is already seeping from the edges of the blade and staining your uniform a dark red.

The monster in front of you bursts into dust and then your body is falling backwards, no longer held up by the blade. Xavier's warm arm are holding you up and he's crying as he looks down at you. His hand is pressed to the injury trying in vain to staunch the blood flow.

"Why are you crying?" You ask holding a hand to his cheek. He just shakes his head unable to say anything. "Xavier, you have to save everyone. I know you can do it." You place a hand to his heart and his eyes open at last. In the deep depths of his brilliant blue eyes all you can see is a profound sense of loss, pain, and desperation. "No, I can't with out you. I don't know how to see the light without you anymore." His words come out in sobs. And your heart aches at the pain in his voice.

"Xavier, you are the light. Send the darkness from the place and shower it with your light. I can help you." You say pressing more firmly against his chest right above his heart. "Open your heart to me." Having never been able to deny you anything, he drops his guard and you begin resonating with eachother.

All around you a bright light begins glowing intensifying by the second. Building and building, until finally it explodes and then there is silence. All traces of the invaders are gone. The fallen bodies of your classmates are scattered throughout the school courtyard and many other places. No one had been able to prepare for the attack and many had fallen in the first wave.

"Xav", you say weakly getting him to open his eyes. He's panicked again at all the blood. Your blue tinted white dress is crimson now and his pants are stained with the red as well. It's pooled on the ground below you and spreading slowly. Your time is almost up, it's now or never. You place your hand against his cheek again. "I love you." You manage to say, voice nothing more than a whisper now. Your vision is rapidly growing dark.

He's crying again, tears stream endlessly down his face and his eyebrows are scrunched together. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, I really love you." You know what it means when a Stellarian falls in love. Not just this life but every life you can only fall in love with the same person. Two halves of a whole, not soul mates it's deeper than that. No words can describe the bond that exists between you. But between you, no words are needed.

"I don't want to live without you." Xavier says, his voice is defeated. You manage a smile. "Don't come find me now, I'll be heartbroken if you follow after me. Promise me." You tell him putting all the strength you can muster into you voice. Instead of answering he leans down and presses his lips to yours. A smile graces your lips as your vision goes completely black.

A soft thump has him pulling back and he stares down at you. The light is gone from your eyes and your hand fell from his face. He squeezes your body close even though he knows it's futile. It's already turning to shimmering dust, going back to the stars.

Xavier's second cry of anguish shatters the silence, your body is gone. Having faded away to nothing.

*******************************************************

Xavier did not like to remember the past. He did not like to think of the times he'd found you again, only to lose you again. His heart was almost dead when he found you again on earth when you were twelve. Earth had been invaded by the same monsters that had destroyed his home planet Stellaria. He was determined not to let it happen again.

He was also determined not to approach you again. His heart couldn't take it anymore. Finding you, seeing you fall back into love with him and then dying again. Fate was cruel, it seemed like it was out to torture him until his long life finally came to an end. Not for the first time did he curse his long life.

Watching you almost die to the same monster that had killed you the first time had nearly undone him again. Tezcatlipoca, or Wanderer as they had come to be called was a monster that hid in mirrors. That was how you'd died that first time. It had emerged from a mirror as you were fending off an attack from a different Wanderer.

Xavier really did try to stay away from you this time, but it seemed the harder he tried the more you seemed to appear before him. He'd almost completely lost his composure that day you showed up in your Deepspace Hunter uniform. Freshly graduated from the academy and fighting these monsters once again.

He'd made it his own mission to eliminate them once and for all, he'd never intended for it to be your as well. However when he learned that you had a protocore fragment in your heart he knew that he could not keep you out of the battle any longer.

He'd let his guard down all to much and you wormed your way into the cracks in his armour and warmed his chilly heart once again. He hadn't been able to tell you any of this yet.

One of the reasons he was always so tired is because after he lost you the first time, he spent a long time sleeping. He felt only in dreams could he see you again.

So he constantly slept if only to remember the exact tone of your voice, or shade of your hair. Later on this too became something of a curse. Often he would relive your loss again and again.

Jeremiah didn't dare to ask him questions about you, that was dangerous. He'd only been there after you were gone. He'd managed to fend off the monsters until that light surge. Finding the spot where Xavier still knelt and seeing all the blood, he'd been able to put the clues together.

*******************************************************

You were jolted awake by tossing and turning next to you. Xavier was having a fitful dream. You raised up onto your side and gently lifted his arm before moving into his embrace. Waking him up was sometimes impossible. Just letting him hold you seemed to be the way to go. He would wake up soon, he always did after a bad dream. You waited patiently.

His arms tightened around you and then he was groaning. You looked up at him, waiting for his eyes to open. Finally the did. His pupils darted around and then finally rested on you. He tried to hide the sheer panic and pain but you still saw it. He wasn't fast enough but you weren't going to ask.

If Xavier didn't want you to know then he would dodge question and evade the point until time ended.

"Xavier, I'm not going anywhere you know. There is no where else I'd rather be then right here with you." You kiss his neck and snuggle into his embrace. He says nothing but you feel the tension fade from his body.

You're almost asleep again when he whispers, "I love you too much to let you go anywhere again." You know he's going to be ok. Tomorrow is a new day, after all.

[abavo]

My thoughts on the new LMK season

With no (or at least very minor) spoilers

TLDR: Its easy to focus on the drop in quality of the visuals since we can't focus too much on the other aspects of the series due to the language barrier, the english fandom will likely start having a more positive reaction to the season when the eng version drops and we can focus on character interaction and story.

RIP The YT channel hosting the episodes I will edit this post if it comes back up or someone reuploads them.

I'm probably gonna talk about the animation the most as I'll have to wait for the eng version to come out before I can talk too much about the story.

Also all of this is my opinion if you don't agree that's fine, make your own post with your thoughts.

Like most people, I don't really like the new animation, which sucks because WB is capable of good animation (some really good animation) but because LMK wasn't designed for puppet animation and WB was likely pushed to get this season out, the quality suffered. Some of the animation looks pretty good but a lot of it is stunted and some characters look out of place. It also doesn't help that a lot of older animation was reused (for flashbacks and such) which makes it a lot harder to adapt to the new animation style.

I'm not one to notice mistakes in animation so I wasn't taken out of the experience every time a character is off model but if you are you might have a hard time watching it.

The 3D models are also especially rough this season, there's one that keeps appearing (likely due to a tie in set) but it looks bad and it's really jarring

But I think "give workers more time to create higher quality products" is like, the coldest take in the world and I think most people wish FB had stayed or a studio that works with hand drawn animation was picked as a replacement. I think WB can do some great stuff and if they animate the next season I'm sure it will look better and I hope that lego will give the studio more time to work to achieve that polished look.

Pacing is a potential problem I'm noticing as well. I feel like some characters show up for like a minute and then disappear which is fine for some cameos of fan favorites but its frustrating when new characters that showed up in the trailer barely had any screen time (it really sucks because some of them are really cool looking! and I wanted to see more of them)

I can't talk too much about characterization but there are some things that definitely feel out of character, most notably something that happens towards the end of episode 1, I've seen some people refer to this as fandomization of the character but I'd need to wait for the eng version to come out before I can say yes to that. I think it's much more likely they just needed that character to do something and figured it could be a way to show how that character has changed although I do think it needed more buildup maybe that will change when I actually understand what's happening though lol.

Other than that I think the characterization is mostly intact (again will need to see the eng version) but its the same writers so I don't see why characters would act strange. There does appear to be some super interesting stuff that happens towards the end can't wait to figure out what thats about.

Plot is hard to follow (again language barrier) but seems fun if a little generic, I can't talk too much about it because I don't really know whats going on and this is spoiler free

New characters seem fun! Wish I knew what they were saying though! I wish some of them stuck around a little bit longer as some of them are only shown for a few minutes which again sucks! because some of them have really cool designs and I would have liked to see more of them.

