#fic: The Silence

[chierafied]

The Silence - Part 10

Voiced

As Sesshoumaru flew them back to the east, Kagome was lost in thought. The spot on her forehead Sesshoumaru’s mother’s lips had briefly brushed in a kiss of goodbye still faintly tingled. Her mind kept going over the conversation she’d had with the demoness. Of all the things said—and more importantly, unsaid.  

There were so many restless thoughts swimming in her head, so many emotions that had arisen that hadn’t fully sunk in yet. In many ways, she was still reeling. 

But the gears in her head were now roaring in full spin, jump-started by the elder demoness. 

Perhaps it was because of the easy acceptance his mother had shown her, or the many ways she’d managed to encourage Kagome during their brief interaction. Perhaps it was the demoness’ ready conviction that Kagome and Sesshoumaru were a suitable match: the first validation for their relationship from a third party, as this had been the first time the two of them had openly admitted to being a couple to anyone. Or maybe it had been the burst of grief she’d allowed herself. How she’d finally admitted aloud her greatest flaw and been told by Sesshoumaru’s mother that her body wasn’t broken. And by doing both, she’d started to let go of some of the shame and heartache she’d carried inside for far too long.  

Or maybe it was all of it and the fact that Sesshoumaru had been willing and eager to defend her, even against his mother.  

Whatever the cause, as the many miles ticked by, the myriad layers of insecurities Kagome had wrapped herself in since the disastrous end of her relationship with Inuyasha began to peel off. As they neared Edo, she stood straighter by Sesshoumaru’s side. Deep within her a resolve was building and with it came clarity. It was time—past time—to take Sesshoumaru’s mother’s final advice. 

She turned to Sesshoumaru and broke the silence. 

“Let’s stop when we reach Inuyasha’s forest. We need to talk.” 

“Very well,” he replied.  

She couldn’t read his expression and his voice lacked any inflection. Kagome bit her lip and clung to her newly found determination as they continued towards the village. 

As soon as they landed by the Bone Eater’s Well, Kagome pushed away from Sesshoumaru and strode a few steps away, gathering her thoughts and her courage. She was so tired that standing upright was an effort. The crying and the battle with her grief, however cathartic, had sapped her strength. But Sesshoumaru’s mother had been right in that a frank conversation was long overdue. No more putting it off. She whirled around to face him. And the words, once again, got caught in her throat. 

He stood there by the well, silent and stoic. His expression was infuriatingly blank and his spine stiff. The wind ruffled his hair. His golden eyes were steady on hers, but so carefully guarded they might as well have belonged to a stranger. 

She stared at him, the sound of rustling leaves filling the air between them.  

Then, Kagome laughed, brief and wry. 

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, shaking her head in defeat. “Because we’ve never really talked. You’re not big on talking to begin with and I came to you with a mountain of baggage and a broken heart, so the odds were stacked against us from the start.” 

“We may discuss whatever you wish,” Sesshoumaru said evenly.  

“What we need to discuss is our relationship. We can’t keep going on like this.” 

Sesshoumaru inclined his head and spoke in a grave voice. “Agreed.” 

Kagome’s busy mind blanked. The words she’d strung together, the careful sentences she’d constructed vanished. And the old insecurity that she’d battled back just moments earlier swelled with the force of a tsunami. Her heart stalled and she felt frozen all over, numb down to her fingertips. For a fleeting second, she thought this was it. The moment Sesshoumaru would announce he was leaving.  

But behind the sound of her own heartbreak, she could hear a small, angry voice. Faintly sounding like Sesshoumaru’s mother. That voice was yelling at her to stop her sorry spiral.  

Earlier in the day, Sesshoumaru had introduced her to her mother. And at the end of their visit, thinking his mother had made her cry, Sesshoumaru had stood up to his pack-elder, making his stance clear. He had chosen her. Over his own mother.  

That was not the behaviour of a man about to walk away from a relationship.  

Kagome covered her face with trembling hands and let out a frustrated scream.  

For the first time, she could hear hesitation in Sesshoumaru’s voice. “Kagome?” 

“I can’t keep doing this,” she burst out, shoulders slumping with exhaustion. “I can’t keep taking apart every action you make and spin it around trying to figure out what it means. I can’t keep clinging onto every stray word you deign to toss my way and tear it apart while overanalysing every letter. I can’t let my hang-ups sabotage what we have.” 

She started to pace, raking her hair with her hands. The words had built into a torrent now and couldn’t be leashed. The emotions she’d been holding in and bottling up were breaking free. And given voice. 

“I have work to do on myself, okay? I know that. I admit that. But this relationship we have? Hell, I don’t even know what I should call it. Because we’ve never sat down and talked. About what we are to one another. About where do we want this thing to go. What it means to us. And I know it's as much my fault as it’s yours and that you’re not the chattiest demon around but damn it, Sesshoumaru! This silence between us has been strangling me.”

Tears burned in Kagome’s eyes, and she turned to face him, her furious blue eyes pinning him down with the sharpness of a knife. 

“What we’ve had so far has been stolen nights. Lovely and precious. And painful. We’ve been sneaking around everyone’s backs and stuck to the shadows. At first, I thought it was because I wasn’t good enough for you. Now I’m not so sure. Still, all this time, I’ve been convincing myself that what we have cannot last. That one of these nights you’re not coming back. That you’ve realised I’m too flawed, or too human or too—” she choked on the word, forced it out, “—barren to build a life together with.” 

“Kagome...” 

“Shut up. I’m not done yet. I think most of that was my own lack of confidence twisting things. I wanted to convince myself that what we had was enough. To content myself with any sliver of yourself you wanted to give me, no matter how small. But it’s not enough. Not anymore. I want more.” 

She strode up to him and poked him in the chest. “You took me to see your mother. I’m not sure why. But even though you’ve given me no promises, no reassurance, today’s visit was proof of something. And it has given me hope. It’s brilliant and it’s terrifying. Because at this point, I don’t think I can bear to lose you.”  

