#i dug my own grave i truly did

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Finally Getting Help (pt 12)

Masterpost

“Ya, I have questions,” Jason confirmed, trying not to shift awkwardly in his seat. “I read the slideshow but I don’t seem to fit in either liminals or ghosts, and I have some issues that I think would have been mentioned if they were common?”

“Alright, what are they?” Danny asked tilting his head a little. 

“Well, it’s been better since meeting you, and I know increased aggression was one of the thing mentioned but mine isn’t like Damian’s, or even yours I think. We’ve been calling it Pit Madness. I’ve gotten better at managing it but especially when I got back it was really bad. I… killed a ton of people and I still have a lot of bloodlust that no one is comfortable with.”

“That is unusual, especially directed towards humans. Aside from revenge against whoever killed them dead usually don’t care very much about the living,” Danny said curiously, considering Jason. 

“And I do read as- as dead?” Jason asked, he had been worried about that.

“Well you’re obviously not Dead dead,” Danny said rolling his eyes before he reached across the table. “Here, with touch I can figure out a bit more.” He said and Jason hesitated for a moment before resting his hand in Danny’s.

A cool feeling quickly washed up his arm and over his chest like intangible water. Danny tilted his head to the other side, his brows coming together slowly as he gazed into the middle distance and considered what he was feeling. He let out a hiss and some sort of chitter that couldn’t come from a human throat, then clicked his tongue and the cool feeling dissipated, sinking under Jason’s skin and cooling heat he hadn’t been aware of feeling. 

“Okay, ya that’s weird,” Danny admitted and Jason’s heart dropped. “Best I can equate it to is, like a bone that healed wrong,” Danny said thoughtfully. “You did die before?” He asked, Jason nodded mutely. “Okay, I won’t ask why or how. But best I can tell your soul was shoved back into your body and not given time to get settled back in it’s proper position before whatever was done to bind it in place. So you’re alive but with some.. Spiritual nerve and brain damage. Would you be comfortable telling me how you were resurrected?”

“Well, I resurrected myself apparently. I don’t really remember it but apparently about six months after my death I dug myself out of my grave. Before I could get anywhere the League of Shadows found me and dunked me in the Lazarus pit which is this glowing green stuff that heals the dying and kills the healthy. I don’t remember any of it, it was almost a year before I recovered enough to be myself at all.”

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Danny said, nodding thoughtfully. “My guess would be at first you came back as a revenant, which is basically when a ghost possesses their own corpse to get revenge, not truly a living being. But then this Lazarus pit resurrected your body and your soul got stuck in your living body again without being prepared or intending for that to happen. 

“That’s what I’m guessing happened but I can’t be sure, and I’m not a healer so I don’t really know what to do about it. I’m sure my ghost doctor Frostbite would be happy to take a look at you though! Looks like we’ll be making an appointment for you too,” He joked making Jason chuckle nervously. 

“Well that’s.. Totally fucked up,” Jason said and Danny nodded.

“Ya, dying is basically always fucked up, coming back Specifically for revenge and then getting stuck here long after that’s a motivating factor is messy. I mean, for a human that would be fine, but for people like us,” He gestured between the two of them. “Obsessions are everything so that’s hard. You’ve been cultivating more healthy obsessions I know but you’ll never be the same,” Danny said, and Jason nodded.

He knew as much, he could never go back. Not that he hadn’t always had these sorts of thoughts and inclinations. Once of the reasons Bruce had taken on him and Dick was their murderous inclinations needed to be curbed, for Dick it had work, for Jason… Well it was a combination of a lot of things, it wasn’t really Bruce’s fault it had failed. Other than the fact that he’d let the Joker live far longer than he should have, but that was bleeding-heart-Brucie for you. It was funny, to not really be mad at Bruce anymore, understanding there was nothing else he could have done, and still not be able to forgive him.

Danny must have noticed how Jason had gotten lost in his own head because he reached across the table and covered one of Jason’s clenched hands with his own, soft and cool. “You’re doing really well Jason. It’s a messed up situation but I don't think anyone could have handled it better then you are,” Danny said softly.

Jason didn’t believe it but it felt good to hear and it did settle him a little bit. “Thanks Danny, that means a lot,” he said, giving Danny’s hand a squeeze before pulling back. 

There was a natural break in conversation as the waitress brought their appetizers, and when she left again Jason didn’t know what to say. Thankfully Danny spoke. “Why don’t I tell you a bit about my doctor? Frostbite can be a lot, as much as it would probably be funny to spring him on you I should probably give you a heads up.”

“Ya, ya that sounds good,” Jason agreed, glad to let Danny do the talking for a bit. And when telling him about Frostbite turned into talking about the Yetis, to talking about the Infinite Realms, to Danny info-dumping about space. Well Jason really doesn’t mind, especially with the way it makes Danny light up. It was good to see him happy.

---------

The food was good but Jason didn’t taste much of it, and aside from going “Oh wow!” When he took his first bite of his food Danny didn’t seem to either. At a certain point Jason realized he was going to have to do some talking or Danny was going to keep talking and wouldn’t eat. So he took over, but he didn’t know much about space so he started talking about literature and poetry and Danny listened raptly and finally ate his food.

It was very nice to have someone listen to him like that, it was sort of funny, it looked like it was as fun for Danny to listen to him talk then it had been the other way. Jason thought about how supporting obsessions was important for ghosts to have their obsessions supported. Reading wasn’t Really his obsession, he didn’t think, but it sure was an interest and it felt really good to get to share with someone new. 

By the end of the dinner Jason has well and truly decided that this was a date. Danny was cute, good, and passionate, and a good listener, Oh and strong as Fuck which was always a turn on for Jason. Speaking of powerful…

“Can I ask you another sort of serious question?” Jason asked after they got their dessert. Danny looked up, mouth full and a little smear of chocolate on his top lip, Jason resisted the urge to reach across the table and wipe it off. Danny nodded. “When Damian gave me his little shovel talk he mentioned that you’re going to be a god some day?” He said, tilting his head. Maybe that was a third date sort of conversation but it seemed like it would be important to understanding Danny.

Danny choked a little and swallowed, sighing heavily. “That’s what I’ve been told,” Danny grumbled. “There’s a prophecy apparently, and with how my powers have been progressing even just in the first 2 years since I died, I can already go toe to toe with some Ancients and win so… Ya, I guess it’s probably inevitable, especially since I haven’t stagnated yet. I don’t want to be one really, I didn’t ask for this, but whatever. I probably can’t stop it.” He slumped back in the booth, looking tired. 

Shit Jason shouldn’t have brought that up. “Hey you’ve got time right? That won’t be for a while. Also, what’s an Ancient?” 

“Very old, very powerful spirits. They’re essentially their own pantheon, Ancient is basically just what ghosts call gods.” He said with a shrug.

“Makes sense, I mean gods usually are ancient. Even more reason you don’t have to worry about that right now. I mean you’re far from ancient,” Jason pointed out, earning himself a little smile from Danny. 

“Ya, you’re right,” He agreed and went back to eating his dessert, the conversation moved on to the music they liked.

When the bill came Jason put his card down without letting Danny see what the bill came to and passed it back to the waitress. They lingered in the booth for a while still chatting, unwilling to part ways yet. If Jason didn’t know his family would want Danny home before they went out on patrol he might have suggested they just go to a park and walk for a while. Talk, maybe each take one of his wireless earbuds and take turns picking songs. But he had a feeling Damian really would try to kill Jason if he didn’t get to see Danny home safe. 

Eventually they left, wandering back to Jason’s motorbike and Danny snuggled up to Jason’s back again as they drove back to the manor. The silence was companionable until Jason pulled up, propping the bike up to let Danny get off. He took off his helmet and handed it back to Jason, not letting go immediately when Jason took it so their hands were touching. 

“This was nice, I had fun,” Danny said, blushing a little and looking down.

“It was, we should do it again soon,” Jason agreed, “I’ll text you okay?” 