[ur-mentallyill-wench]

Ok so this is actually 100% ripped of from this post

But I just changed it around a bit and wanted to put my spin on it :) this takes place season 5 but let’s pretend Troy never left. I know it’s cringe and bad I can’t write and sorry it’s so long

Setting- Pretty much the same, the Dean rented out a venue for a dance only this time it’s a valentine dance however on a “coincidence” they get stuck with said bisexual lighting that Abed will make his comment on

Background/ cold open- of course no dance at Greendale would be complete without alternative motives, this one being the Dean trying to get Jeff as his date to said dance (I don’t ship them but I think the Dean liking him is funny). To go along with this plot you aren’t let into the dance without a date, the Dean makes sure to make it clear it doesn’t have to be a real date (cue aggressive cueing to Jeff) In the end Jeff and Britta and up being each others fake dates seeing as they hadn’t been spending but time together, leaving Troy, Abed, and Annie (Shirley isn’t going)

A plot- Troy instinctively turns to Abed pitching to go as fake dates, seeing as they did nearly everything together and it’s not like either of them had a girlfriend. To this Abed would agree although he’d say something along the lines of “or maybe we could try and get dates, I mean spending time with you is great but we’ve been going to school here for 5 seasons with not end in sight, we may as well try to get girlfriends considering neither of us have had a real relationship” (cue offended gasp from britta). This makes Troy upset for whatever reason, he knows Abed is right but he’d rather just go with Abed then bother finding a date, with this he turns to his next best option, Annie, who is more then enthusiastic to go with him despite being over him she’s still gitty. Abed ends up going with Rachel, this once again makes Troy feel certain way but he still can’t put his thumb on it, Annie immediately notices something’s up and brings up the idea that it has something to do with Abed. Troy would say something along the lines of, “I really don’t know, I think your great and I should be estatic to have a date with someone a good as you but I can’t stop thinking about him, like how could he pull her this easy and get along with her so good, I’ve never even heard of this girl”. At this point Troy is completely detached from his “date” with Annie and is now ranting about how there’s no way Rachel is better then him or good enough for Abed while Annie just stares at him knowingly. Of course with Annie’s help Troy comes to the realization that even id he can’t put his finger ong why he wants to be with Abed, whether platonicly or romantically he wants to be with him. The night goes on like this, Troy occasionally going over to talk to Rachel about Abed before sulking back to Annie. Over the course of the night and talking to Rachel Troy gets increasingly mad that Abed doesn’t seem to care until the point on him storiming up to Rachel and airing out shit about abed (he’s controlling, trackers in his friends, uses people) and so on until Abed comes up on them and Rachel tells Abed something and storms out, leaving Abed to turn to Troy distraught. He’s says something about how he really liked her and Troy confesses that even if he doesn’t know want it is he’s drawn to Abed and wants to spend the rest of his life with him, he doesn’t want to be boyfriends or anything it he doesn’t want to see Abed leave him, Abed would say something along the lines of, “I don’t know how to take this but if there’s anyone I’d want to spend the rest of my life with it’s you, and we can make out own thing up it’s what we do anyway” more emotional dialog that I’m not smart enough to write but it ends in them kissing to bisexual lighting glaring around them and the song Somewhere Out There playing in the background

B plot- Jeff and Britta end up going to the dance together, I don’t have much to say here but it ends up it them saying how they’ve missed spending time together (I ship them in a they keep getting divorced and getting back together way) but they end up having a good time together. Also Jeff finds the Dean sulking and they end up sharing a dance together

C plot- not much here but I think it would be funny to have Chang and Duncan trying to pick if ladies to go to the dance but they end up wasting all there time with no ladies wanting them (just some funny bar scenes idk)

Ending scene- Troy and Abed telling people they’re dating of course with “Troy and Abed are dAtInG” a shocked gasp from Shirley and Annie (Annie knew) and britta giving Jeff twenty dollars for losing the bet of wether they’d get together

[allisonreader]

I don’t know what this is, where it came from, what its purpose is. It’s supposed to be a time loop piece to put up for the Chesterton challenge for the prompt repetition; which it definitely fits, but why all the sewing? I’m writing it, but I couldn’t tell you. It became derailed from the first word and thinking of the phrase “a stitch in time”. So here we go, my sewing heavy time loop musing? Story? I’m not sure what to call it.

All I know is that (as @melliabee and @lover-of-the-starkindler know) it came after sharing fic recs and having read a fic dealing with time loops. So vaguely and indirectly those two mentioned inspired this in an extremely roundabout way as I still don’t know what this is.

But anyways, this is my piece for the Chesterton Challenge for the prompt repetition. (As repetitive as this note is getting, the writing piece below will be more.) @inklings-challenge

Time loops and sewing 🧵🧵🧵

Stitch, stitch, stitch. 🪡_ _ _

The needle goes into the fabric and is pulled out again and again. 🪡_ _ _

Into the fabric and pulled out. 🪡_ _ _

The same motions over and over.

The pull getting shorter each time a new stitch is made. Until a new piece of thread is started and the process starts a new, with the stitches continuing.

All working to create something; whether it be practical, decorative or somewhere in between. Connecting past and future.

There’s a reason that the phrase a stitch in time is brandied around.

Sewing and time have more in common than you might think. Both deal with fabric/material that can wrinkle, snag, tear, rip, ripple, gets stuck, fold up on itself, and can be seen to be linear.

But let’s talk about the snags, the hang ups, getting stuck sewing in the same place.

If you’re using the sewing machine sometimes it’s not always immediately obvious that you’ve caught up on something; until there’s a whole pile of thread under your fabric, getting thread jammed up through the needle plate, tangling everything up and potentially needing scissors and removal of the needle plate to fix the problem.

Not so for hand sewing.

By hand, built up thread is most likely intentional unless you weren’t paying attention and were stitching in the same place, but being an easier catch as soon as your attention returns. None of the thread the same place as it builds up.

Time loops are much the same. There are some that you enter and everything seems fine at first, but once you realize that something is wrong, then you realize how big of a mess that you’re in. That your situation might require scissors and the removal of the needle plate.

Other times you don’t catch what’s happening right away, but the build up is less. Your attention is drawn to what’s happening sooner. The solution is not always as large.

And other times again you know exactly what’s happening. You want it to happen. You want it to happen again and again. You are purposefully repeating your stitch over and over, creating your build up purposefully before moving on.

Slight differences between each time. Each cycle never truly being the same, though it feels like it. The uneven stitches are being laid, but just because each stitch is uneven, it doesn’t mean that something isn’t being created that’s beautiful or has hidden strength.

Teaching you a lesson if nothing else. Sewing and time loops will both teach you just as many lessons as the other. Both feel like they go on for forever but both do eventually come to an end, leaving you shocked that the project or loop is finally finished.

For sewing you simply pick up another project and go again, though I’ve never met a person who wants to figure their way out of a time loop again. Not unless they’re the one to start the loop in the first place.

🪡_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The fabric folds and creases.

The needle goes in and out, in and out. Pull. Watch the stitches being laid. One stitch, two stitch, around and around.

A satin stitch here, some backstitching here, maybe some chain stitching for added interest. Still the needle goes in and out, just like time goes on and on, even if it repeats itself.

Time loops are like thread in a tangle, knotting up on itself and being a pain to loosen its loops out of the knots.

Be careful, the fabric of space time can rip and tear. Stitch it up carefully, you don’t want it to fray.

When fabric frays it will keep fraying depending on exactly what type of material you’re using. Some fabrics won’t fray. A knit generally doesn’t fray, but it can unravel. Woven material is what frays, some more than others. It depends on the fibres used and how it was woven together.

The right needle helps go through the material properly.

It’s all about using the right tool when needed. Sometimes you need something more specific than the generic works for most thing tool. A ballpoint/stretch/jersey needle works best on knits and stretch. The needle will push beside the fibres instead of through them like a sharp needle will.

Sometimes you have to test to find out what that right tool is. The right tool will make the job easier and help you finish the job quicker. There’s less of a struggle that way. But it will still take time to do things right.

🪡_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The needle goes in, the needle goes out, a stitch has been formed. The process repeats. Needle into the fabric, needle out of the fabric.

With a needle and thread the stitches can gather the fabric. Tight folds making there be a greater volume of material in a smaller place.

A time loop of its own kind. A repeating process to get a similar result. Though never quite the same from one to the next.

A stitch here, a stitch here; to gather as you go or to gather all at once. Both ways having their own difficulties. Both having their benefits.

Gathering can even be done by machine.

Two rows of stitches side by side, pulling the threads of both. But beware if one thread breaks, you can come close to losing it all. The strands of time can be just as fickle if you’re not careful. Pull the wrong one too hard and you could end up stuck permanently or with the wrong spot to stop or simply starts it all again.