A single tear finally slipped, carving a line down her cheek. Her shaking fingers clutched at the front of his kimono, burrowing into the silk with startling ferocity. 

“I need to know why we went to see your mother today. I need to know we have a future together. I need you to use your words, Sesshoumaru, and tell me what you feel for me. Please. Talk to me.” 

-

Part Eleven

[sgt-tombstone]

I’m so tempted to write a shifter fic where Ghost is a big cat (I’m thinking black panther or something similar) shifter… but he doesn’t know it

He thinks that he’s not a shifter at all because he only shifts in his sleep and even when he’s startled awake, he shifts back in a split second, before his brain can even register not being human

It makes him a fantastic sniper, because he has better vision than a human, even if he doesn’t realize it. It gives him excellent hearing, but he doesn’t know that it’s better than everyone else’s (at least, not to a suspicious degree). His eyes flash in the dark, but he’s never seen it because he avoids mirrors like the plague. He thinks that his fast reflexes are just army trained instead of innate. He has a strong prey drive, but he reasons that it’s just his job as a CT operative; they hunt for a living. He genuinely does not know that he’s a shifter, and the rest of the 141 refuse to tell him (Price because having a big cat prowling around base would be worse than Ghost already is… Soap and Gaz because they have a three-year-long bet to see how long it’ll take him to figure it out)

Soap is some sort of dog shifter (because I’m basic like that) and Ghost makes fun of him all the time, both for being a shifter and for being a stereotype of his animal self. Gaz always dies laughing and Ghost can tell that Soap is holding back laughter too, but he can never figure out why…

[justaz]

im a slut for post magic reveal arthur (& knights) thinking merlin has like. a smidge of magic. like he can get stains out of clothes or warm food and baths but OBVIOUSLY merlin can’t fight. that’s ridiculous. merlin doesn’t correct this notion for whatever reason - perhaps it’s best that people think that so when they’re all in danger, he isn’t registered as a threat so he can protect his silly lil guys. ofc his silly lil guys realize that they were wrong bc the bad guys get a lil too close to hurting arthur and merlin is like “nope! fights over!!” and annihilates them

[definitelynotshouting]

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE FINALE OF SECRET LIFE!!!!!

so i sped-wrote this as soon as i learned who the winner was this morning, tried to post it twice, tumblr mobile deleted it BOTH TIMES... but i will not be silenced ive finally gone to desktop /silly

this will go up on my rough draft pseud soon, but until then please enjoy the results of me being EXTREMELY unwell about the secret life finale. WOOOOOO WE ARE POPPING THE BIGGEST OF BOTTLES TODAY FR!!!!!!!!!!!

Grian barricades himself at the top of the highest tower of Tango's citadel the moment he wakes up. It's a calculated move, admittedly. There are a precious few places one might still find him if he truly wants to hide, but the Deep Frost Citadel isn't one of them— and with the second Decked Out coming to a ceremonious close, foot traffic here is perilously low. Dawn is a swift-approaching knife on the horizon, and Grian soars above it all, face numb with chill wind, wings brazen and feathers strewn across an empty sky.

He doesn't want to be near when Scar wakes. And he doesn't want to be found just yet, either. Oh, Scar will track him down. Of that, he has no doubt— but for now, Grian takes solace in the snow crunching underfoot as he locks himself inside this barren tower.

It's dark here, which suits Grian just fine. He doesn't bother lighting a lantern; instead, he huddles right on the floor, letting the ice seep through him. From here, he can just make out the sky as it lightens, bringing with it the dawn of a new victor. Nausea boils in his throat. With that victory comes a price, and Scar— And Grian— Well. Grian hasn't treated him very well throughout the games, now, has he?

He curls in on himself even further, feathers brushing along the length of his chilled arms. Each hair stands at attention, in some vain effort to pull warmth from the surrounding freeze— when he scrubs a hand along his arm, his fingers shake, and the gooseflesh remains stark and raised against his skin.

There was a sand-drenched point when the concept of warmth was all he could register— scorching wind scraping the cut on his cheek, the scarlet splatter of blood across split knuckles. And like the steady drain of life from a corpse, that warmth has drawn away, poison from a putrid wound— it leaves him compacting this cold, this loneliness, to mold it into four high walls around his heart; a fitting tribute to every grain of trust he's rightfully lost. Grian huffs the barest traces of a bitter laugh as his breath mists in the air. A better man would meet Scar at his base, extend his support, no matter how icily it might be met.

But Grian is selfish, and a coward, and will always be a coward— and so instead he sits, marrow freezing, with only the thin garrotte of paltry sunlight wrapping itself around his tender throat to keep him company.

And there he stays, motionless, for long enough that the chill makes a home in him— the glistening, pale yolk of the sun warns him of the passing time, a watery heat that counts down the seconds to minutes to hours until Scar finds him. Grian curls his wings around himself, a pitiful embrace, and waits.

Two hours later, the whistle of rocket-propelled elytra warn him of incoming company. Grian doesn't bother fleeing; he knows Scar, and Scar knows him, and with this last, missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place between them, he's under no illusions that staying hidden for long is feasible. Grian's eyes skitter to a crack on the far wall as clumsy footsteps scatter the snow outside, scrabbling for balance before the muted click of a cane joins them. Footsteps; another, louder click— the door's latch gives way, and a brief, blinding wave of light crashes over Grian's face, obscuring everything but the outline of a painfully familiar silhouette.

Grian has to look away. The door shuts, and for a small moment, neither of them so much as breathe.

Then Scar's sighs— one great, resigned gust. "Grian...."

He says nothing else. He doesn't have to. Grian draws his legs up to his chest in response anyway, heart a frozen pump bleeding ice into his very veins. What can he say? An apology? They're past apologies, now— if Scar wanted to disavow him forever, take the crumpled remains of their friendship and throw it at his feet, he'd be right to do so.

But Scar doesn't shout; neither does he leave. Instead, his cane taps forward, boots sliding into Grian's line of vision— and, with a grunt of effort, Scar eases himself down, until he's sitting at a safe diagonal from Grian's hunched form.