“You’d better,” Danny teased before walking back towards the manor. 

Damian opened the door for him, shooting Jason a glare before slamming it making him laugh. He was still a child no matter how much he pretended he wasn’t. Jason kicked off on his bike and zoomed off, heading home to get ready for patrol.

Next

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Congratulations on your milestone!

If it’s not too late, I’d like to request Spencer/Reader post prison with this lyric.

“You’re the cure, and your eyes have dug me out of my grave more times than I could ever count. You’ve always been the one to breathe me back to life - The Cure by The Movielife

Thank you.

Oh how I love post prison angst! And this was the perfect song for, thank you darling!

You’re the Cure

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary - you’ve always been the ray of light in Spencer Reid’s often dark life. But in the wake of his incarceration, can you be his cure?

CW - past drug addiction, past parental abandonment, mentions of Maeve arc, prison arc, emotionally distant Spencer, break ups, bad mental health, mentions of not eating and bathing, an almost relapse, heavy drinking, maybe one swear, tears, hopeful ending.

WC - 4.4k

Spencer Reid had never seen himself as someone who needed saving. Being forced to grow up at ten years old when his father abandoned him and his sick mother, had a way of instilling in him that when things went wrong, he could only rely on himself. 

His drug addiction only went to further perpetuate the notion that he was on his own. Even when his brain was muddled by the dilaudid he knew his team was aware of what was going on and not a single one of them ever said anything. 

So Spencer got used to fending for himself, keeping his emotional issues internalised. He loved his friends but he learnt not to count on them. As such he made a habit of keeping his cards close to his chest, never letting anyone in fully. 

Spencer Reid could only truly depend on one person and that was Spencer Reid. 

But then he met you. 

You admittedly joined the BAU at the worst possible time. Spencer was off work while he dealt with the grief of losing Maeve and he heard all about you through stories from Garcia and JJ. Both women described you as a bouncy, happy-go-lucky, ray of human sunshine. And to be perfectly honest, that filled Spencer with dread. 

It was one of the darker moments of his life and the idea of someone coming in and trying to force their light onto him was the last thing he needed. Spencer liked to deal with his trauma by wallowing in it on his own, he didn’t need other’s trying to cheer him up, to drag him out of the shadows. He wasn’t looking for someone to try and make it better, to take his pain away. 

And then you showed up and you breathed him back to life without even realising you were doing so.

From the moment he met you he had instinctively gravitated towards you, like you were magnets of opposing poles who were inherently drawn to one another. But his wounds caused by Maeve’s death were still so raw that he wasn’t in a position to open his heart up again. 

So the two of you fell into a wonderful friendship, probably the best one Spencer had ever had in his life. You were the light to his dark, the sunshine on his cloudy day. You were the first sip of coffee in the morning, the crisp pages of a new book. You were his favourite song. 

You were his cure. 

The whole team joked about the two of you, often referring to you as work husband and wife. Truthfully what you had was essentially a romantic relationship minus the intimacy. And at some point Spencer found the scars start to heal and his heart began to open up again without his realising. 

Almost two years after you joined the team, when Spencer kissed you for the first time, it was like the most natural thing in the world. 

You’d been leaving work together one night and you offered him a ride home like always but somedays Spencer enjoyed taking the metro to clear his head after particularly long days. 

He walked you to your car nonetheless and as you were saying goodbye he leant in and kissed the corner of your mouth as though it was something he did all the time. And then he kissed you again, this time directly on the lips and the strangest part of it was how it didn’t feel strange at all.

You never talked about what it meant but you didn’t need to. The next time the two of you went to the movies he slid his hands in yours as you walked towards the theatre. He spent the night with his arm protectively around your shoulders while you snuggled against him. 

And outside of your door after he walked you home, he kissed you again, this time much more passionately. You’d subsequently invited him in and the two of you finally took your relationship to a whole new level. 

You never defined your relationship per se. Somewhere over time Spencer started referring to you as his girlfriend and it was just so simple. 

Your relationship had grown and blossomed as though it was the easiest thing in the world, like you’d always meant to be together. Up until he’d met you, Spencer’s life had been full of complications but you were the least complicated thing in the world. 

You were the full stop to the end of all his paragraphs, you banished all the darkness from his life. You were the cure for everything that ailed him. 

But then he was arrested. 

Being locked in a cage for two and half months for a crime he didn’t commit brought all those demons out of the shadows that you had chased away with your light. He was sure even your sunny aura couldn’t bring him back from this. 

And after his release, he started shutting down. 

It started in small ways, ones in which you didn’t even really notice at first. Conversations became more one sided, his casual touches were few and far between. Then he started leaving for work earlier and earlier and you started getting used to waking up alone in an empty bed. 

During his stints of mandatory leave from the BAU you barely saw him and you knew that was by design. It became apparent that he was avoiding you, pushing you away along with the rest of the team. 

But you weren't the rest of the team. You were his partner, you shared a home together; a life together. You were once able to pull him out of any hell he was going through without even really trying. But this time he seemed so lost you worried he’d never find his way back to you. 

Even when he was home, mentally he was elsewhere. Perhaps he was still stuck inside a prison cell at Milburn, or maybe he was trapped in a perpetual nightmare that revolved around Cat Adams. 

You tried to comfort him, to offer him a reprieve from his dark thoughts but after so many attempts you gave up trying. There was only so much you could do and to be perfectly honest, you didn’t think there was any way of freeing him from the clutches of his monsters. 

Seven months after his release from prison, the two of you called time on your relationship. 

You moved out of his apartment and in with Penelope as a temporary measure while you found your own place. You took an indefinite leave of absence from the BAU while you worked on piecing your life back together. 

You didn’t see or speak to Spencer for several months that followed the break up. You made Penelope promise you not to tell you anything pertaining to him, it wasn’t your job to worry about him anymore. And even thought it killed her to do so, Penelope agreed to do this one thing for you. 

Spencer had allowed himself to get swallowed up in the darkness and this time even your magnificent light wasn’t enough to cure him.

***

Three months after the break up you still felt just as fragile as you did the day you moved out of his apartment. Your heart had taken a beating, it was bruised and battered and it would take a long time for it to heal, you knew that. But after three months you thought you might have made some progress. Instead you were still stuck at square one.

You’d moved out of Penelope’s last month into a tiny little studio apartment not far from Dupont Circle. You hated it if you were honest, but it was better than continuing to put Garcia out by sleeping on her couch. 

You hadn't been back to the BAU since the break up and had recently started looking for other jobs. You’d interview at the DC Field Office and were hopeful to get an offer, but it would be bitter sweet. You loved the BAU, you didn’t want to leave, but you knew you couldn’t work with Spencer again. Not with the way your heart shattered everytime you simply thought his name. 

You were trying to move on, it was all you could do. But what you didn’t realise was Spencer living in a whole new level of hell. 

***

The final nail in Spencer Reid’s coffin was when you moved out of the apartment. And what made it a harder pill to swallow was the fact it was his own fault you’d done so. 

He’d thought he’d been protecting you by bottling up his emotions and not dragging you down into the pit created by his time in prison. He thought if he didn’t talk about it, it would go away. This was one thing you couldn’t shield him from, one thing he needed to work through on his own the way he’d grown so accustomed to doing before he met you. 

But he’d pushed you too far, right out the door. And from there his life simply spiralled out of control. 

He left the BAU, just up and quit one day without any warning. He knew it was terrible timing with you taking a leave of absence but he couldn’t stop himself. He woke up one day and decided he’d had enough. 

For the months that followed he didn’t leave his apartment much at all. He wasn’t eating properly, wasn’t showering as frequently as he should and barely sleeping more than a couple of fretful hours a night. 

To be alone with himself like this for eternity would be agony. Without you there to breathe him back to life his appetite for living died. 

On one of his rare trips outside of the four walls of his tiringly lonely apartment, he brought a vial of dilaudid. He kept it in the middle of his coffee table for weeks, unopened, just as a reminder that he could take it if he wanted to. 