The needle goes in, the needle goes out, the stitch is formed, push the fabric close. Knot the end of your thread and begin again.

🪡_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Stitch, stitch, stitch. A stitch in time and all that, you know dear?

The needle goes into the fabric and out.

In and out, sometimes in different movements, but there’s always going into the material and the needle being pulled through until it’s out.

Repetitive, soothing, traditional. A constant that changes, but is always needed in some form.

Time is much the same. Repetitive, following patterns, a constant that changes. Day in, day out. The same activities day to day, week to week.

A time loop in constant motion. Drudgery unless it’s made to be more.

Haven’t you guessed it by now? Different but the same. New but old. Stitching all along, talking about time?

Well, maybe you need a few more rounds yet. I’ll still be here stitching, waiting, changing the same, because time has similarities to sewing.

I won’t be the one to unravel the mysteries of the greater universe, that’s for a higher power than me. I’m just a person who sews, watching and passing the time as I move my needle through the material.

[angel-eyes05]

i remember his hands - chapter 2

PAIRING: kang the conqueror x fem!reader

SUMMARY: after a scientific experiment goes horribly wrong, you've been transported to the quantum realm and have been stuck there for the past decade. with no company, aside from janet van dyne, your life changes forever when a mysterious man in a golden ship crash lands next to your settlement. startled with his initial presence, you two have a rocky start. but as time goes on, you two find each other slowly drawn to one another. you have secrets though, and he has a past he refuses to bring up. can you two make it through navigating an unknown world together, discovering any ulterior motives, and stand the test of time in a place where time has no meaning at all?

INFO: slow romantic burn, pretty fast sexual burn, kinda enemies to lovers????, takes place during that little flashback janet has during quantumania, idk how accurate this is gonna be to canon stuff cause i get very confused about the quantum realm lol, reader is in mid to late 20s while kang is in his “early 30s” (ik he like technically doesn't age or whatever idk the lore but i just made it accurate to jonathan majors age and wanted to give an accurate age range/gap/count), y/n will be very fleshed out like i'm gonna give her everything lol

WARNING: bl00d mention, explicit language (both swearing and ig sexually)

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 2.9k

NOTES: i just now realized the summary said y/k this whole time instead of y/n, i knew something looked off lmao 😭 just ignore that lol. also if you guys want me to make a taglist, just lmk in the comments and if you want me to tag you or not

PREVIOUS PART

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

To your surprise, you opened your eyes to find yourself alive in your bed. Your head throbbed in a sharp, piercing pain. You looked into the mirror that sat in front of your bed to examine your facial injuries. You had a bandage wrapped around the right side of your head. As you went to touch the place where the rock was smashed into, you winced from the pain as it shot into your head. It wasn’t as deep of an injury as you thought it would be, but it wasn’t doing you much good either. You also noticed a bruise on your left upper cheekbone, very quickly growing into a black eye. You assumed it was from when the man tackled you into the creek. You moved down to your throat area to find two dark purple bruises on the front side of your neck. Other than those injuries and a couple of scratches on your arms and knees, you figured you were in better shape than your attacker. You wondered what ended up happening to him. If you were here alive, it meant he probably survived too. Left out there, he was probably finished off by roaming mites. Either way, it wasn’t your problem anymore.

You hear a knock at the door. “Come in”, you struggle to get out, a spiky pain going down your throat after you the words escape your mouth. Janet opens the door and walks over to your bed with a glass of water and some more bandages. “Yeah that sounds as bad as I thought it would be. Whoever caused those neck bruises was really trying to kill you”, she replied, sitting down next to you on the edge of the bed. “Really? I thought the bloody dent in my head would be more of a giveaway”, you sarcastically reply in pain. You got a small chuckle out of her. “Even a near death experience couldn’t take away your wonderful sense of humor”, she jokingly replied. You smiled at her remark. Janet went to unravel the bandage on your head. You grimaced as she tried to rip off the parts that were dried on by the blood. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine”, she said after noticing the expression on your face. “You’re a tough girl. One of the strongest people I’ve met.” A slight smile crept onto your face. She dipped a cloth into the bowl of water, then started to dab it onto the wound. As much as the process of getting to it sucked, you enjoyed moments like these with Janet. You know, even though finding you out there bleeding out from your head probably almost scared her to death, that she enjoyed them too. You took a sip of water from the glass she gave you, which improved your throat pain significantly. Once she finished cleaning your head, she wrapped another bandage around the wound. “Alright, I’m fixing up some breakfast for you in the kitchen. If you need anything, just ring this.” She placed a little bell on your nightstand as she gathered her stuff to leave.

After failed attempts to fall back asleep, you decided to head out to the kitchen to help Janet. You gently placed your legs over the edge of the bed and slowly stood up. You slightly limped over to the mirror to assess yourself again. Your head looked slightly better with the change in bandages, but the bruise on your cheekbone had now fully turned into a black eye. You winced as you placed your fingers on the swollen area around the bone. The bruises on your neck had stayed about the same size as the last time you saw them. You rolled up your pant legs to find two bandaged gashes on your right knee, most likely from the tackle as well. You slowly turned and hobbled towards the door to walk into the kitchen. You made your way across the hallway of the cabin into the kitchen and living room (it was more of just a little kitchenette with a couch in it). You rubbed your eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the room. As you opened your eyes again, you could hardly believe what you saw going on by the couch.

Janet was kneeling on the floor next to couch, tending to the same man who tried to kill you. She was cleaning up a cut he had on his left tricep, as he laid there shirtless on the couch. Your heart sunk as your eyes laid on him. He was still unconscious, but the thought of your attempted killer being in the the same house as you made you nauseous with fear. “Janet!” you whisper yelled at her, half from the fear of waking him up and half from the pain still in your throat. She didn’t turn around. You yelled again. She rolled her eyes as she finished changing the bandage and walked over to you. “What is he doing here?” you asked like she was insane. “I couldn’t just leave him there to become mite food y/n”, she truthfully replied. “Uh, yes. Yes, you very well could have. You are aware of the fact that he almost killed me, right?” you asked, still concerned the situation wasn’t getting through to her. “Yes I am, and that’s exactly why I brought him here.” All you could do in response to hearing her say that was nervously laugh. “Listen to me y/n, I’ve been here for much longer than you have. So I know for a fact that when people arrive here, it’s either from some extremely fucked up accident, or for a very important purpose. I believe he’s here due to the latter. We need to keep him alive to find out that purpose, alright?” she snapped at you. You hadn’t seen this side of her much, so whenever you did, you knew she meant it. You nodded in response. “Alright” she said as she took a deep breath “Now help me with breakfast.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could see the bright white lights seeping in from his eyelids as he slowly opened his eyes. As he regained consciousness, he immediately felt shooting pains in his shoulder, abdomen, and foot. His groaning caught Janet’s attention as she walked over to where he was with damp cloth. He tried to move back slightly, but if he moved any more, the pain would get worse or he would probably fall off the couch, which was definitely too small for him to lay horizontally on it. Janet looked at him for a consenting look before taking the cloth to the right of his abdomen. He hesitantly nodded. He groaned through the stinging pain of the water mixing with the bloody wound. “I’m surprised you were still alive by the time I got you inside. This one right here should’ve had you dead within the first three minutes of getting bit” Janet said to break the silence. “W…Where am I?” he asked tiredly. “My cabin. I’ll tell you the rest of it when you’re awake enough to pay attention to what I’m telling you.” Janet placed her hands on his back once she noticed he was trying to sit up. He cried out in pain through his teeth as he tried to sit normally. “Woah, woah, woah, I don’t think you’re ready for that yet”, Janet said concerned. “No time”, he said between short breaths. “Need to get back to the sh-.”