Neither of them say anything for a while.

Eventually, Grian licks his lips. They're chapped from cold, thin and ready to split. "Hi, Scar," he says softly. It comes out weak, thready— a barely-there declaration. Whatever Scar wants here... he can take it. It's the very least Grian can do at this point.

From the corner of his eye, he watches Scar settle, shifting his weight before he lands on something approximating comfort. He takes his time with it, blind— or uncaring— to the erratic snarl of Grian's pulse. His voice is just as quiet when he responds. "So... that's it, then, huh."

Grian glances over properly before he can stop himself, stomach churning; Scar's gaze has slipped to the cutout acting as a window, middle-distant and lost. Locked on something only he can see. Then Scar shakes himself, an abrupt jerk of his head and shoulders, and that glassy look turns to pin Grian directly to the wall behind him instead. "Just like that?"

Grian's fingers tighten around his knees. "Just like that," he agrees, hollow.

Scar mulls that over for a moment. His sigh is a wisp of white in front of them, crystallizing in the glacial atmosphere. "Jeez," he says finally, scrubbing one hand through the tangled bird's nest of his hair. He must have flown across half the server as soon as he... remembered, Grian realizes with a visceral pang. "I didn't... that's a lot of memories to just, um, gain back on a dime, huh?"

Grian darts a sidelong glance at him. Shifts his wings until their primaries lower, sweeping the ground around his feet like a feathered cat's cradle. "I wouldn't know," he says, a quirk of black humor dancing around the edges of his mouth. He swallows. "Since. Well...."

He trails off. Imagines, briefly, that he is a black hole— a quasar. A neutron star. Something so tight and compact it can string him out, erase him; a ball of grief and misery dense enough that it contains its own event horizon.

Scar hums a little shakily into the blooming silence. "Yeah. I guess that would complicate things, wouldn't it." A pause. "Does it always feel—?"

Grian shrugs. "Don’t know that either, Scar."

"Oh." Scar's still looking at him, the searchlight of his gaze burning pockmarks into Grian's skin. "Cool, okay... so...." He hesitates, teeth worrying his lower lip, before finally forging on: "So what now?"

Grian sucks in his own shuddery breath. "Whatever you want, Scar," he says, blank and dull. Every inch of him frozen stiff, awaiting the tipped scales of Scar’s judgement. "There's no going back, after this." The quicksilver flash of a grimace tugs his lips back to reveal sharp, white teeth. "Welcome to the club, I guess."

"It sure is a warm welcome," Scar says weakly. "Got— uh, got your complimentary balloons, and— and um, a whole gift basket of... of...."

He trails off too, the fragile ley lines of his humor peeling off, cracking at the seams. Impossibly, Grian curls around himself tighter.

An apology is nothing but wasted air now, but it dredges from his throat anyway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Scar. I—" He breaks off, jaw tight. "I'm... I'm not sure what else to say, honestly. I never thought...."

I never thought you'd win. It's a cruel phrase that haunts the air between them, hanging like a smoky pall across their shoulders.

Scar says nothing against it; he only watches.

An uneasy prickle crawls up Grian's spine. "You don't—" He stops himself before he can finish that thought. "Are you— Scar, why are you here?"

"'Cause Pearl's not talking to me yet," Scar says quietly, prompt. "And— and because I remembered. Us."

Grian's throat closes around the word. "Us," he echoes, a rough rasp that ricochets against the deepslate walls surrounding them. The word tears through his ears, distorting with each pass. "Look, alright— I-I don't know if you got the memo, exactly, but— I'm not—"

He breaks off again, lungs jarring, hitching in his chest. Hot prickles sear behind his eyes, but nothing drops— he’s too tired for crying. "I've hurt you a lot, Scar," Grian says at last, lips numb around the words. "I'm not sure if there's much of an 'us' left, at this point."

"I know," Scar says. His eyes reflect the snow-glitter outside.

"And— I wouldn't blame you, if you left right now." 

"I know," Scar says again, softer.

"I—” Grian stares at him, helpless. "Okay, then why are you here, Scar?" He gestures between them, an aimless motion that somehow encompasses the breadth of everything that's rotted at their foundations. "If you know all that, then what—?"

Scar regards him with enviable poise. His throat bobs as he speaks. "Maybe, I just— now that I remember— maybe I just want your company, Grian. Is that really so bad?"

Grian stares at him, at a loss. "I don't understand," he says finally, and it comes out plaintive even to his own ears. "I thought you'd be— angry. After everything I've done, after all that's happened.... What's your play here, Scar? If you want to yell at me, be my guest. I think by now I've more than earned it."

But Scar doesn't take the bait. Instead, he shuffles closer— just by an inch. A careful, cautious inch. "Y'know," he says, apropos of nothing, "and correct me if I'm wrong, here— but I seem to remember something about you wanting an alliance before all of... that crazy stuff happened. Is that right?"

Something in Grian's chest spasms. Whatever expression it spreads across his face must spur Scar on, because he scoots closer again, just enough to bring their calves together. The brief shock of warmth explodes through Grian's skin, worming its way underneath the subcutaneous tissue to flood his veins and gnaw at the lingering ice.

After a moment, Scar's lips tilt up— a subtle, fragile smile. "Is it too late to cash in on that?" he asks.

Grian's mind goes blank, white and buzzing, the thin hiss of a creeper drifting through it like smoke. Unfiltered shock threads through his voice. "You want t— what?"

Scar's smile tempers further around its edges, stretching into something softer, knowing. Rounded out. With solemn motions, he reaches into the pocket of his utterly ridiculous safety vest, and delicately pulls something out.

It's a sunflower.

In the frigid gloom of Tango's citadel, Grian gapes, the brilliant yellow petals incongruous with this grim, grit, darkened room. When he looks up, Scar's eyes are overbright, painfully earnest— brimming with a desperate urgency that tucks itself away in the depths of his pupils.