But thankfully it never did come to that. Instead of getting high, a particular rabbit hole he may never find his way out of, he drank. 

In actuality, it wasn’t much better and he knew that. Just because he’d never had a dependency to alcohol before didn’t mean he couldn’t develop one, clearly he was susceptible to addiction. But drinking was the only thing that helped numb the pain, aided in distancing himself from his tormented thoughts. 

Without you the demons were able to sneak closer and he lived with them among the shadows. You were always the one to shoulder the brunt of his misery but now he had to face it alone because he’d pushed you away. The lightness in your heart that he had always envied was gone, casting him forever into blackness.

He needed you here, the cure when his thoughts turned to cyanide, when he was going out of his fucking mind. 

He’d been drunk for more days straight than he could count and with each passing day the dilaudid grew more tempting. He moved it from the coffee table more often, rolling the vial around his hand, tapping his nails against it; contemplating the sweet release that would come with just one hit. 

But it never would be just one hit. 

The things he’d seen and done in prison haunted his every waking breath and seeped over into the small window of sleep he managed. He was never going to be the same after that experience, it had hardened him in a way he never realised possible. 

It had created a shell around his heart, a solid armour snugly encasing the organ in order to protect himself from his own emotions. But ultimately it hadn’t just been himself his emotions had been locked away from. 

In the seven months you stayed by his side after his release he hadn’t once been able to tell you he loved you. It only occurred to him after you walked away that he hadn’t said that to you since the morning he’d left for Mexico. 

In seven months the most physical contact the two of you had was a few occasions when you’d dared to place a kiss on his cheek. You hadn’t kissed properly, hadn’t been intimate, hadn’t even so much as held hands since before he made the decision to go to Mexico. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t think about it. There were multiple times he’d almost initiated something, almost drawn you into his body when you were laying in bed side by side yet miles apart. But he always stopped himself.

The sad fact of the matter was: Spencer didn’t trust himself to be with you anymore. But in order to survive in prison he’d had to become someone he didn’t recognise and it wasn’t so easy for him to shed that new persona. And as if to really drive that point home, when he’d had Cat pinned against the wall with his hand around her throat, he knew he would never trust himself with you again. 

The darkness was inside of him now, leaching into every pore. If he was the kind of man who could have killed Cat, or Scratch, and slept well afterwards, who’s to say where he would draw that line? 

As much as he missed you with every strangled beat of his shattered heart, keeping you away from him kept you safe. And he only ever wanted you to be safe. 

But without you, he may well meet his demise at the bottom of a bottle, or the bottom of a vial.

You were the cure. Your eyes have dug him out of his grave more times than he could ever count. You’ve always been the one to breathe him back to life. 

And so maybe it was inevitable that he called you, perhaps it was a feat in itself that he’d managed months on his own. But when he found himself on his bathroom floor, half a bottle of whiskey clouding his brain and a needle full of dilaudid in his hand, the only thing that was going to stop his relapse was you.

He didn’t expect you to answer but he prayed you would. And maybe someone was looking out for him, maybe there was some kind of higher power smiling down on him because you answered after three rings. 

“Spencer…” your voice was barely above a whisper as you spoke his name. Just those two simple syllables from your lips wrapped him in a blanket of your warmth. 

“H-hi Y/N.” His own was hoarse, run down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken out loud and it showed. 

Tears rolled down his cheeks, heavy and thick as the hand holding the needle trembled. 

“Did you…did you want something?” Your voice held the weight of the pain he’d cause you and made even more tears fall. 

“Uh…” he stared at the needle, brushing his thumb along the plastic tube. This was so unfair of him. He couldn’t do this to you, drag you back into his mess like this. He knew if he asked you would come running in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t fair of him to ask. “It’s nothing. Forget I called.” 

“Are you sure?” Your tone was riddled in concern. 

“Y-yeah. Sure. V-very sure.” He stuttered, choking a little on his own tears. 

Before you could reply he hung up the phone before he could change his mind and beg you to come and save him from himself. He tossed the device aside and focused on the needle. He leant back against the bathroom wall, pulling his knees up to meet his chest. 

The cool tile on his bare feet was a nice repreve, but the dilaudid would be better. 

His shirt sleeve was already pushed up to his elbow, the tie was already secured around his bicep. The needle was full, all he had to do was press it into his waiting vein and all of his problems would melt away. 

But this was one grave he may never be able to dig himself out of. Once he relapsed there would be no going back, no getting sober this time. But his sobriety didn’t mean as much to him as it once had, and perhaps it was worth succumbing to his demons for a chance at peace.

***

Despite how hard he tried to sound like himself, it was easy for you to see through Spencer’s thinly veiled lie. And as much as you didn’t want to involve yourself anymore, you couldn’t help yourself. 

Taking care of Spencer Reid came as naturally to you as breathing. You didn’t intend on doing it, and most of the time he didn’t need looking after. But you did it anyway in small, every day ways. 

You did it in the way you made him coffee every morning before work. You did it in the way you ran your fingers through his hair after a stressful day. You did it in the way you grasped his hand when he needed something to ground him, when you offered him a soft smile of encouragement when he needed it. 

He’d always called you his cure, as though you were the antidote to all the horrors in the world. He’d told you that your smile was the sweetest medicine, that your mere presence in his life was therapeutic. 

So if there was any way you could help him, even after he’d pushed you away and caused you to leave, you would find it and you would do it. Which was why after he hung up on you, you were quickly jumping in your car and driving across town to the apartment you used to reside in. 

The door wasn’t just unlocked but it was open a crack. Immediately your heart started to race and you were so glad you hadn’t officially quit the BAU yet and you were still in possession of your firearm. 

Your hand shook as you pulled the weapon from your holster, nudging the door further open with your shoulder. You made quick work of taking in the room. It looked to be ransacked, like someone had broken in and turned the place upside down in search of something. 

You held your breath as you silently started across the room, manoeuvring in and out of piles of debris left behind in someone's wake. You headed towards the closed bedroom door, gun pointing right ahead of you. You focused your hearing but thus far couldn’t make out any distinctive sounds. 

Pushing open the door, you found the bedroom in much the same state as the living room. You tried not to allow yourself to get sentimental as your eyes swept across the unmade bed and you thought back to late nights and early mornings snug beneath those sheets with Spencer. The bed that was so big but you’d never know it as he always kept you as close as humanly possible. 

The bathroom door, like the front door, was open a crack and a light pooled from inside. It was then you heard the sound of haggard breathing punctuated by loud sniffing, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to well and truly stand to attention. 

As you listened to the unmistakable sounds of a grown man sobbing, you lowered your gun and tucked it back in your holster. 

A deeply disturbed and troubled man had ravaged this apartment but it was not the work of some petty criminal. Spencer had turned his home into a reflection of his own tortured mind, you had no doubt. 

You were somehow more tentative after you knew someone hadn’t broken in. You had never seen Spencer cry before, he always liked to put up a tough exterior, probably something to do with him being the baby of the BAU for so many years. 

You’d seen him vulnerable, probably more than he’d ever let anyone else see him, but you’d never witnessed him with his walls stripped away completely. And honestly, the thought of it scared you a little. 

But no matter how scared you were, despite how much he had hurt you, you pressed on. 

You inched open the bathroom not wanting to startle him and found him on the floor, hugging his legs to his chest and sobbing into his knees. But the truly terrifying part was the vial and needle discarded at his side. A silk tie was fashioned into a tourniquet around his arm.

“S-Spencer?” You gasped, covering your gaping mouth with your hands. 

He stiffened and slowly lifted his head from where it had been buried in the fabric of his slacks. His eyes were red rimmed and tears silently streamed down his cheeks. His hair drooped lifelessly onto his forehead and his face clearly hadn’t seen a razor in months. 

He somehow looked even worse than when you visited him in prison. 

“Why are you here?” His voice cracked and his words were slightly slurred. 

“You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone. I needed to see you with my own eyes.” You heard the sadness in your own tone, unable to hide it. 