He cut himself off when he saw you standing by the kitchen counter, your back to him and you head lowered. He kept his eyes on you for a bit and examined your frame, trying to understand how someone as small as you could reduce him to this. You could feel his eyes on you, like a laser burning into your back. The longer the moment went on, the more you wanted to take the knife nearest to you and finish the job you started. After what felt like hours, he finally turned his face back to Janet. Being able to tell what he was going to say next, she said “She lives here with me. And before you ask, no she isn’t going anywhere. And until you fully heal, you aren’t leaving either.” Janet turned to face both of you. “And until that time happens, I need you two to try to not kill each other. Alright?” You reluctantly nodded your head. He did the same. “Ok good.” Janet finished with his abdomen wound and walked over to you in the kitchen. “I’m going into town for a bit to get some more medical supplies, so I’m going to need you to finish with his shoulder and foot” she told you, already noticing the horrified look creeping onto your face. Your heart sunk and your eyes widened hearing her say that. “Janet, no, there’s no way. You leave me here alone and there is no doubt he’ll kill me” you whispered quite enough so he wouldn’t hear. Janet pulled you outside with her to talk. “Listen, I know you don’t trust him and I don’t entirely either, but have you seen him? It would take a miracle for him to get up right now and charge at you again. Plus, I need you to try to get information on him while I’m gone, ok?” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. “Ok.” “Thank you.” Janet gave you a little peck on your forehead. “I’ll be back soon.” She started walking off into the distance. With Janet’s good luck kiss, you turned to the door to walk inside. As you went to turn the doorknob, you noticed your hand slightly shaking. You took one last deep breath to calm yourself before walking inside.

You walked inside, determined not to make eye contact with him the entire time. Once you got to the kitchen counter, you could already feel his eyes on you again. You could’ve sworn he had some kind of laser eye power, because you could feel yourself getting hotter with each passing second. It was almost paralyzing how it made you feel. “Could you stop that please?” you finally said, hoarsely. You heard a slight chuckle from him. “Sounds like I did a number on you after all. Not good enough though, since you’re still walking” he replied in a rich, slightly menacing tone. It was enough to send a slight shiver down your spine. You could hardly believe Janet trusted him enough to not kill you. You took yet another deep breath, and grabbed the bowl of water, a sewing needle and thread, a roll of bandages, and a damp cloth. You still avoided eye contact, but out of your peripherals, you could see he was still staring at you. What you couldn’t tell though, was if he was slightly smirking or not. 

You placed the bowl down on the ground and you sat right in front of his foot. You reached to unravel the bandage wrapping his left foot, but he moved it away. You sighed. You knew exactly what he was doing. Giving in to what he wanted, you finally make eye contact with him. His eyes were just as sharp and full of anger as they were when he first punched you in the chest. “Please don’t move. This will be easier for both of us if you stay still”, you say to break the tension. You go back to his foot to unwrap it, but he moves it yet again. You huffed to yourself and turned back to him. “Listen, I know you’re upset with me over the arrow, and I’m sorry. My intention wasn’t to hit you. But I have every right to be mad at you as well. Now I know you don’t want me here, but I hate to break it to you, you’re stuck with me until Janet gets back. Now can you please hold your foot in place so I can take off this god damn bandage!” you yelled as loud as your injured throat let you. You must have turned red or something because you noticed a smirk slightly tug on his lips. He moved his foot in front of you. “Thank you”, you remark, turning away from him again. 

You unravel the bandage to find Janet already stitched up the wound on his foot. That made things easier for you at least. You took the damp towel and dabbed it on the wound. You couldn’t believe you were here, cleaning the wounds of the same man who just tried to kill you. Apparently he couldn’t believe it either, since his eyes were still locked onto you. You finished applying the water and wrapped his foot back up. You moved over to his shoulder next. You were much closer to him now, forcing you to have to take looks at him. It was the same expression every time though. Anger, mixed with annoyance, mixed with a hint of fascination. You unraveled this bandage. This was the one Janet hadn’t gotten to yet. You figured this would give you a chance to redeem yourself though, fixing up the wound you gave him. You kneeled in front of his shoulder with the threaded needle and stuck it into the wound. As soon as you put it in, the man clenched his teeth and groaned in pain. He wiped his face with his hands in anguish. 

You pulled the needle through the skin, and at some point you must have hit a specific spot, because his hand shot down and took hold of your thigh to hold as leverage. Butterflies flooded into your stomach as he squeezed your thigh with every pull of the needle and thread. You looked down and took notice of his hand once again. Noticing how big it was, how tense it would get, and whether he did it with intention or not, how he would occasionally trace his thumb across you clothed skin. Once previously around your throat, now seizing your thigh and tightening its grip with every movement of the needle. You felt your cheeks getting brighter with each tighten. Part of you thought he was doing this to fuck with you, but the looks you saw on his face proved you otherwise. 

Being this close allowed you to take notice of all his facial features now. From his plump lips, to the two identical scars running down his face. You knew they had to have some sort of story behind them, but you decided to ask another time. You were unable to reach a certain spot on the inner part of his shoulder, so you sat up slightly to move more into him to reach it. This is when it hit you how close you two were. Feeling his hot breaths on your cheek, hearing his slight moans and groans of pain, and now with the movement of his hand from on top of your thigh to your sensitive inner thigh. You were embarrassed to admit the combination of everything made you slightly wet. You had to use your spare hand to push two pieces of his skin together that were too far apart for the needle to get in naturally. As you pushed, he moved his right hand to grab yours. Now that it was touching your bare skin, you could fully appreciate the feel of his skin on yours. You felt how rough it was as the calluses on his hands slightly scratched against your knuckles. 

You finished up and closed the wound and started dabbing it with the damp towel with the same hand that was holding the needle. He still hadn’t moved either of his hands, his moans and groans now turned into short pants. You sat there for a second, embarrassed with how comfortable you suddenly were with him. Part of that embarrassment also went towards how wet his hand being on your upper inner thigh made you. “Are you ok?” you asked, having to say something in fear of what you would do if you just stayed like this. He nodded slightly. He opened his eyes after having them shut from the pain and looked into yours again. Only this time, they weren’t filled with anger. You couldn’t tell what look this one was. Maybe weakness from his pain. Maybe wonder. Maybe…. After clearing his throat, he finally took his hand off of yours. Then, almost as if he were teasing you at this point, he dragged his hand off your inner thigh agonizingly slow, finger by finger. Cheeks flushed and stifling the noise you felt building up in your throat, you grabbed your materials and moved them over to the kitchen counter and made your way back to your room without saying another word. “Wait”, you heard him call out. You popped your head out from behind the hallway corner and stood there waiting for what he was going to say.

“What’s your name” he asked softly.

“Y/N” you hesitantly answered.

“...I’m sorry for earlier y/n.”

“I’m sorry too…” you signaled to him for his name.

“Kang.”

“I hope you heal well, Kang.”

“You too.”

You walked back over to your room, using whatever self control you had to stifle any feeling that might have been awoken in those moments.

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

NEXT PART

A/N: dude i dont think you understand how much i enjoyed writing that HJFHJF. there will be more to come soon dw. but i hope you enjoyed this chapter (this took up 9 google doc pages lmao) since shit actually happened lmao. as regarding whenever chapter 3 comes out, it might take a little while since the ideas for the preview-chapter 2 came to me super quick, im still thinking about what direction chapter 3 will take. It shouldn’t take any longer than a week, but please just be patient. thank you for reading!

[ehlnofay]

Summerfest Day 5 - FORGOTTEN

At the foot of the Statue of Akatosh, there is a crumpled linen gambeson. Its fabric is pale pearly grey, still smelling ever-so-slightly of sulphur; the place where the sides tie at the front is torn and stained brown with old blood, and the quilting is spotted with mould. Sewn onto the chest with meticulously jagged stitches is a black cloth emblem of a wolf.

Every so often – when the Imperial City’s humid air leaves everything damp with dew for days on end, or when the rain patters down through the smashed-up roof – Jeelius takes to the cloth armour with hot water and lemon juice and spells it dry. He hadn’t done anything to it at first. No-one had done anything to it at first – still reeling, trying to understand what had happened and what it meant. Every cleric that served in the Temple of the One had been raised with it – if not physically, they’d heard stories of it since they were children – and it was jarring to have it so literally ripped away and apart, returned chewed up and spat out. (Even if it was a miracle. Even though it was a miracle.) No-one knew what to do with anything at all. The gambeson barely registered, until it rained.

Nowadays, when it rains, the water floods the Temple’s fractured hall and runs down the marble steps into the street. Poor J’mhad is stuck trying to figure out how to dry it all every time, several of the priests trying ineptly to help or just pressing themselves against the wall, shivering. When it rains, the water cascades down the statue and pours over the steps of the dais. The gambeson, tucked away between the claws of its foot and the stump of a marble pillar, is drenched every time. It was harder to ignore when it stank of must and mildew. It was ruining the Temple air and making the visiting worshippers sneeze. So Jeelius washed it.