"Can we try again?" Scar says, soft as the new-fallen snow beyond this isolated cell of misery. "Start over? I— I kind of hurt you too, you know. And— for the record, being without you sucks. I don't—" He falters. "I know it's gonna be all weird, y’know, between us… but I don't want to do that anymore. I just... want you here, Grian. That's all. I just want you to stick around."

Grian sucks in a sharp, daggered breath. "You're joking," he breathes, but his heart leaps, tumbling from his throat and onto the floor for Scar to stomp at his leisure. "You're actually— this isn't funny."

"Hey, do you see me laughing?” Scar presses forward once more, a calculated attack, but still slow enough for Grian to track each move, to stop him if he cared enough to. Gently, Scar unwinds one of Grian's hands from his knees, cupping it between his own and brushing the lightest of kisses against his knuckles before turning over Grian’s palm and pressing the flower into it. Grian's fingers curl around it of their own accord, silky petals burning against his fingers.

"So." Scar smiles, tremulous, eyes suspiciously red-rimmed. "Can we still be friends?"

And Grian has always been a raw creature, a tangled wreck of his own selfish greed— he’s craved the honeyed umber of Scar's love since he first cradled it, tentatively, in his palms all that time ago. In the depths of his heart, there will always be that sandstone cliff, the crack of his bones against hard-packed sand, and wings too clipped to fly freely. There will always be that calloused fist around his heart, and beyond his own scrabbling fear, there will always, always be that fervent need to bring Scar close even as he pushes him away.

And where before, Scar had been playing blind, a game with no true rules… now, his eyes trap Grian against the wall, clear as glass— diamond sharp and just as steady. From a winning game, there is no turning back. There’s nothing left to lose here, except this porcelain trust, this shred of hope Scar offers him once more in the form of a flower.

Even after everything, all the memories flooding back— Scar is still here, holding Grian’s heart, and offering up his own in return.

Grian slowly presses it to his chest with trembling, vulnerable motions. "You're sure you want this."

"I'm sure I want you," Scar says, unwavering.

Grian breathes in. Breathes out. Inhale and exhale, both a heavy drag in his lungs. Already, the sun is beginning to strengthen, casting thick rays through the window and splaying them across Grian’s lap. The advent of gilded noon weaves around them, perfuming the air with light and heat.

"Okay," Grian says at last, and it drops from his lips with the weight of a confession; a relinquishment; a solemn vow. "Okay."

This time, when Scar reaches for his hand again, Grian meets him halfway, and the tangle of their fingers nets the sunflower in a promise neatly between them.

[godspeedviper]

How the therapists react to your "worst" symptoms - Headcanons

SFW || TW: mentions of self harm, mention of suicidal ideation, therapy sessions, very brief mention of (unlabeled) disordered eating, mention of psychosis & violent thoughts.

A/N: this was written by someone who has been in therapy for many years and has personal experience with these types of symptoms. this is not meant to romanticize any mental illness or symptoms of it. this is purely self indulgent fluff. just because your experience might be different doesn't make these experiences any less valid. if you don't like this simply do not read it, block if you must, and move on.

Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow)

He is the most objective and detached of the lot. Therefore he never seems to have much of a reaction no matter what you do or say to him. He really has seen it all before. This does help you feel less anxious as time goes on, knowing he won't ever judge you or ascribe any kind of morality to your actions.

"If it causes you distress or harm, then we should work towards eliminating it altogether." is his typical response to your concerns about your own coping mechanisms. "You do not owe anyone kindness, just remember to restrain yourself from causing harm whenever possible."

He is the only one to have no discernible reaction to your self harm scars/burns. One day, he noticed an especially fresh one and offered to disinfect and bandage the wound for you. He always gives you space to bring things up at your own pace, when you feel comfortable doing so.

"Not all of us have the capacity to be so gentle, and that's alright." he says about your outbursts. "I'm not known for being the warmest, but that doesn't make me any less skilled at my work, or any less worthy of respect. If you do not hold my lack of socially acceptable agreeableness against me, then you should not hold it against yourself."

Bonus: when you finally have the courage to mention the substance usage he remains as cool and detached as ever. "I am glad you were honest with me so we can monitor for any interactions with your medications. Know that I won't judge you for moderate usage, after all, do we not professionally refer to medications as drugs? It isn't ideal, but it is a way of self medicating. All I ask is that you be fully honest with me about your usage so I can better take care of you."

Hannibal Lecter (NBC)

He is surprisingly gentle and very soft spoken, although you were intimidated by him at first and the opulence of his office. He usually greets you with a warm smile and asks how your week went and if you've eaten yet today. He teaches you to enjoy food again, describing it as an art, and asking you to be mindful and present when enjoying a meal. Listen to your body, what it tells you about the ingredients, the quality of the meal, and the hands that made it.

He always asks you what you want to do, making sure to actively include you in your own treatment plan. He thoroughly explains treatment options, medications and their possible side effects, and has you weigh your options. This allows you to really analyze your own reactions and act accordingly when you are alone.

"Now, you do understand I am required to recommend inpatient treatment if you are feeling actively suicidal." he says, when you come in on an extra bad day. "However, I want to trust you and give you the option of what to do from here. If you think it will do you more harm than good, let me know, but you have to be honest."

One day you get the courage to ask why there is a first aid kit on his desk, though you already assume why. He simply looks at you and asks "Do you need it today?" before gently tending to your recent self harm wounds. He never calls you out for it, but he does periodically ask you upfront if you've been engaging in self injurious behaviors. If you respond yes, he asks to tend to your wounds, and if you say no, he celebrates with you. "Good. I'm proud of you for holding yourself back."

Bonus: when you land in the hospital, Hannibal makes sure to go visit you while your therapy slot is on hold. He never calls attention to the circumstances that lead you here, and focuses solely on your recovery and how he can't wait to have you back in the office soon.

Harleen Quinzel (Harley Quinn)

It doesn't take long for her to shed her professional demeanor. She makes you feel like you're talking to a close friend, yet manages to never fully lose the "doctor" in her. She offers you fidget toys as a way to ease the tension of talking about such vulnerable and heavy subjects.