“I’m not myself.” He exhaled a breath that sounded like he had been holding it in for years. “I haven’t been since prison.” 

You swallowed, daring to take a few steps further into the bathroom. Spencer let his legs fall and stretch out in front of him on the linoleum and you slid down to sit next to him, the only thing separating you was the drug paraphernalia. As if reading your mind he exhaled again before he spoke.

“I didn’t take it.” He wouldn’t look at you, instead he looked down at his hands. “I wanted to, but I didn’t.” 

“Why are you slurring then?” You watched the side of his face. He clenched and unclenched his jaw several times. 

“Whiskey. Not dilaudid. I swear.” 

“I’ve never known you to drink.” Of course it was a relief that he hadn’t taken the drugs, but hearing that he was drunk wasn’t a whole lot better. 

“I hadn’t had a drink in nearly ten years. I gave it up around the same time as I quit dilaudid, I guess I worried it would become one vice replacing another. But I needed something. And alcohol was the lesser of two evils.” He was still slurring but he was surprisingly coherent. 

It didn’t surprise you in the least that Spencer could still string a logical sentence together when he was inebriated. 

“Why did you call me, Spencer? Of all the people you could have called, why me?” You whispered as though you weren’t entirely sure you really wanted an answer to that. 

He finally looked at you, glancing to his side with his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip in contemplation for a moment or two as though formulating a carefully curated answer. But really, the answer was incredibly simple. 

“Because you’re my cure.” He shrugged, his tears had dried up but the stains on his cheeks remained. “And right now I am in desperate need of remedy.” 

“Spencer…” You sighed, your own eyes misting over with tears. “I was always here for you, you could have talked to me about anything but instead you shoved me aside and tried to deal with things on your own.”

“I’ve never been very good at asking for help. I’ve only ever been able to rely on myself. People leave. People aren’t reliable. But you…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “You brought the kind of sunshine into my life I could only dream of. You have saved me in more ways than you will ever know. Your mere existence in my life has been more help to me than I can explain to you. That’s why I call you my cure, because it's the best way I can think to describe what you are to me.” 

“I knew you would be different after prison, Spencer. No decent man can go through an experience like that and come out unchanged. But in your bones you are still the Spencer Reid I fell in love with.” You tried to tell him much like you had countless times in those torrid seven months. You hoped this time he might actually hear it. 

“I’m really not sure that I am, Y/N.” He raked his fingers through his tangled hair with a meek shake of his head. 

“I am.” You nodded. “I’m sure. Spencer, whatever you had to do inside was for your own protection. It was every man for himself and you did what you did to survive. And Cat…? After everything she’s done to you, I wanted to strangle the bitch too.” 

Spencer’s eyes widened, looking a little like deer caught in headlights. He was gnawing on his bottom lip haphazardly as he stared at you. 

“Really?” 

“Yes, Spencer.” 

“Do you really think I can come back from this?” 

“Yes, Spencer.” You repeated, defiance in your voice. “And I’m going to help you. Whether you want me to or not. Because my love for you is stronger than the pain you caused me. I will be by your side, showering you in light until there is not even a sliver of a shadow for your demons to hide in. Let me be your cure, Spence.” 

You reached out your hands towards him, palm upwards and fingers spread to create enough space for his own to slot between them. He glanced between your face and your hand a few times before his lip quipped up ever so slightly at the corner in a small smile. 

And then he reached for you, his fingers finding those spaces between your own that always seemed like they were made intentionally to fit his. It was as though someone had crafted you both perfectly for each other. 

Spencer had never been a believer in higher powers but it was the only reason he could fathom for how you had found him. 

In a world consisting of nearly eight billion people, what were the chances of the two of you meeting? What were the odds of two perfectly imperfect people finding each other and slotting together in such an inconceivably faultless way? 

As you sat there hand in hand, Spencer knew he would do anything to keep you by his side for as long as he lived. Even if it meant allowing you to see all his flaws, all his cracks. Because he was certain now you would love every one of his broken pieces. 

You were the light casting away his shadows. You were the air being breathed into his lungs. You were the thread holding him together. 

You were the cure. 

[bipanicoverthegravessiblings]

Spare a little Yandere Ashley, please?

Isn’t that just canon? Oh well!

TW: Possessive Behaviors, Swearing, and Suicide Mentioned

Yandere!Ashley Graves x GN!Reader

Ashley couldn’t explain why she felt so strongly towards you

Maybe it was your looks. The way your eyes lit up when talking about your interests. Your voice. Or…maybe it was cause you were the only person (who wasn’t Andrew) to make her feel cared about

It started with small, insignificant things. A hello in the morning when you crossed paths. Compliments on her hair or outfit that day. A look of pure adoration when she spoked.

It wasn’t until your actions became more noticeable did she truly realize you cared about her.

“Ah shit!” Ashley hissed under her breath at the falling droplets of water.

Of course it had to rain, the one day she didn’t bring a stupid umbrella- or have Andrew to shield her- it rained. She stomped her foot in frustration, her face puffing up in fury towards Mother Nature. She sighed and was about to step forward and seal her fate with the cold and wet when—

“Here,” a familiar voice called to her, “We can share my umbrella.”

Ashley blinked, surprised. Her head slowly turned to look back at the source of the voice. Her assumptions were correct, as you smiled at her- umbrella in hand.

“Uh-…thanks-“ wearily, Ashley stepped closer to you- her arms hugging her body cautiously.

She stayed close to you, her body practically pressed against yours as you both shared the safety of the umbrella. A small blush painted her cheeks as she felt…safe pressed against your form. You always were so kind to her…

From there, she noticed your kindness more and more. And each time it made her heart melt. She felt so loved. So cherished.

…but then she saw that you treated everyone that way. Basic human decency to everyone you came into contact with. She especially hated it when it was other women.

She wasn’t special- she wasn’t as important as she thought. And that pissed her the fuck off.

She ignored you at first- thinking the silent treatment would do you some good. Teach you a lesson.

But then…it hit her-

You’re so kind. And these hussies would do nothing but take advantage of you. That’s what they were doing….taking advantage of you.

Obviously she’d have to protect you.

Ashley clung to your arm, holding you back from chasing after the woman who just ran off. You stared off, wide eyed, before turning to look at Ashley.

“Wh- What was that about?” You sounded dumbfounded, “Why did you scare her off?”

“You couldn’t see it?” She replied, her head tilting slightly.

“See what?”

“She was taking advantage of you, Y/N!” She extended an arm out in the woman’s general direction.

No. She- she wasn’t. Right? How could Ashley know that?

“How do you know that?” Your eyes dared to leave Ashley’s as you looked off towards the fleeing woman again.

“Wow, you really are too nice for your own good.” Ashley grabbed your chin and turned your head to face her once again, “It was so obvious! Cold-hearted hussies like that see a good person like you and want to drain you for everything you’ve got. You’re just too sweet to see that hun.”

Ashley’s nails dug into your arm. You winced from the pain, but didn’t object.

“You need someone like me to help you see that..” her voice was low, her knuckles white from how hard she dug her nails into your arm, “To protect you.”

And protect you she did

You began gaining a reputation in the area, and not a good one.

“Stay away from Y/N, or their girlfriend will bite your head clean off!” “That crazy chick always hangs around them- best stay away.” “I heard their friend harassed a girl into jumping off a bridge.”

Your own friends became scared of you. They slowly stopped answering your calls- all until you confronted them and they gave you their official goodbyes

“Look it’s just..” your friend shoved their hands into their pockets, eyes glued to the ground to avoid your hurt expression, “I think it’s best if we just take some time apart.”

You felt like they had more to say…but you didn’t prod as they walked away from you.

You were now completely alone

Well…except for Ashley.

She comforted you when your friends left. She was protecting you against the people taking advantage of your kindness. She was there for you when everyone left.

You were hers. Forever.

[muffinsin]

Would you be willing to write a fic of G!P Cassandra x fem! Reader x G!P Donna? Maybe the reader had been teasing the both of them all day and the second the three of them are alone Donna and Cassandra mercilessly fuck the Reader as punishment?