And he’s kept washing it since.

They’ve talked about more sustainable solutions – an acolyte suggested getting rid of it – but Jeelius couldn’t stand the idea. It felt – wrong, somehow. The gambeson is part of this place; a memorial to whatever exactly happened here, before the golden dragon killed the devil and cleared the skies. It’s important. It belongs.

Maybe he’s being sentimental.

(He remembers collecting that gambeson from its hiding place in the bushes. Then, he watched its owner sponge it down with a care that felt incongruous with their gruff voice and hard-eyed face.)

Regardless, neither he nor Tandilwe would hear of its removal, so it stays. He’s never tried to clean off the blood – that, too, feels in some way disrespectful – but he wipes it down in the fashion he remembers watching all those months ago, keeping it fresh and free of dust and mould. It’s comforting, in its way. Another new little ritual.

There are a lot of new rituals. It’s rather a lot to adapt to. Jeelius was drawn to priesthood for its stability, for the comfort he found in rites and traditions as unchanging as the Nine themselves; for as long as he’s been in this vocation he’s been performing customs centuries old. The world changes so quickly – history compounding, moving inexorably onward – but faith stays still, a single thread remaining through time as all others snap and fray. This, at least, does not change.

Until it does. The Temple of the One has no roof anymore; moss grows in the cracks of the flagstones, so thick and springy that he feels it through the soles of his slippers. They still maintain the braziers that held the Dragonfires, but now more care is paid to the statue – not so much to its maintenance, since it is newer than the braziers by millennia and larger by multitudes, but to its overwhelming presence, its implications, the necessity of restructuring the physical space and activities of the Temple around it. J’mhad is petitioning for gutters to be put into the floor of the halls so that the rainwater has somewhere to drain to. No-one is eager to alter an ancient structure – but J’mhad points out, not unreasonably, that it’s a bit late to worry about that now, and that this minor renovation would preserve the stone from damage and erosion that would be far worse in the long term.

It isn’t just the place, either. Nothing is the same anymore. In the immediate aftermath, people are scrambling – the priesthood included; Jeelius speaks to hundreds of people in those first few days after who still have the smell of sulphur and ash in their hair, who tell him about barricading their doors and hiding out through that final attack, who tell him about friends and family who weren’t inside when it started or whose walls and windows weren’t strong enough. Jeelius says soothing things, like he’s supposed to – leads them through prayer, like he’s supposed to – hides his shaking hands under the skirts of his robe and doesn’t look anyone in the face and doesn’t fixate on his own helplessness when other people are trying to talk through theirs, selfish, like he’s supposed to. When the people he speaks to aren’t seeking counsel – or once they’ve finished asking for help – they gawk at the statue, ask is it truly an avatar of Akatosh, did it really fight off the Daedra, are they gone for good? Did Jeelius see it? Does he know for certain?

He wishes they’d stop asking. He doesn’t want to think about knowing for certain; he wants the same easy belief he had before any of this. He wants, like everyone, to go back to normal; he knows that nothing ever will.

(He didn’t see it. He was in Tandilwe’s cellar. He doesn’t actually remember any of it – all he knows, all he’s been told, is that he had a knife and Tandilwe couldn’t make him let go. If he was going to die he was going to die quickly.)

He tells the ones who ask that he didn’t see it.

No-one seems to have seen it, not in its entirety. The Avatar itself, bright as the sun and screaming gold, is a common enough story, but there are no witnesses of whatever happened in the Temple in the chaos preceding its arrival.

(There’s only a gambeson left on the floor.)

But Jeelius doesn’t think about it, because in those early days the Crisis isn’t really over, no matter what the Council says. Everyone is still lost in the terror of it, trying to scrape out some path back to living, to understand how to keep moving. (Jeelius stops sleeping. Too many people need his help, and he’s scared to close his eyes.) Everyone is waiting with gritted teeth or bated breath for the next attack.

But instead they receive word that the Gates on the roads are closed.

People who had been away from home and terrified to travel begin to return.

No matter how long they wait, the shoe never drops. Jeelius won’t say it, but by all that is holy, sometimes he wishes it would. The Oblivion Crisis defined the world until it didn’t, and now everyone everywhere is living without it and he doesn’t know how to do that anymore. An artist sketches out the scene of the Temple battle as seen from the window of an insula a district over, and when it’s printed as a wood-cut in the Black Horse Courier Jeelius sees a looming statue and the winking of a blade in the demon’s ink-lined face and has to sit behind a pillar until he’s breathing again. After he takes up the self-appointed duty of maintaining the discarded cloth armour, he finds that breathing in the smell of cut lemons is the only thing that will calm him down.

The worshippers stop being desperate and start being curious. It’s easier to help them, now, regardless of his feelings about it. Then come the pilgrims, to pray at the site of Akatosh’s avatar, of his great victory, with endless more questions, none of which Jeelius feels he is answering to their satisfaction.

Did you see Martin Septim? they ask. Did you witness his exaltation? After the last of the Septims is named a saint, they come to pay respects to him as well as Akatosh. They speak of him in such reverent terms as make the ridge of Jeelius’ spine stand on end – though it could well be deserved; he doesn’t know, he never met the man.

(He remembers a letter he saw scribed in Cheydinhal. Dear Martin, I’m abandoning you for another priest I found…)

The pilgrims have a lot of questions, but no-one asks about her.

It’s – odd, Jeelius thinks. He supposes it’s the environment – the people who travel here are here to see the statue. The avatar. They’re here for worship, not gossip. Only he hears talk from the other priests. Hears talk in the marketplace when he goes to run errands. Reads the Black Horse every week and shares news with the others in the Temple and talks through the end of the Crisis in excruciating detail with almost everyone who visits, and it never comes up. No-one is worried. No-one even wonders. It’s as though the miracle has erased them from existence, as though the Divine saviour overwrote the human one.

There’s not even a note in the missives, a brief mention in conversation: no news of the Hero of Kvatch. Jeelius keeps an ear out but there’s never any news of the Hero of Kvatch. Just a bloodstained gambeson to wipe down with water and lemons.

No-one is worried. Why would they be? What is there to worry about now that the crisis is over and done? But Jeelius looks at the blood and thinks of red-stained robes and haemorrhaging in the abdominal cavity. Everyone else might gaze up in wonder at the statue of the Avatar – indomitable, irreproachable, something more than flesh and blood – and praise it as their deliverer, but Jeelius’ saviour stole a toffee apple in front of him and called him names and travelled with him back to the Capital because he said he was afraid.

Jeelius’ saviour was a child. And they’re missing. And everyone knows – they have to. They knew all about her before. But now that there’s a miracle in the Temple district and no use for a hero…

Out of sight, out of mind.

The pilgrims keep coming, and with them come travellers who aren’t here for worship – just to see the avatar for themselves. Someone asks, once, if it’s real.

Jeelius keeps performing his duties, as ever; wringing his comfort from them as best he can, despite how different it’s all become. Twice a week, more depending on the weather, he lays the gambeson flat and sponges it with lemon water, then puts it exactly back where it was.

He still doesn’t know why it feels significant, but it is.

Maybe he wants to make sure he has it on hand, just in case. Just so he can return it, if they ever come back.

[ickadori]

FORGIVE ME FOR BEING MIA, how you been, dori ??

I was in my little depression slump bc I did in fact not get that job so I was going Through It, but oh welp! In the mean time I see you got into another hyperfixation LOL, I never seen WB but I read everything you write anyways 😚 tho fuck my luck bc I was initially drawn to Endo visually but he's already someone else's bitch apparently 😒 it's okay, I'll fuck takashi or whatever his name is to get that creampie so i can get endo's mouth on me *shrug*

Anyways I've been dealing with my stress by being delulu~

Like imagine after that last drabble where Sukuna called you his girl, you ghost him because of the stress. Like you don't wanna deal with it and fuck it's gonna be so awkward after he finds out you didn't get the job. Honestly, your heart can't handle his teasing, even if he only does it as a joke. You arent in the mood for his smartass mouth, so you silence his notifications and keep on going through the motions.