She makes everything into a little game or a challenge to motivate you changing habits. Every time you manage to avoid indulging in negative coping mechanisms, she rewards you with a little heart shaped chocolate at the end of the session. On bad days, she simply encourages you to try again and she gifts you a cute bandaid at the end of the session to signify your healing from a bad day (sometimes, the bandaids come in handy for self harm wounds).

"Being childish can be a good thing!" she tells you. "Its important to have a little whimsy in your life. Just because you grew up doesn't mean you have to... ya know, grow up." She encourages you to try and add a little joy to your daily life. You start taking fuzzy tipped pens to work and keeping plushies at home for comfort. Surprisingly, it does help.

Every now and again she asks for your advice or assistance on minor things, such as which dress she should wear for a date, or what show to watch next. Sure, you are technically paying for her time, but this fact alone doesn't entirely relieve you of the feeling that you are burdensome. Whenever that feeling creeps back up, she reminds you of all the times you helped her make decisions until you admit your usefulness with a smile.

Bonus: "Hearing voices or other noises doesn't make you evil." is her reply when she learns of your psychotic symptoms. "Everyone is susceptible to experiencing psychosis. Hell, I've felt it when I was losing sleep in med school. It doesn't make you a bad person."

Hannibal Lecter (Silence of the Lambs)

You are intimidated by him at first, but his hypnotic voice grows on you. He always sounds so self assured, but never assertive. He has an almost paternal quality to him, making you feel simultaneously comfortable and protected.

He always listens to you intently, you never feel ignored by him. Hannibal is the only one that makes you feel seen and you tell him as much. "Oh everyone sees you my dear, you can be assured of that, but not everyone has the courage to acknowledge you. Keep this in mind for the next time you should feel the urge to do something drastic for attention."

You were worried you would eventually do something to turn him away, as you had to so many therapists before him. However, he simply scoffs at the idea that you could ever do anything that could possibly frighten him or upset him.

When you finally have the courage to tell him about the violent intrusive thoughts he remains as calm as ever. "In the past, we humans had to hunt to survive. We also had to protect ourselves and our kin. As time goes on, that propensity for violence remains, even if our survival is no longer dependent on it."

Bonus: You come clean to him about getting into a fight with someone, being entirely overtaken by rage and paranoia. You call yourself a monster and cry. "I have worked with serial killers, family annihilators, rapists the worst that the world has to offer. I know monsters. You are not one. You wanna know why?" You nod yes. "Because my dear, you have remorse and regret for your actions, they do not. Besides, you would not be sitting here with me if you did not want the anger to control you."

AO3 || Guidelines || Request || Ko-Fi

[ky-landfill]

He thinks of Jason constantly. When he’s working in the prison kitchen. When he’s lying awake at night in his cell. When a thunderstorm crashes against the roof of the prison, and all he can think of is Jason running to the window, fearless, to watch the storm in all its fury and wonder raging on the other side of the glass.

[c0gwizard-v2]

Necron husbands sketches as an appetiser

[moonthecreator]

TIL: TFP Soundwave has 4 digits and only 2 digit joints

I sure do hope every TFP Soundwave fic writer, will join me, in wondering how the FUCK this man holds anything. HE AINT GOT WRITS!! I mean he DOES! But is he able to swivel his servo independently from his wing?? I need heeeeelp

[ahappydnp]

not The Quote officially being in an amazingphil video

[chierafied]

The Silence - Part 8

Admission

A servant appeared with a tea tray and soon Kagome found herself clutching a ceramic cup like a lifeline, trying to draw some comfort from the familiar warmth and weight of it. Tea, at least, she could understand.

“So, little one. Tell me about yourself,” the demoness invited.

Kagome laughed, hoping that the edge of hysteria creeping on her didn’t show.

“There’s not much to tell.” Her shoulders jerked in a shrug. “My name is Kagome. I live a simple life. I have been seeing your son for nine months, now.”

Her hostess tilted her head. “And what are your intentions regarding my son?”

A smile twisted Kagome’s lips, unbidden and wistful. “I love him and I’ll take any part of him he’ll let me have.”

“Tsk!” Sesshoumaru’s mother shook her head. “That is no good, Kagome, my dear. Do not content yourself with scraps. You must demand the entirety!”

Taken aback, Kagome blinked and met the demoness’ eyes. Somehow, she didn’t seem quite so scary anymore. In her confusion, Kagome forgot to filter herself.

“I’m sorry?”

“Never be sorry. Go for what you want with no apologies.” Sesshoumaru’s mother sipped her tea.

“You want me to go for Sesshoumaru?” Kagome tried to clarify, incredulous.

“Why not?” The demoness shrugged a careless shoulder. “He is not without faults, I grant you. Some days, in fact, I quite despair of him. But you say you love him and as long as he is happy and with someone suitable, I will not interfere in my son’s affairs.”

Kagome blinked again. “Someone… suitable,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“I’m suitable?” Kagome repeated. No, she still couldn’t fathom it.

Sesshoumaru’s mother pursed her lips. “You really should have more confidence in yourself, my dear,” she observed.

“Wouldn’t you rather want Sesshoumaru to be with another youkai?” Kagome demanded to know.

“Well, it would certainly be easier on him if he were. But he has not chosen a youkai, has he?”

“But —”

“Little one,” Sesshoumaru’s mother cut in, her tone of voice immediately silencing Kagome. “If you were just a human, you would not suit my son. He requires someone stronger, someone, who can stand up for herself or else the entire relationship will not rest on an equal ground. But you are not a weak little mortal, are you?”

Kagome stared at her, her tea forgotten.

“You are a miko,” Sesshoumaru’s mother continued, “and you know how to fight. How to defend yourself. And more important than even that, you will be able to put Sesshoumaru back in his place when he needs it, are you not?”

Surprised laughter bubbled out of Kagome. This whole conversation was so mad she did not know what to think. But she was half convinced that she might have slipped into some alternate dimension, called the opposite land.