(I sure hope the 🐉 anon position isn’t taken because it’s mine now >:)

This has been in my inbox far too long y’all, glad I get to write it out at last- it’s been so long RIP me is sorry. Not 100% with it buuuuut ye

Let’s get into it!👀

Masterlists

You feel shivers run down your spine the second Daniela gets up to leave. You’re all too aware that she is the only reason your two owners, Donna and Cassandra, haven’t taken you yet.

Perhaps, you deserve it.

Perhaps, you shouldn’t expect anything but rough treatment when you’ve been teasing them all day. You know, you’ve been an insufferable brat today. A part of you yearns for the roughness you know you will receive from the other two women.

You gasp audibly when you feel Cassandra grip your upper thigh tightly as she shoots her sister a smile. You know, her patience is running out.

And she isn’t the only one.

You watch as Daniela is practically led to the door by a small minion of short dolls pushing up against her legs and tugging her forth to the doorway. Donna’s hand moves, and you tense up when it rests on your other upper thigh.

It looks almost cute, your two mistresses grabbing one thigh each, their fingertips digging into your skin. Cassandra’s strong, large hand on you, and Donna’s precise, veiny and well trained one.

They both smile with false gentleness as the youngest Dimitrescu sister exits the house, and the moment the door slaps shut with a heavy push from a doll, their smiles falter and turn to angry frowns.

You gasp when they each tug their hand, fingers digging into your skin as your thighs are pulled apart. You whimper , dressed in one of the dresses Donna has made for you. It’s long, and has so far done a good job at keeping your naughty little secret hidden.

Or so you thought.

Yet, when Cassandra inhales and growls quietly, your eyes widen in realization. Did you truly think you could keep it from her?

With a sharp tug your dress is pulled up, and your cheeks burn crimson as both hands on your thighs tighten their grip. You’re entirely exposed to them, the lack of underwear allowing the two dominant women to see your dripping wet core, glistening and practically calling out to them.

You feel Cassandra push up against your neck, her warm breath tickling the sensitive skin found there. You shiver when you soon feel knife-sharp edges snd tips of teeth drag against you.

You only realize your eyes have closed when you open them up again, wide and surprised at the sudden feeling between your spread legs.

You can only squeak in embarrassment and shock when you suddenly two fingers are pushed roughly inside of you. Your hips automatically buck up and a harsh whimper and shriek is pulled from you when the dangerously sharp teeth at your neck dig in at last.

You whine as the skilled fingers curl within you, but before the pleasure can even sink in properly, Donna pulls her arm back already. You watch through lidded eyes as she raises her fingers, soaked in your arousal, to her face, and feel as though your world is spinning when she sucks her index finger into her mouth.

You whimper again at a particularly sharp jab of pain to your throat, a single tear sliding from your eye as you see blood trickle down your front, stemming from your neck.

Your eyes are wide and you feel lightheaded when Donna’s soaked index finger is presented to you. An offer? No. A silent command. You eye the finger hungrily, eager to feel your own wetness up against your tongue.

However, you have dug your own grave already. Might as well dig deeper.

Her gaze turns colder, harsher, when you merely press your lips together and a self satisfied grin is shot her way. Something dangerous flashes in her dark eye for a mere moment.

“You’re being naughty today, bella”, she hums, and your head spins yet again at the raspiness of her voice.

You flinch as her free hand shoots up from your thigh, a surprised whimper pulled from you when it grasps your jaw tightly.

For a moment, you think to deny her. To embrace the painful ache of her fingers pressing into your skin. Then, her grasp tightens and with a cry, your lips part and mouth falls open for your lover.

“Keep misbehaving”, Cassandra hums against your throat. She dares you to.

You shiver again, your clit aching and your nipples hardening when you feel her lick across your neck eagerly.

Donna’s middle finger is pressed to your tongue, her grip on you harsh, her gaze even more so. She’s smirking slightly at your helpless moans and whimpers, and relishes in your pathetic gagging whenever she pushes too far back.

Upon adverting your eyes, you find the very obvious tents in both women’s dresses. Cassandra’s, twitching and intimidating in width, and Donna’s, large and capable of taking your ability to walk.

“What, got nothing to say, morsel?”, Cassandra taunts, her teeth gently clasping down on your injured neck again. “You had so much to say earlier, little lamb. When you teased us like a little slut”, she hums, a low chuckle coming from her at the increase of your heart rate.

You whine when your jaw is released and Donna pulls back, your eyes curiously following the woman just when she stands up in front of you.

“She’s going to be a good girl now. Won’t you, flower?”

You feel shivers run down your spine at the older woman’s voice. Eagerly, you nod. It’s as though all words have died on your tongue.

You feel fingertips run from your thigh to your pussy, strong, and eager- Cassandra’s. Unlike Donna, she doesn’t enter you with them, however.

Instead you find yourself shrieking and jumping when her palm slaps against your cunt, unforgiving and aimed at your clit. You jerk away at the sudden pain, your thighs clasping close around the woman’s wrist.

Of course, she immediately corrects this by pushing your thighs apart again and trapping one of them with her own.

Your mouth waters as Donna’s dress is practically torn off by the woman, your own body on fire at the sight of hers. Creamy, olive skin is revealed inch by inch.

At last, you’re on eye level with her lower stomach, your lips almost perfectly lined up with her long cock. You squeak when Cassandra’s hand comes up again and your jaw is forced open yet again.

This time, for your dollmaker.

The woman only watches you, her dark eye unchanged and her emotions shrouded.

You feel her tip push up against your tongue, the soft, pink head large against your skin. With a single thrust, she buries herself completely inside.

Your eyes close automatically and your thighs jerk when you feel both, Donna’s cock in your mouth, and Cassandra’s fingers between your legs push forwards and deep in you.

You whimper and moan, your jaw held tightly in place to prevent any thought of bratting and teasing again. Your throat is tight around the cock fucking it, and it’s making both yours and Donna’s head spin.

You hear her panting, loud and breathless, as her hips thrust back and forth wildly. Your pussy clenches around Cassandra’s fingers. Soaking in the pleasure, you can’t help but allow your slightly shaky hand to slide across her thigh.

You find the bulge in her dress easily and grin as much as your spread open lips allow you to when you squeeze and draw a groan from her. Warm blood dries at your neck as wetness drips from you and coats her fingers throughout.

“You’re tight”, Cassandra hums, a maniacal laughter passing her lips when her tongue drags against your throat. You feel it bulge with Donna’s cock, and know she does too. Your hips buck up when fingers curl within you and a tongue drags over the obvious bulge in your throat and mouth.

“She’s soaked”, Cassandra taunts, her own hips grinding to push her bulge up against your hand.

You whimper when your pleasure ends all too fast already as she retracts her fingers from you. Even through teary eyes you see them glistening in the corner of your eye. Your wetness, slick against the two digits that have been rammed into you, coating them from her nail to the knuckle.

You shriek when she suddenly turns you, as if she ran out of patience. You’re left kneeling over, your eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open, tears running down your cheeks from the constant gagging. Donna feels even deeper in you.

Your dress is tugged up around your hips and your thighs are spread wide. You groan around the large cock pushing in and out of your mouth, your vision blurry. You smell Donna, the perfume and scent of flowers and fresh wood that sticks to her.

Then, you feel another cock, wider, stronger, push up against your sensitive clit. You whimper as Cassandra thrusts herself along your pussy, as though collecting all the wetness that so easily drips from you.

Once, twice, three, four times. Antagonizing you, teasing you. You feel her thick head and shaft against you, long soaked in your wetness. Drool sticks to your chin and Donna’s cock, so much it begins to slide down and drip from her balls.

“Mhmm, open up, morsel”, comes Cassandra’s command at last, spoken lowly, so you barely hear it over the slapping of Donna’s balls against your chin and her panting above you.