Tired after weeks of radio silence on your end (and the assumption that yall stopped fuckin around and were on the road to a relationship now) Sukuna makes his way to your house and parks up and WAITS. So imagine his surprise when you finally answer the door and it's not you- it's his step-brother Choso. The place reeks of sex and he can see remnants of your lipstick on Choso's neck.

You couldn't handle Sukuna's tough love, but Choso is nothing like Sukuna. He's sweet and comforting, supportive and exactly what you needed. Hence, you and him have been passing the days together while he took care of you during the day and the night.

Sukuna is livid obviously. All but forces his step-brother out while he goes to yell at you for being a little sell-out slut, but he doesn't get the chance because you look so broken. In a too big shirt that he knows isn't yours, eyebags and a mess of hair. It doesn't take long for him to figure it out. And as much as he wants to yell at you for sleeping with his relative of all people, he's more upset at the implication. You didn't trust him. Maybe you never did. Maybe he's been the only one in this thing the entire time. Before he can get anything past his lips, you answer all his questions in one go.

"It's not like you would have cared anyways."

It's like a dagger to his chest. You have no idea what you mean to him, do you? To be fair, he's never exactly made it a point to convey his feelings. Fine then. He'll show you, talk you through it even. He's going to prove himself in the only way his emotionally constipated ass knows how- and he's gonna start by ripping that shitty shirt you're wearing off.

You're his now. Completely. And he won't let you doubt that again.

-

You ain't gotta write anything on it bc ik ur into WB now, i just desperately needed to get it out somewhere and tbh ur like one of the only ppl i told abt that interview so yeah 😭 me and my lil broken heart jus vibin 😔

-choso bbg anon (keeping his spirit alive and strong)

STEP BROTHER CHOSO????

noooo bc why can i see choso being the perfect rebound man, esp after dealing with someone like sukuna. like you said, sukuna is all tough love and rough edges (in the beginning anyways - he doesn’t start smoothing out until well in the relationship), but choso is the complete opposite.

he’s sweet and understanding and he doesn’t care that you and sukuna used to mess around bc he’s always liked you - he’s the perfect guy to build you back up when you’re feeling low.

ofc that’s not working bc you’re still stuck up sukuna’s ass but it’s an attempt!!

but stop 😭 sukuna being hurt when he sees choso leave your apartment?? that’s what i like to see 🙂‍↕️ unlike the last time where he was uncharacteristically sweet and gentle during sex, he’s going back to his old ways - the ways that got you hooked on him in the first place.

but why do i feel like sukuna took a page out of choso’s corny ass simp book, his words not mine, and had a bouquet of flowers and one of those overly priced teddy bears waiting in the passengers seat for you. he had no idea what he did to fuck up but that man was ready to make amends by any means necessary

[m3rricat]

You Do Not Have To Be Good - Ch. 3

Story summary: Four months after the defeat of the Netherbrain, Astarion finds himself stuck in the mire of his past and all the anger and despair that comes with it. While wrestling with her traveling-companion-turned-lover’s misery, Cat makes an impulsive decision that sets off their first falling-out. This post-game short story is told alongside the full in-game story of the evolving relationship between Cat (the not-a-bard) and Astarion (needs no introduction) which varies from canon. Told from both POVs.

Chapter Masterlist

Chapter 3: Cat tries some therapeutic vandalism; then, Astarion flirts, but Cat flirts harder.

Pairing: Astarion x female Tav

Chapter Content Warnings: none

Word Count: 4496

Read on AO3

A/N: fyi from now on I'll be posting chapters Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons (EST).

The last time Cat was here, she had skittered through these passages like mouse. She and Astarion and the others had been searching feverishly for a way into the ballroom to get to Cazador and his ritual as quickly as possible. Cat had had to push through the sudden rushes of familiarity that was not her own overlaying every hallway and room.

This time, Cat steps slowly, eyes crawling across every surface, every object that remains after the destruction of the battle and the looting that had no doubt been happening in the months since. She lets the sensations come. She feels the contours of his perception, of this person she has come to know so intimately inside and out.

Oftentimes now, however, he is lost to her, whether it’s to a hunt or just his own mind. She had rushed through the doors filled with a need to confront, but maybe her feet also led her here because she just misses him. Even the ugly depths in him. She walks the halls, her greed and guilt competing as she stews in the spikes of his fear and his dull misery that was his baseline those 200 years.

She shouldn’t go into the basement. The floor above has been slammed by falling debris and soaked by rain numerous times—there’s no telling what might cave in and when. Bad enough she walked over it. But the ratty, sun-bleached carpet down the stairs is like a faded red river, and it catches her in its current. She descends into this little slice of Hell.

At the bottom, illuminated by a patch of sunlight through a hole in the floor above—oh, that’s where this happened. One of the clearer memories she hadn’t been able to place when she was here last: he was running down a dim passage, falling over himself in his haste, unused to the new strength of his stringy limbs. It must have been one of his first attempts at escape. He sees the end of the hall, but he does not reach it. As that horrid skeleton rattles behind him and catches his ankle, as he smashes to the floor, his eyes are drawn to the painting on the wall at the end. Some insipid kitsch dressed up as classy, usual for Cazador’s collection—a naked woman swooning prettily with horrid little sharp-toothed fiendish things crawling over her, devouring her. That is me forever, he thinks, as he is dragged away.

Cat must have not seen it when she was here, but now the tattered remains of the painting bear down on her like an ugly laugh. She stares at it. Tries to make herself realize how completely mundane it is: a ratty canvas, nothing more. This whole place is disintegrating before her eyes. There is no reason it should continue to have such a hold on their present.

This memory too is mundane. No more substance than a thought. Put it back down here, where it happened. Where it will always have happened. You can walk away. He can walk away. It cannot.

In a flash of ire Cat lunges forward and tears at the damp canvas, ripping it up the middle, ripping it out of the frame entirely. It is blank now. It is gone. But when she looks at it, the memory sets itself back inside the peeling gilt so easily. It laughs at her like before.

Cat spins around. Marches down the hall, further in. Left, right, then left again. Down the bare stone passage and the flagstone stairs—and then she is there. The cold light she has conjured flickers over the dungeon, just as they had left it back then. Seems it hadn’t held anything of worth to looters. She looks directly to her left. He is still there in the corner. The jawless skull looks up at her from its empty sockets where it lies on the floor. Astarion had smashed most of Godey, but in their haste he hadn’t been able to be as thorough as he might have liked.

There are so many snatches of memory jostling for the front of Cat’s mind that nothing manages to overwhelm her at first. She steps forward in clear, cold rage. She feels utterly assured as she raises her boot and stomps down, shattering that blank visage that was his waking nightmare. Cat breathes deeply. The grocery basket is still clutched in her hand.

And then the memories come trickling in. Pain, pain, pain. Pain that has seeped into the cracks of his soul over the centuries, hardened there like veins in stone. What did Cat think she had done here? Why did she think that in coming here she could truly confront anything? Find any closure? That some petty acts of vandalism would destroy things that existed now in far more permanent ways?

The weight of it all, of the wood and stone and centuries of blood above her collapses her into a crouch. She buries her face in her skirts and sobs.

~

Cat sits on a stool by the window in one of the small, round rooms lofted above the main level in the hag’s sprawling house. The aftermath of the fight in her lair below brings unwanted time to contemplate. To be alone with her own mind.

The smell of the swamp outside is painfully nostalgic. It wafts in on the breeze which is picking up as stormclouds roll in off the water, dimming the evening light further. Cat has sequestered herself to practice her playing, putting up a barrier to block the sound as a courtesy. She keeps meaning to stand, to put the fiddle to her chin and get on with it. But her mind keeps dragging her back north along the coast, a week’s ride up from the Gate, where she was made.

On the Delta, it was through the aunties that one learned about the blood of generations past—the blood that connected your family, and the blood that was spilled from them and by them. When you are little, you creep out on the porch of your granny’s house on those sultry summer nights to listen and hope none of them realize you have snuck out of bed. Their rocking chairs creak in rhythm against the backdrop of night sound of the marsh, the chorus of chirps and croaks and hoots. Then one auntie sighs, looks out on the water, and begins.