“There,” Sesshoumaru’s mother said, satisfied. “I can see it in you, Kagome. You are sweet and well-mannered. You do not panic when under attack. You are strong. Obviously, you still have some things you need to work through, but do not question my judgement. You will suit.”

Kagome bowed her head. Her fingers trembled against the ceramic cup. Her emotions welled, choking her. Overwhelmed, she shut her eyes against the sting of tears.

“Thank you.”

 For a moment, she simply breathed, long and deep. But there was still one wall left, standing guard against the tides of hope and relief. Against that part of her that would be ready and willing to follow Sesshoumaru’s mother’s advice to go after what she wanted.

Her throat was tight from the noose of emotion looped around it, but she somehow still managed to choke out the words. The words she hardly ever gave voice to, the devastating admission that haunted her every day. The bitter truth that had once turned hope into grief and love into loneliness.

The words that boiled with pain.

"I can't have children. My body won't—" And the tears swelled and drowned the rest, leaking out of her eyes to roll down her cheeks.

A slender hand wrapped firmly around her wrist, sharp claws resting against her pulse.

Kagome looked up, through the haze of her tears, and saw the demoness hovering over her. She found herself trapped by the gaze, pierced to the soul by the ageless golden eyes.

“Listen to me, little miko,” Sesshoumaru’s mother spoke in a low voice, enunciating each word with care. “Your body is not broken.”

Soundless sobs strangled Kagome and shuddered through her body.

“Just so,” the demoness crooned, still holding her hand. “Let the grief come. And then let it go.”

Undone, Kagome cried and trembled and whimpered until at last she stood victorious once again. Her grief briefly conquered. Another battle had been won but she knew the war was still far from over.

She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks with her sleeve.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am not. I am honoured you would confide in me about a matter of such personal significance.”

“You’re being very kind.”

Sesshoumaru’s mother’s eyebrow rose and the corner of her lips quirked. “My, that is something this demoness is rarely accused of. Thank you, little dear. I have quite enjoyed meeting you.”

“I’m really glad to have met you, too. I didn’t know what to expect at all so I was very nervous.”

“It is a nerve-wracking circumstance, meeting a pack elder,” Sesshoumaru’s mother agreed. “Now, regarding your… situation, there is one thing I wish to know.”

Kagome bowed her head, unable to reply. The pain was still too raw and she did not wish to dwell on the topic; was not sure if she could elaborate on it.

“Is my son aware of this?”

Kagome sighed. “Yes. He’s known from the start.”

Sesshoumaru’s mother nodded briskly. “That is good. Then I believe it is not an issue to fret overmuch about. From what I have observed, my son has no difficulties in attracting stray human children to him. If you ever wish for a family, there are other ways to accomplish one.”

“Thank you. Though I don’t think starting a family will be up for a discussion any time soon,” Kagome said wryly.

Silence stretched as Sesshoumaru’s mother studied her. Kagome fought against an urge to squirm under that intense scrutiny.

Finally, the demoness leaned back in her chair and propped her chin on the palm of her deceivingly delicate hand.

"Why are you here, little miko?" she asked.

That, Kagome thought, was an excellent question. One that she’d been asking herself all day without arriving at an answer. She was still none the wiser as to what was really going on.

"Because you wanted to see me," she replied, having nothing better to offer.

Sesshoumaru’s mother inclined her head. "That is true. Do you know why I extended you this invitation?"

Kagome had no facts, only wild guesses. So she shook her head.

Sesshoumaru’s mother heaved out a long-suffering breath. "I believe you and my son are overdue for a long and frank conversation, Kagome, my dear. Make certain that you have it."

-

Part Nine

[arkiwii]

here's your order of burritowls

[sorrowsofsilence]

Cymbal-ism • Folio

Pairing: Nick Folio x Fem!Reader

Words: 2.2k

Warnings: smut 18+ (unprotected pnv, pls wrap it b4 u tap it; male!recieving, slight degrading, rough!folio) enemies to lovers, arguing/bickering

Prompt: You're the new bad omens drum tech, and Nick Folio sure does get on your nerves. Is he a pain in the ass? Or is it the fact you two have some un-discussed sexual tension? Sent via anon

Author note: its hella late, ive had three margaritas, and this is not proofread lol

THIS IS A FANFIC USING REAL PEOPLE IN A FICTIONAL SITUATION! I AM NOT IMPLYING THAT THIS PERSON WOULD DO THIS IRL OR ACT LIKE THIS! ITS FICTION!

“You’re fucking insufferable,” you muttered under your breath as you brushed passed the short-haired brunette, shoulders knocking against him.

He scoffed, his golden brows narrowing as he hollered after you down the hallway, “Huh? What did you say?”

You glanced his way, flashing him the middle finger with a sarcastic smile while you opened the studio door, before slamming it loudly behind you in frustration.

Nick fucking Folio.

You two got off on the wrong foot the first day you met him two weeks ago. You had bought coffee for the team as a kind gesture, hoping to make a great first impression since you would be with them around Europe for two months.

However, shit hit the fan when you and Folio collided in the hallway as you got off the elevator, spilling the drinks all over him, and immediately giving him a childish vendetta.

To him, if his new drum tech was that clumsy, this tour would be the longest two months of his life. But to you, he was the one who entered the elevator looking down at his phone, not paying attention.

And even though you two barely knew each other, he already made your blood boil.

Perhaps it was the fact he was always trying to nit-pick every little thing you did or the way his attitude was always witty, having a sarcastic retort for everything you said.

It’s also possible it was the way Jolly, your childhood best friend and how you landed the job in the first place, was constantly teasing you about the sexual tension budding between you and Folio.

Or deep down, you thought that maybe it was the way Nick’s annoyingly perfect hair slicked back so effortlessly, or how flawless his ochre eyes were when he glared at you, the deep abyss titillating every time his brows furrowed in your direction.

Everything about him, and to do with him, pissed you off.