Eagerly so, you spread your legs wider, and grasp onto your girlfriend’s hips when Cassandra pushes herself inside.

You moan around her cock, the tears running down your cheeks causing both of your partners to moan and gasp. Your pussy aches and clenches around Cassandra, and you shiver as you feel her tremble and twitch in you.

“Fuck..she’s so…tight!”, she groans, and you feel Donna’s balls twitch slightly and her hips jerk against you at the words spoken so breathlessly and hotly.

With the cock thrusting in and out of you fast and Cassandra’s fingers and nails digging into your hips, you barely notice your lover approaching her orgasm until you feel warm, white seed shot in your mouth and down your throat.

Your eyes widen and the younger brunette gasps at the feeling of you tightening around her cock. She groans, her hips aching and burning as she moves.

You gulp down the cum shot down your throat, your eyes closed and lips shut tightly around the wet cock.

When it slips from you, you gasp for breath. You still taste it on your tongue, and feel as if it still sticks to the back of your throat.

You shriek when Donna pushes you backwards, Cassandra’s low and surprised gasp husky in your ear.

You shiver as you feel her sink deeper inside of you, your ass pushed up against her after being pushed in her lap.

Donna cups your jaw, as though loving as her fingers slide over Cassandra’s.

“Mhmm….exquisite…”

You shiver, your mouth at last clasping shut when your jaw is let go of.

You gasp when the fingers at your hips dig in harsher, Cassandra’s lips attached to your neck once again as she forces your body up and down on her. She groans, her body practically thrumming with want, her cock twitching and dripping precum inside.

You feel Donna tugging down your dress at the top and blush lightly at the feel of the fabric being pulled down and your breast being exposed to the warm air of the room.

For a moment, you believe you are granted a break. Then, Cassandra’s hips snap up again, and you’re rocked in her lap with every thrust deep inside of you.

“A-Ah, Cass!”, you shriek at a particularly hard thrust upwards.

Your breasts bounce freely, your nipples captured by skilled fingers. Donna breathes lowly, her cock nearly erect once again at the arousing sight of Cassandra’s cock inside of you. Equally, she watches your wetness drip down to her base and to her balls.

As the rough use of your body continues, you feel yourself nearing your orgasm faster and faster. You’re shaking and shivering, your hands digging into the soft skin at Donna’s hips.

You hiss when cold, precise fingers grope your dangling breasts, squeezing and tugging, pushing them up against one another.

You feel her cock slide up between them, the muscle slick with drool and cum. When you look up, you’re met with a dark, nearly entirely black eye staring down at you hungrily.

Your thighs shake and your eyes struggle to stay open, each thrust into you and between your breasts making you feel more and more riled up.

You understand, this is how riled up they must have been from your constant teasing throughout the day.

Your eyes squeeze shut when Cassandra’s lips push up against your ear, her voice almost soft and hushed in your ear.

“Do you want to cum, morsel?”, she teases, a sly smirk displayed on her lips.

You nod fast, your mouth dry and your pussy sore as it grips her and coats her in more and more cream and wetness.

Judging by the laughter coming from both women, you can tell this won’t do at all.

You attempt to catch your breath, your moans turning to little whimpers as you struggle out: “Ple-ease le-t me cu-cum, Mis-tress”, you beg, your head thrown back against her shoulder.

More breathless laughter and coos come from them.

You feel Cassandra’s nails in you, her hips bucking up at an almost punishing pace. Your orgasm is near, and you know, theirs is too.

Breathless moans and little “Ah!”’s slip from you, your hands moving to cling to Donna’s thighs instead.

You feel the soft, olive skin beneath your fingertips and almost become more aware of the harder, pale skin underneath you.

When your nipples are tugged and teased, you feel yourself nearly topple over the edge.

“Please! Ple-eaAAh! Please!”, you beg, your dry throat burning with the strain to bring out your words.

You’re met with moans and hums, kisses and groping hands. When they both kiss their way to your lips, you feel a breathy permission whispered against them.

You don’t need to be told twice at all, your body spasming and your pussy tightening around Cassandra. You feel her deep within you and as you scream your release, you feel Donna’s thick cum slap against your chest.

You smile as you pant, your chest heaving and thighs shaking when Cassandra pulls out enough to cover your ass cheeks as she too reaches her high.

[stellar-skyy]

OLDER SIBLING HCS: MONDSTADT EDITION. (PART ONE) - Platonic Jean, Rosaria, Lisa, Sucrose, Eula & reader

i. SUMMARY: Mondstadt characters with a younger sibling. ii. CONTENT WARNINGS: Implied death in Rosaria's part, mentions of food/eating in Jean's part. iii. NOTES: Fluff, slight angst, gn!reader, they/them pronouns used, 2.4k words. iv. A/N: i actually read rosaria's and eula's backstory for this, and wow... give my girls a break. i wanted to include everyone in here, before realizing how long it would get, so here is a part one for mondstadt girls! stay tuned for the rest of the nations (and maybe tell me who you want to see next?)

JEAN

Okay let’s be honest, while Jean is an amazing big sister while she’s there, she is rarely… there.

It isn’t out of a wilful neglect, it’s rather that as the Acting Grand Master, her schedule is so tightly packed that she barely has time to breathe, let alone taking time off for personal reasons.

When she does manage to squeeze in room for you, it is usually a short slot of time between her usual tasks. Kaeya, noticing how desperate she was in rearranging her schedule to spend time with her sibling, did her the favour of crossing off some of her tasks and handing them away to other Knights.

(When she found out it was Kaeya who was messing with her schedule, she gave him a stern talking-to. She was secretly pleased that she got to spend more time with you… even if it meant chasing down some poor subordinates to make sure her jobs actually got done properly.)

Windrise is the first place that Jean likes to take you. If it’s a warm day out, she’ll pack a picnic and spread it underneath the shade of the trees. There, she’ll tell you stories; about Vennessa, about the origins of the Gunnhildr Clan, about her own adventures during her early years as a knight.

Sometimes she will reminisce with you about when you were a kid, clinging to her arm. She’ll tell you about how as soon as you learned to walk, you would follow her around like a little duckling, one tiny fist clutching the hem of her jacket. When you got a little older, you joined her in her preparation to become a proper noble, sitting beside her in etiquette lessons and observing from the sidelines during her knightly training. Even if the lessons were painfully dull, she’d always try and keep you entertained with little games to pass the time—or as much as she could without your mother staring in disapproval.

By the time she’s done with her stories, the day would have already almost finished.

It’s pleasant; peaceful in the way that one can’t grasp the flow of time until hours have past and the two of you are curled up on a picnic blanket under a sky full of stars.

She takes you for meals at Good Hunter too, letting you order whatever is on the menu. If there isn’t anything there to your liking (or if you’re just not feeling up for it that day) she is quick to whisk you home and cook you something herself.

It’s calming for her, when she’s able to direct all her focus into one manageable task like putting together a meal. She likes pizza best—a simple, delicious meal that she can put together with minimal effort and something she can easily share with her sibling.

When the day ends, and she must go home, she’ll give you a tight hug and kiss the top of your head, with a promise that you’ll spend the day together again soon.

ROSARIA

No. 1 protective sister right here.

Like, good luck to anyone who even thinks of hurting you. Their graves are already dug by the time they turn your way.

She made a promise, after all: no matter what happened, she would protect you.

It was first made when she was only a young girl, holding an even younger child in her arms. She brought you closer, squeezing her eyes shut and whispering the words into your hair. You were far too young to realise what the words truly meant, but you would come to learn their meaning as you got a little bit older and the remote village you both called home was massacred.

The bandits that took her in were apprehensive about the tiny child clinging to her leg. After all, it’s one thing to teach a little girl how to become a crook, let alone a literal toddler. But Rosaria refused to part with you, baring her teeth and yelling and screaming at anyone who even dared to suggest leaving you behind.

Your role was their errand person, mostly. While Rosaria made sure you were seen as the smaller and feebler of the pair, letting you drift away to the shadows of the crew, she also passed on everything she learned: lockpicking, thievery, and most importantly combat.