The stories wind down the porch. “Do you remember old so-and-so,” the first auntie says, and starts to spin the sad tale of the poor soul’s life, starting from where it all went wrong. And then when she drifts off, or misremembers, another auntie picks up the thread and throws the shuttle, sometimes in long winding asides that another later loops back in to the main weft. Sometimes they talk about someone you had actually met, usually someone terribly old who never remembers you, their minds too full of old remembering for anything new. Mostly, though, the aunties tell stories of the dead. But that did not mean the dead were old, or the living young. The one you had met might have been your great-grandmother, and the one long dead may have been your cousin, gone from simple old age. Because that was life on the Delta, where the majority came from human-elf lines, whose the blood played pranks with time. There was no telling how long anyone might live—how elvish one’s appearance was did not correlate. It made for uneasy ground to grow on, to live on.

Maybe that made life more desperate on the Delta. Maybe that sowed the seeds for the unnatural deaths that also occurred. No, not ‘occurred.’ That was far too passive a word. Stabbed. Beaten. Strangled. Weighted into the silt and drowned in two feet of water for the crabs to eat, if you pissed certain families off particularly. Your family is not one of those—the pirates, the smugglers, the cutthroats. They’re just poor, like most scraping together a living here. But that doesn’t mean your blood is not tainted by slaughter. It’s just more banal. Less exciting, more creeping dread.

Cathryn. You hear the name now and then from aunties and uncles, spoken in quiet reverence. It is your father’s mother, you know, though no one has ever told you quite directly. It’s what your father calls you. No one else. To everyone else you are Cat. Or Bug. Or Beetlecat, if you do something especially charming. Every now and then an auntie talks of Cathryn on the porch, and they all sigh and shake their heads. She was too good, too good for here. The most lovely thing, bright and sharp. But always, just then, one of them spots you trying to hide behind your taller cousins, and they shush up the auntie speaking, and the story is stopped before it starts.

It is not until you are a bit older and wiser that you manage to corner one of the aunties more free with her words when she is in her cups, and you coax the story out of her with a bottle in hand to ply her when she falters. “Your momma don’t want you to know,” she finishes. “Poor thing.” She cups your cheek tearily, looking through you. And that is how you learn that it’s in your blood, too. These predilections toward thoughtless killing.

And it didn’t skip over Cat. She knows this now. Of course it happened in a place that smelled like home. She had been alone with Astarion in the swamp, split from the others thanks to the hag’s enchantments, when they came upon the hunter looking unnervingly normal amidst the illusions. Cat is on edge from the start. What was he there for? A hunt, of course. To gain the Hag’s help for it. He was hunting a vicious beast, you see. A vampire spawn.

The moment Astarion’s name leaves his mouth, Cat finds herself on him, her knife in him, sticking out of his neck where his life blood drains in spurts.

She shudders, putting down the violin. For all the killing she has done these past days, it hasn’t been seemingly normal folk who had made no threats toward her. She tries to rationalize it now: he would have quickly learned one way or another who Astarion was, what he looked like. The hag knew what he looked like. Then there was what Astarion told her over the man’s cooling body, about the Gur and his theory that Cazador must have sent him. It was conjecture, but logical. Killing him right off made sense.

Except it didn’t. Because none of these reasons were in her head when she did it. No reason was there, only red. And then the murder was already done.

It terrifies Cat. Disgusts her. She got into her fair share of fights growing up, but nothing like this. Now here she is, a link in the chain of impulsive killing that stretches back to when the marshes were made.

“My hero, brooding all alone in the corner?”

Cat whips around. Astarion’s head and shoulders are above the platform where he stands on the ladder. He looks at her coquettishly, the light from the fire in the squat little hearth dancing on his sharp features.

“Oh, did you want this brooding spot?” she rejoins smoothly, shaking off her surprise. “I wouldn’t want to stand in the way of your… dark niche.”

Astarion huffs, but he’s smiling as he clambers up and sprawls out on the carpets covering the floor (the hag apparently didn’t entertain enough guests to justify much seating). He, like all of them, has stripped out of his armor. “I will forgive the gross stereotyping this once, darling.” He looks around, wrinkling his perfect nose. “I bet you anything these rugs are crawling with bed bugs. That disgusting hag probably cultivated them…”

“Well. Don’t let me keep you.” Fat raindrops begin to drum on the roof.

“Oh no, darling, I—” his hands flutter. “the others are being so dull. I’d rather sit with you. That is—” he drops his voice to a breathy lower register, “if you don’t mind, of course.”

Cat tilts her head. What is with him? “Uh, go ahead. I guess. But I’m about to practice, so it’s going to be repetitive. And loud. I don’t have a mute.”

Astarion blinks, but then seemed to gather himself. He waves his hand permissively as he settles in, leaning against the wardrobe behind him. “Go on, then. I was hoping for some conversation. But far be it from me to stop you from getting better at terrorizing our enemies.”

Cat pauses, wondering if he is serious. But he just smiles winningly at her and does not move. So she stands and begins, first warming up with open notes and then scales—double stops, harmonics, broken thirds. The familiarity of it is an immediate comfort. She thinks she sees Astarion wince out of the corner of her eye as she hits a note particularly loud, but he remains where he is.

Cat forces his pointed presence out of her mind, bringing her attention to the work she has set out for the evening. An exploration, really—she needs to be more consistent with pulling on the Weave. Needs to get back to what she was before, even if she could not do it the same way. Pretty and precise wouldn’t do it anymore. She can no longer create feeling from thin air to manipulate magic. She has to tap into her target’s emotions—or her own.

And she still hates tapping into her own. Taking her own anger or sadness or grief and putting it on display repulses her; the idea of exposing what little joy she feels is even more vulgar. It was one thing to play a piece that evokes those emotions and be swept up in it. That was vital. But to write a piece where the starting point was the depths of your soul? —but she had to. She could not count on being able to read their oftentimes strange enemies.

She finishes her warmups and snatches a scrap of parchment from her case, notes scribbled on it haphazardly. It is the beginnings of a concerto. The fragments had come to her over the last few years as the numbness subsided and the drive to create finally returned. But fitting them together was still proving a challenge. A puzzle she hadn’t been able to solve yet.

After Cat refreshes her memory, she drops the paper and begins playing in earnest. The rain outside is a steady drumming at this point. As she works through the snatches of music, she tweaks them here and there, trying to build on the themes that seem to be emerging. She needs at least a few sections she can string together when needed, even if they were not done yet. As she proceeds, she lets herself be lost in it, lets her heart pour into it. And she starts to feel it—the edges of the Weave around her gathering.

She notices Astarion has closed his eyes. He isn’t asleep—he is listening closely, half-smiling.

“What do you think?”

“Hm?” he blinks, like she woke him from reverie.

“What I’m playing. I wrote it. What do you think?”

“I—” he looks away. Looks back. “My dear, I am hardly an expert. It’s…very pretty. Nice to hear you play something lovely for once, and not horrifying.”

“I know you’re not an expert. That’s not what I mean—what does it make you feel? Or, does it make you feel?”

He frowns. “You’re trying to snag me, now?”

“What? Oh—” she remembers their conversation next to the harpy corpse. “No. No, I’m just trying to figure out what it’s saying. I think I’m too close to it to tell.”

Astarion looks at her for another moment. Then he turns away, sighing. “Oh, I don’t know…I guess wistful? It’s melancholy, most of what you played. But that last—what, passage, would you say? It was… triumphant. I suppose. In a sort of vicious way.”

“Thank you,” Cat says simply, not prying further. Astarion is practically squirming in discomfort talking about feelings.

Cat goes to start again, but stops abruptly as a sudden notion grips her. She glances at Astarion sidelong. No—she won’t say anything. She just begins.

As she plows into a truncated version of the passionate second movement of this particular piece, she looks at him. Within seconds, recognition alights on his face. She smiles to herself as she continues, doing her damnedest to phrase it with all the skill and flourish she would have done back then.

She pauses as she finishes the movement. He’s staring up at her now, a small half-smile on his lips. In a fit of brazenness she winks at him as she launches into the solo part of the third movement. She has played it plenty of times since that night eight years ago. It was the first piece she had made herself practice once she had cobbled enough skills back together for it. She loved it too much to let it be taken from her forever.

As the last note breaks off, Astarion claps slowly, still smiling. Cat throws in an exaggerated curtsy before kneeling by the case sitting between them and putting everything away. When she turns back to Astarion, he is looking at her, but he seems far away. His smile has turned wistful. “Good to see that he wasn’t able to break you completely.”