But it made you even more mad that you found him extremely attractive, his presence making your heart pound with anger and infatuation.

Nick stormed into the room, kicking the door closed with his foot, “If you’re going to insult me just do it to my face, you coward.”

“Wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings,” you said, kneeling next to the drum kit, loosening bolts on the boom stand.

Folio hovered over you, analyzing your movements as you adjusted the cymbals, taking them down one by one to place them in their cases. There was less than an hour until sound check, and none of the drum gear was moved from the studio room to the stage- thanks to somebody.

Groaning, you stopped to look up at him in annoyance, “I’m glad you think I’m pretty Folio, but maybe you can take your eyes off me and help? Instead of ogling?”

He scoffed, shaking his head as he started sliding the copper off of the loosened bars, “I’m just making sure you’re not fucking up my set.”

“Sure buddy,” you said, standing up and starting to unscrew the kick drum.

The two of you worked in tense silence, the air thick as miffed glances were shared taking apart the kit.

You tried not to watch the way his arms would flex as he twisted the rack tom, tattoos glistening slightly as the room heated.

You averted your eyes for a final time when they met his once again, stacking the cases onto the trolly to wheel it out to the stage.

Folio pushed passed you to grab the handles, ready to cart it down the hall even though it was your job.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” You asked as you trailed way too closely behind him, just to push his buttons. The smell of his faint cologne and slight musk of weed on his tanktop left your heart picking up pace.

“Of course I do,” He mumbled, about to walk past the stage entrance.

“To the left- the left-” you shook your head, staring at him with disdain, as he completely ignored you and continued walking, “Oh my god- Folio! it was left!”

You heard a chuckle behind you as Jolly and Ruffilo walked down the hall, stopping at the backstage door as they watched you humorously.

Rolling your head back you gave them an exasperated look, sighing audibly.

“You two ok?” Jolly smiled, folding his arms.

Shaking your head in frustration you bitterly laughed, “He is the biggest pain in my ass. I’m seriously debating quitting the industry as a whole.”

Ruffilo snickered, glancing at Jolly and then Folio, “He only does that because he thinks you’re cute.”

“Excuse me-” Nick interjected, shaking his head in disagreement, “I’d rather kiss a wall for five hours. At least it would be quiet.”

Shooting them a pointed look you walked passed the boys as they chuckled, letting Folio follow you onto the stage.

It only took about ten minutes to set the kit back up before you sat on the stool, practicing a few solos to test the position.

Nick watched in irritation from the side, but what you didn’t know was under all that show, was an immense amount of admiration. The brunette loved watching you play. He was always impressed with your coordination and keen ear, the ability for you to instantly stop playing and slightly adjust a drum before falling right back into a quick rhythm, breathtaking.

He’d never want to admit how good you are; but he would always be biting back a smile as he watched you test out his kit for him, making sure it was set and tuned to perfection.

You sighed once you finished your adjustments, before tossing Nick the sticks.

“All yours pretty boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” He huffed, before looking at the kit, “Also, your dumb ass forgot the hi-hat.”

Not believing him at first you glanced at the drums before swiftly swearing to yourself.

He was right.

Getting up you pushed past Nick, but he followed you back down to the studio, an annoyed murmuring coming from your mouth. As you entered through the door Folio closed it behind you, locking it.

“Nick seriously what-” You began, but were cut off by the brunette.

“God, do you ever shut that annoying fucking mouth of yours?” He said, standing close to you as he leaned forward, eyes narrowed.

“If it’s so annoying to you, make me,” You scoffed, tilting your head to the side.

The proximity of Nick subconsciously began to make your face warm as you backed up from him, but he was right on your trail.

You hit the soft padded wall of the studio, Folio’s body millimetres from pinning yours against the surface.

The tension grew as you both stared at each other with hatred.

“Fuck, you.” Nick spat, false venom dripping off his words.

Without hesitating you sneered, “You wouldn’t, pussy.”

It took all of two seconds before his auburn eyes flicked to your lips, a greedy hand reaching up and gripping your jaw as his mouth attached to yours.

It didn’t take long before you melted into Nick’s touch, angry at how good his tongue felt swiping against yours, the grip on your face tightening as his other hand reached to grip a fist full of your hair at the back of your head.

Fury, hatred, and lust fueled the fire between you two as your fingers gripped his belt loops, tugging his hips toward you as you began rutting against him.

You wanted nothing more than to claw down his skin, begging to dig your nails across the ivory and ink, embedding your mark. You wanted him to wince in a mix of pain and pleasure as your imprint but decided that grazing your teeth along his lips would have to do.

Nick moaned into you, quite literally ready to tear your shirt off, tempted to rip the cloth from its seam and destroy the fabric; but he withheld himself, aware that the two of you were hallways away from the exit to the tour bus.

The two of you pulled away panting, catching your breath.

“What the hell are we-”

Nick stared into your eyes, attempting to shift his desire into a glare as he leaned down to bite against your neck, nipping and kissing down the skin, “Just shut up, for five minutes. Please.”

A small whimper escaped you as his tongue grazed your collarbone, Folio’s fingers fiddling with the button on your jeans. You shimmed the fabric down your legs, kicking it off as you tugged at his tanktop, pulling it over his head.

His fingers gripped your hips, pulling them toward his own as he rubbed against your underwear, the bulge and stiffened desire evidence of how badly he wanted this. Reaching for the bottom of your shirt you tore it off your torso, exposing your chest.

Folio pushed your hips into the wall as his fingers danced along the hem of the thong you wore, threatening to dip lower to where you wanted him most.

“Please,” You whispered, desperation falling from your tone.

Folio shook his head, almost throwing his head back in humour, “We need to do something about your mouth.”

He pushed your shoulders, beckoning you to the ground before pulling his belt from the clasp. Freeing himself from his jeans, you watched hungrily as he gripped the back of your head, lining up his hardened desire to your lips.

“Open. Now.”

You obeyed, too turned on to fight back his commands. Wrapping around him you began to suck along the skin, closing your eyes as you relished in the feeling of how hard he was, all for this.