The bandits taught her how to fight, and she taught you. It was a compromise; keeping their contact with you minimal while also teaching you the skills you needed to survive in your new life.

(Even if you rarely got to use your newfound skills. Anyone who even tried to cause you trouble were swiftly taken care of by Rosaria.)

In her eyes she was doing you a favour; if you were treated as weak and insignificant, they would forget about you. And if they forgot about you, they were less likely to hurt you.

It was a blessing from Lord Barbatos himself when the group of bandits was taken down by the Knights of Favonius, and you were both swept away from the life of bloodshed and carnage that you had spent your entire childhood surrounded by. When you faced the Grand Master, you were considered young enough and inexperienced enough to be pardoned, while Rosaria began rehabilitation via the Church of Favonius.

These days, your lives are far less hectic than your youth.

During her free time (or rather the time spent slacking off on her duties) Rosaria slips away from the Church and sweeps you away for a day of bonding. If you need more clothes, she’ll drag you to every store in Mondstadt looking for something that fits you just right. It’s a sweet gesture, even if she brutally critiques your fashion choices. It’s out of love, I swear.

She also likes to just sit quietly with you, comfortably existing next to each other.  

Rosaria isn’t big on affection, but whenever she knows you won’t see each other for a long period of time, she’ll embrace you tightly and murmur a promise into your hair just like when you were kids.

“No matter what, no one will ever hurt you.”

LISA

When it comes to her loved ones, Lisa is a big fan of pet names, particularly the overly sappy ones.

Sweetheart, cutie, love—no matter who it is, anyone who is close to Lisa has probably been called at least one term of endearment in their life.

But while she has a variety of names for her favourite people, she has a habit of mentally assigning each person a different nickname that is exclusive for them.

Jean is her darling. The traveller is her cutie. Razor is her sweetie. You’re the only one to end up with two names.

There’s her most frequent one, dear.

“Oh, would you pass me that book, dear?”

If she’s feeling particularly affectionate, she’ll switch it to precious.

“(Name), my precious, are you feeling alright?”

Either way, there’s always a light teasing and subtle edge of fondness to her words when she talks to you.  

Good luck if you ever try going to her for romantic advice. She may give the most wonderful, effective guidance in the world, but it will be accompanied with heavy teasing and not-so-subtle prompts to divulge more details about your love life.

Even if you’re not interested in romance, she still finds ways to tease you.

Rest assured that despite her tormenting, she knows when to step back. She’s always been perceptive of other’s emotions, so as soon as she notices you getting upset at her words, she is already smoothly shifting the conversation to something more comfortable.

When you’re tired, she’ll let you take a nap in the library, either resting your head on your arms at her desk or curled up on one of the couches in the library. After chuckling at you (and making a mental note to tease you later about falling asleep so abruptly), she will fetch a blanket and tuck it over your shoulders.

Archons help anyone who even tries to wake you up. The library patrons learned to fear the wrath of the librarian a long time ago, and anyone who dares to disturb your peace will face the pain of Electro.

You become slightly feared in general, if only by being so closely affiliated with such an intimidating woman. If Lisa manages to get you to help track down some books, it only takes one threat of calling her to get the person to panic and hurriedly accept the late fee.

Lisa is thoroughly pleased with your work when you return, and might even treat you to some Sticky Honey Roast from Good Hunter if you’re lucky.

Overall, Lisa is a great sister. She adores her sibling more than anything, and that is what counts.

SUCROSE

Sucrose is such a sweet big sister!

She’s not the best at comforting others, but she is an amazing listener. Come to her with any of your worries, and she’ll nod along and consider your words carefully, only interrupting to suggest a solution to whatever is going on in your life.

She’s also willing to just give you a hug while you work through whatever emotions that you’re dealing with.

Speaking of which, Sucrose is a 10/10 hugger.

She will squeeze you just the right amount and rub circles into your back while she murmurs comforting words. Hugging her feels so safe and warm, like in her arms you’re sheltered from anything that could hurt you.

If you show even the slightest interest in her work, she will be thrilled. It only takes one question, a simple ‘what are you doing?’ to get her to vibrate with excitement and ask eagerly if you want to hear about her work.

She gets very rambly in her explanations but give her a little patience and she’ll go through her process, step by step. She’s more than willing to have you observe her experiments, and even participate in them if you’re confident enough to.

Sucrose is very insistent on you taking good care of yourself. She knows the detrimental effects a lack of sleep can have on a person’s health, so she makes sure you get a good rest every night, and lightly scolds you for staying up too late. On nights when you can’t sleep, she’ll make you a soothing cup of tea, and tell you stories to lull you into a slumber.

When you were younger, she would tell you all kinds of stories. With just her words, she could weave epic tales and colourful worlds, all from her own imagination. As she grew older and began her interest in alchemy, she strove to create a wonderland of her own, and make the fairy tales you loved become a reality.

Her research still has a long way to go, but rest assured she will keep going, to make your stories a reality.

EULA

Just like Rosaria, Eula is the sister who would not let anything happen to her sibling.

She won’t stand for anyone acting snobbishly towards you for your Lawrence heritage. When it comes to herself, she doesn’t care what others have to say about her. She accepted their distrust of her a long time ago, and their words do not affect her anymore.

But her sibling? Her precious, innocent baby sibling? Who has never done anything wrong in their entire life? Who doesn’t deserve a single one of the hostile remarks that they face simply for their lineage.

That simply will not slide.

She knows what it is like to be a social pariah—she was forced to become one ever since she was born into an aristocratic family—but she despises the fact that you have to go through the same thing. It only fuels her desire for vengeance, seeing someone who she knows is a good person being ostracised for no reason. She can’t help but wonder, ‘Why wasn’t I enough? If you must make someone your martyr, then why couldn’t you have settled with only hating me? Why do you have to drag another innocent person into it?’

She is well aware that her demeanour causes others to distrust her more, but at least it makes you look more palatable in comparison. Maybe if they do see her as the worst of you both, they’ll see you as a perfectly respectable person, rather than simply a Lawrence. Besides, she doesn’t owe anyone any kindness, not when none was shown to her.

Other than being a bit overprotective, Eula also adores teaching her sibling new things.

It started with bladework—an essential skill, as she called it. According to her, everyone should have at least one weapon they’re proficient in, and for you she chose swords. Catalysts were always too finicky for her, she’d never been fond of long-distance weapons like bows, and both claymores and polearms were too heavy for you at that age, so swords were the best option.

Soon enough, you were as skilled in Favonius Bladework as any knight. She was rather proud of how quickly you picked up the skill.

The one thing she is most enthusiastic for you to learn is dancing. I think if you asked her to teach you, she would have trouble hiding just how excited she is.

Despite having an open distaste for aristocratic traditions, the Dance of Sacrifice is one that she will always cherish. It is the one custom that feels close to her, and one that she only shares with the most important of people.

So of course she will share it with you.

Eula may act aloof and cold most of the time, but if you surprise her with a hug, she will simply melt. Physical affection (affection in general, actually) wasn’t given freely in your house growing up, so whenever she gets it, Eula doesn’t quite know how to react, other than embracing you back tightly.

(That privilege of being able to come that close to her without asking is strictly only tolerated by you. Anyone else, and she would have sworn vengeance ten times over.)

reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡

[leaderpinhead]

Malleus - Damsels in Towers

Prompt: Run Away Together This is a direct sequel to Malleus - Pen Pals

“Fear not, young damsel. For I have come to free you from your prison tower.”

Malleus’s first instinct was to smite the intruder. It was not the first time an assassin had so boldly attempted to take his life. It came with the territory of his status and the restless politics of his early childhood.

His second instinct was to smile widely and giggle at the small human straddling the windowsill across the room from him. He gamely conquered the second half of that desire but fell victim to the first. “How bold of you to invade a dragon’s territory. I should incinerate you merely on principle.”