Cat hears in the trailing off of his voice that Astarion firmly believes that he is broken. Some of his memories flit through her mind. As the days go on, her brain conjures them again and again, like it’s trying to make sense of the mass of information shoved into it. She does not want to think on them, but they are permanent marks now. Her hand unconsciously reaches toward the two other marks she got from him, still visible amidst fading bruise on the right side of her neck.

Astarion gives her a knowing look. “Your designated vampire side?”

Cat feels a slight flush creep up her face. “Oh, you heard that nonsense?”

“Well. I was right there, darling. I… might not have appreciated it at the time, but your babbling was rather cute in hindsight.”

She snorts. “Can’t remember the last time someone called me cute.”

He leans forward. His voice drops to a lower register again. “Your words were cute. You are beautiful.”

Oh. Cat struggles mightily to not let her face scrunch up in retaliation, to not say ‘oh no, Mr. Astarion, I’m not beautiful, don’t be silly.’ She settles on saying flatly, “but as we’ve established, you’re not my cousin.”

Rather than cooling everything off and diverting it to a more humorous bent, the fact that Cat remembers his stupid joke seems to encourage Astarion more.

He’s closer now, their knees mere inches apart. Cat swears she didn’t even see him move. “That’s true, darling. But I’m hoping you won’t hold it against me.” He tilts his head flirtatiously, his deep red eyes half-lidded.

Very much against her will, Cat’s guts are tumbling around not unpleasantly. But she also wants to screech. She makes another strategic call. This time she says, with a tremble she can’t quite control, “well, you are just raring to go all of a sudden, aren’t you? What’s driving you wild now?”

Cat doesn’t even question now how their knees are now nearly touching when she didn’t see him move an inch. He puts a hand on his own leg, which puts it in contact with hers, just a little. “We’ve shared so much in such a short time, haven’t we?” he starts. “You’ve seen a lot of me. More than anyone else ever has, really. I… trust you. And well, after you killed that man Cazador sent, how could I resist?”

Cat suddenly smells the nasty stink of whatever the hunter had been burning. Hears his last gurgling breath. She blinks. Looks straight into Astarion’s eyes. For him? Yes, for him. Who else had she murdered that man for?

Astarion. Catty, ornery, slippery. A man who has been nursed on torment, drowning in it, for 200 years. She can’t even tell if there is any real feeling for her under all of his fawning. But the simple truth is that, especially since he drank her, he tugs at her chest like she’s caught on a line. She’s always keenly aware of him—of a tension between them that fluctuates rapidly between disconcerting and alluring.

Astarion has turned off the charm offensive. He’s looking at her worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, just—thinking about that. I… hadn’t killed a person before where they hadn’t gone after me first.”

“My my. I’m honored, then,” he says. His eyes flick over her face warily. “Having regrets, are you?”

Cat thinks hard on it. Thunder rolls in the distance.

“No,” she begins slowly. “If I could go back, I would do it again. But, I couldn’t tell you why.”

A laugh bubbles out of his throat. “But you don’t know why? My dear Cat. You are a strange one. Beautiful, as we’ve established, but strange.”

She leans back on her hands, letting herself be distracted from her distress. “’Beautiful’ is still just your contention.”

He assails her with half-lidded eyes again. “Oh? You don’t think you are?”

She wrinkles her nose. “I mean, maybe some folks do go in for broken noses.”

“Oh, pish. It hardly ruins the effect of the rest of your lovely face.” He leans in closer. “How did you break it, anyway? Was it something boring or exciting?”

“Well, I guess that’s a matter of opinion. I was thirteen. Been at the music academy in the Gate for—oh, a week? Kid started talking shit about me. So, I settled it.”

Astarion laughs. “I love it. Cat, the little juvenile delinquent.”

“You have a thing for juvenile delinquents?”

And then, with the oiliest expression she has ever seen: “only if they grow up to be as enchanting as you.”

Cat doesn’t know if she wants to headbutt him in his smarmy mouth or kiss him deeply. Suck all the smarm out of him. Maybe both.

Or maybe play him at his own game.

She reins in her wildly fluctuating emotions and shifts forward slowly. Astarion pointedly does not move. And then, just at her face hits the intimate tipping point—she settles in to study his.

His eyes keep flicking to her lips. She smiles slightly.

“Like what you see?” he says at last, voice husky and half-whispered in a way that makes her insides shiver nicely.

“I didn’t at first,” she says matter-of-factly. “When we first met. High elves, you know—I don’t usually go for them. Aesthetically pleasing, but dry as dust in my experience.”

“Oh? So I am aesthetically displeasing and—and moist, then?” he says with a voice that’s trying to be lighthearted but failing miserably.

She laughs. “Oh, no. You are aesthetically pleasing. Stupidly pleasing.” It was the truth. And he looked even better now that he was filling up on the blood of their never-ending supply of enemies.

His eyes flick away. “It’s just—” he mutters. “I don’t know what my face looks like. Anymore.”

Mirrors—that’s right. Oh, there goes that tug in her chest again. “What do you want to know?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. His expression is almost afraid, his eyes wide in a way Cat has never seen before. “Just, what—what do you see?”

“Well, I could show you, you know. With the tadpole.”

He shakes his head almost violently. “No. No, not again—just. Tell me.”

On instinct she rests her hand on his in a bid to comfort. And she goes to work studying his face again. She can practically see his skin crawl under her gaze, but he remains still as a statue.

“Well,” she says at last. “You have strong features. Cheekbones. Jaw. Red eyes, but you know that. You also have thick black lashes, though I don’t know how given your hair. Your nose is, well—perfect. For lack of a better word.”

He grins, self-assurance suddenly back, apparently. “Is there a better word, darling?”

“But most of all,” she continues, eyes moving to her final subject. “what stands out to me is that mouth.”

His hand flies up to it impulsively. “What about it?” Then he quickly tacks back into flirtation. “Is there something… particularly alluring? Something you’d like to do with it?”

Her eyes lock on his. “That mouth of yours is trouble,” she says low, her voice rasping over that last word.

He opens his mouth to speak but two of her fingers are already ghosting over it. His breath hitches. She smiles. “Don’t mean it’s bad trouble.”

She traces his lips lightly. Like all things on his face, his mouth is proportionately pleasing. Some might think it a hair too wide, but that is what made it sensual rather than just pretty. And it was always the first clue to his true feelings. It twisted every which way, distorting that attractive mask in flashes Cat caught out of the corner of her eye. Her favorites were the ghoulish grins and grimaces—bared teeth in a gash across his face. And those fangs. She will never tell him how good they feel hooked in her. Now, that was trouble.

She pauses her tracing in the middle of his upper lip. Her mouth quirks up.

“What?” Astarion pleads, brow furrowing.

“Oh, nothing, it’s just—your cupid’s bow is a little bit crooked.” His mouth opens again, about to protest. “It’s charming,” she says forcefully.

“According to you,” Astarion mutters.

“You’re silly to worry. I’m probably the only one who ever noticed it,” Cat says absently.

He falls completely still at that. When his eyes meet hers there is the smallest spark of need in them. She feels her own body responding.

He was trouble. He had weaseled his way into her head and for his sake she had killed in cold blood. He was bad trouble. Wasn’t he?

She shouldn’t. But she leans forward anyway, presses her lips hard to her fingers on his mouth. Skin just barely brushes skin around the barrier, each touch of it charged. He presses under her hand. His lips part against her fingers. She wants to look up at him, at his eyes. She wants to see his want. But she knows if she does she won’t be able to stop.

Tearing herself away is like tearing off a limb. But she does it. And she flees with a gasped—goodnight, Astarion. The rain pours down outside.

A/N: Alright, wasn’t sure if I was gonna add this extra layer of cheesiness to this fic but why not! As I was playing the first iteration of Cat in the game, I was looking up random violin videos on Youtube and came across violinist Hilary Hahn. I got kind of obsessed and a few of her videos inspired me re: Cat’s character/performances. So, now at the end of every chapter when relevant, I’ll link a performance video. For this chapter, where Cat plays that final movement from her performance cut short by Cazador, I’ve associated it with Vieuxtemps’ violin concerto no. 4. Here is the link. It’s linked directly to the start of the solo in the third movement, but the whole thing is gorgeous so I really recommend listening from the beginning.