You reached up to stroke the base but he gripped your wrist, holding you in place as his hips thrust forward. He took complete control of how fast and how deep he went, using you to his desire.

“Your whore mouth exists for me to fuck,” Nick swore, his other hand holding the base of your neck as if feeling for himself through your skin, “All that backtalk can be shoved right down your pretty throat.”

Moaning at his words you closed your eyes, gagging on Nick’s thrusts as you took your free hand between your thighs, allowing yourself to slide past your panties to trace small circles against the skin.

Your arousal coated your fingers as your hips rutted against your hand, Nick’s fingers leaving your wrist to grip the back of your head. He pushed you down further on him, your eyes watering as he forced you to gag along his cock.

Air dissipated from your lungs, your body shuddering from the lack of oxygen momentarily before Nick pulled you away, causing you to cough.

“Fuck,” he groaned, almost chuckling.

You licked and sucked against him for a moment longer, before he pulled you up, gripping your hips. He kissed you desperately again for a few more minutes as his cock pressed against your thigh, before you pulled away, a hand against his chest.

“Are you going to just kiss me, or fuck me like you said you would?” You pushed, your hand gripping his erection, fingers dancing across his skin.

Nick moaned into your lips again before taking his hand between your thighs, slipping his fingers between your folds as he prepared your body for his, “Don’t make it a challenge, or you won’t be able to walk after.”

The brunette lifted your leg, gripping underneath your thigh as he hoisted it up to his hip, positioning himself against your arousal. It was a matter of seconds before he slid between you, your body taking him eagerly as your head fell back, mouth agape at the sensation.

He filled you fully, satiating the hunger you always had for the drummer as he began to thrust into your core, pounding senselessly. The angle gave him access to where you wanted him most, soft cries heaving from your chest as your brows furrowed.

Frustration dissipated into pleasure as Nick gave you everything, fucking you with complete adoration and need. Your nails gripped his shoulders, digging into the skin with haste as you rested your forehead against his neck.

“I hate how gorgeous I think you are,” Nick mumbled into your ear, soft groans escaping him.

Your laugh turned into a moan as his fingers trailed to stimulate you while he thrust, your body convulsing from the bliss, “I hate your perfect laugh, and how you have a lopsided smile.”

“I hate how talented you are.”

“I hate the way your eyes light up when you’re happy.”

“I hate how you walk with a skip when you’re excited.”

Your eyes lidded as Nick gripped the back of your head, forcing you to watch him as he spit on himself, lubricating your combined story as you pushed into him to meet his hips.

His thrusts began to waver as you clenched around him, the stimulation from his cock and fingers causing your legs to shake. Nick was close himself, trying to push you to the edge first before allowing himself release.

“I h-hate how-” You tried to get out your words as complete bliss took over, but Folio’s lips attached to yours once again, his pace never ceasing through your orgasm. Your walls engulfed him as Nick succumbed to you, his breathing staggered and haste as his chest vibrated in contentment.

His hips jerked into you as he allowed himself relief, taking over your body.

You watched him for a moment before his eyes met yours, lips agape in a pant.

The brunette shook his head as his fingers squeezed the skin along your torso, “We have two minutes till sound check.”

“Of course, you’re making us late,” you frowned.

“Oh shut the fuck up.”

Tags: @sammyjoeee @spicywhenspeaking @cookiesupplier @th4t-em0-k1d @dsireland86 @whenthesummerdies @foliosgirl @thatchickwiththecamera @blackveilomens @xserenax-13

[lulublack90]

Prompt 20 - Response

@jegulus-microfic July 20, Word count 401

“I love you,” James whispered in his ear one evening as they lay in bed cuddling. Regulus froze as he began to panic. No one had ever said those words to him, apart from Sirius, but that was hardly the same. He didn’t know if he loved James or not. He thought he did, but he’d expected there to be some sort of sign, some big magical moment when he realised how much he loved the man he was snuggled into. 

James was waiting for a response and Regulus didn’t know what to do. His palms became clammy, and he felt suddenly overhot. He squirmed against James’s hold, he needed air. He bolted out of bed when James relaxed his arms and flung the dorm room window open. He drew in huge lungfuls of the cold night air. The panic slowly subsided.  

When he was calm enough, he got back into James’s bed and drew the curtains around the four poster. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to startle you. You don’t have to say it back, I just wanted you to know,” James held out his hand, asking for Regulus’s. Regulus didn’t hesitate and put his hand in James’s outstretched one. James brushed his lips against the knuckles on the back of Regulus’s hand and looked up at him through his eyelashes. “I do though. I love you.” 

Regulus launched himself at James, forcing him to back onto the mattress. That’s when it hit him, like a bludger to the head. He looked down at James, smiling up at him. He felt the love seeping out of his boyfriend and enveloping his entire being, showing him so much love he knew he loved him back. He sighed as he leaned down to press a kiss to James’s lips.

“I love you too,” He whispered into James’s mouth as the kiss continued. James moaned as he heard the words. Regulus was suddenly flipped over so he was now smooshed into the pillows with James on top of him. James reached back and dragged his T-shirt off as he tried to pepper kisses across Regulus’s jaw. Regulus giggled and grabbed his wand from the bedside table, hurriedly muttering a silencing charm around them. His brother and the others in the room didn’t need to hear what was about to happen.

He gazed up at James and sighed happily, so this was love. 

[fa1ryyz]

my mason verger headcanons! ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

he has bum worms

[dryemiddi]

HAPPY 5TH ACCIDENTVERSARY!

[constelationprize]

I just know Exy RPF goes insane and the Yakuza has to have like. A list of mentally ill 30-somethings that got too close to the sun when writing angst fics set at the Nest on ao3. Someone went "God wouldn't it be fucked up if Coach Moriyama allowed abuse to run free among the Ravens and no one ever questioned it because his family was so rich and shady" and in some high rise building in New York Ichirou Moriyama wakes up in a cold sweat.