Yuu swung herself into the room without any fear. “Is that anyway to speak to your kidnapping savior? I can still leave you to the drudges of political affairs.”

A soft snickering from just below the window almost made Malleus pout, but he acknowledged the prefect—for all the startling feats she accomplished as a magicless human—would have never been capable of scaling the tall tower alone. His disappointment for having a hidden audience was tempered by the knowledge that it had been quite some time since he had last seen Lilia. Enough for him to have missed the presence of his old guardian.

Malleus sighed as if the idea of being prevented from attending hours of meetings with the council bickering amongst themselves was truly a heinous fate. His grin still stretched his cheeks. “Is there an appropriate amount of struggling one should attempt when being kidnapped?”

“Maybe some desperate pleas,” Yuu answered. She tiptoed around his room as if she was doing everything in her power to avoid detection from the guard stationed outside his room. Malleus’s grin widened. He had an inkling for why Silver had so adamantly insisted on standing guard outside today instead of joining him in his room. The look of concentration on Yuu’s face broke when she was within arms length of him. “If you give me some ugly crying, I’ll let you write your own ransom letter.”

Malleus chuckled. It felt natural to open his arms when she leaned forward to embrace him. The top of her head fit comfortably beneath his chin, and her strangling hug around his waist encouraged him to be a little less cautious when his arms circled her shoulders. Malleus basked in the physical contact for as long as he was permitted.

Yuu’s head popped up from resting on his collarbone, and she squinted up at him. “You have now been captured. Cooperate with your kidnapping, and I’ll allow you to choose which beach we bask on for the next few days.”

Malleus chuckled. He slipped his hand into hers when she offered it and allowed her to guide him across the room back to the window. He caught Lilia peeking over the ledge before the older fae ducked out of sight again with a chortle. “How very polite for a kidnapper. Should I write my ransom letter as you offered?”

“You didn’t give me any ugly crying,” Yuu argued. She paused in front of his desk and dug into her pocket. She pulled out a crumpled envelope and tossed it onto the desk. Malleus saw a crudely drawn black dragon lying on a sandy beach on the envelope before she continued pulling him to the window. “Maybe next time you’ll be a better damsel.”

“I will strive to learn from my mistakes.”

Yuu gravely nodded. She peeked out the window once they reached it. Malleus didn’t even have a chance to lean over her to do the same before she jerked backwards into him. “On second thought, I think we’ll take the stairs. I’ll tell Silver to just look the other way.”

A chuckle escaped Malleus to match Lilia’s snicker. “Does your fear of heights still persist? How did you manage to make your bold climb?”

“You don’t have to look down to go up.” Yuu spun them around to the door. Malleus didn’t budge where he stood. His hand still gripped Yuu’s, so she naturally came to a stop. She squinted at him. “I’m not about to fly off on a broom. Those things don’t have seatbelts.”

Malleus shook his head. There was a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a while. It was different from how he felt when he received letters from his former classmates, Yuu included. It was a lightness that always affected him when the child of man went out of her way to invite him to join her in whatever occasion she had planned.

The sudden urge to hoard that lightness compelled him to yank her back towards him. With a smirk that made her eyes widen up at him, he said, “I believe I have cooperated enough to choose our destination as was promised.”

He would apologize to Lilia and Silver later if he was compelled to, but the  playful excitement on Yuu’s face was worth teleporting them out of the castle to the isolated beach of his choosing.

[shostakobitchh]

Chapter 58 sneak peek!

The girl’s fingernails were digging into the varnish on the desk.

She’d stayed like that all class, not moving, not even her eyes. They stayed glued to some distant, unreachable place Severus surmised wasn’t even in the room. Granger had been sending worried, panicked glances between Miss Evans and Weasley-twerp the entire time, while also somehow frantically copying every goddamn word that came out of Severus’ mouth.

And now, with the rest of the little dunderheads gone, Severus had the girl exactly where he wanted her.

And it seemed as though she knew it.

“Miss Evans.” Severus said.

She did not move. She glared at the tabletop like she was planning on turning it into kindling.

He moved to stand right in front of her. He rapped the space in front of her twice with his knuckle. “Miss. Evans.”

Her black eyes snapped up to meet his. “You made Hermione cry.”

Fuck — of course she would have taken it personally.

Severus let his palms rest against the surface and leaned forward so that he was nose to nose with the girl. She did not flinch or look away, matching his gaze with a defiant glare.

"You will not address me in that manner," he began dangerously. “and Miss Granger was speaking out of turn.”

Her entire face rippled, like a stone skipping across a pond. It actually looked like she was having some kind of spasm, the waves moving all of her emotions to the front before she could school her expression back into cold, hard anger. She’d been doing a nearly admirable job — Severus supposed he had himself to commend for that. Lily would have thrown a chair at his face, by now.

“You made her cry.” Miss Evans said again. No emotion there — flat and void. The brat was Occluding from him again.

Well, two could play that game. He had been meaning for her to put it to use.

“Are you capable of saying anything else, or shall I throw you out?” Severus asked, keeping his voice as smooth as glass. He really should have taken more House points, should have read them all the riot act when all he was trying to do was protect the stupid little fuckwits from their werewolf teacher —

The girl’s dark eyes flashed wildly. Already slipping — it was almost disappointing. “I’d like to see you try.”

How very like her mother she was — so quick to anger — even if he deserved every bit of it, but she truly understood so little. How he wished he could shatter the illusion, but the werewolf had done enough, lying about Potter. He’d dug his own (metaphorical, regrettably) grave.

"Mind your tone, girl.” Severus said softly, letting a dangerous edge slip into his tone. "You may be my daughter, but in my classroom you are still a student. Do not make the mistake of believing yourself above consequences."

“I’ll do that, thanks,” the anger was bleeding into her voice, now, cracking through the syllables. “Thanks so much for the reminder.”

“Clearly you need one,” he snapped.

“I reckon you need something a lot stronger.” she said, without missing a beat.

Miss Evans clearly knew she had overstepped. Her eyes went a bit wider, as though she were shocked that those words had come out of her mouth, but her lips tightened, locking down her choice, making it impossible to take them back.

“I’d like to know what you mean by that, you little cretin.” Severus snarled.

The girl flinched, but her eyes were burning into his. For a moment, it seemed like she was battling something from within, but then she took a deep breath and said: "I mean that you're a right foul git sometimes.”

Severus stared at her — only slightly taken aback — seeing so much of himself in those defiant, dark eyes. The anger — the need to make someone hurt. The difference was that she was doing it because she cared about Granger, but the blasted know-it-all just didn’t know when to fucking shut up. She wrote more than she needed, blathered on more than necessary, desperate for — whether it was attention or some other unfillable void, Severus did not know or care — but it was something that got under his skin. The fact that Granger was his daughter’s dearest friend drove him mad, sometimes, but he did have to admit that the brat was smart. Severus could only imagine the daily idiocy Miss Evans would find herself involved in had she only befriended Weasley-twerp — or those horrid bloody twins.

She’s all alone —

“And you,” Severus sneered. “Are about three seconds from finding out just how foul I can be. You’ve seen nothing, if you think putting Granger in her place was too far.”

“If you’re mad at me for being late, take it out on me, not her!”

“That has nothing to do with this, you ridiculous girl.”

“Then what is it?”

Severus's lip curled in a sneer. "You truly understand nothing. That insufferable know-it-all is a menace in my classroom. She possesses the amount of restraint a Blast-Ended Skrewt has for its own tail."

Miss Evans narrowed her eyes. "So just because she's smart and wants to participate in class, you felt the need to humiliate her in front of everyone?”

“I was trying to illustrate a point. I did not care about the correct answer — she was the only bloody one of you that knew. Lupin is an imbecile.”

“Yeah, you’ve only said it twenty-billion times.” she retorted, her eyes narrowing. “That’s what this is all really about, isn’t it? You can’t stand that Professor Lupin is a good teacher.”

Whatever was left holding the last of Severus’ restraint — the frayed ends of his self-control that had gotten dangerously close to splitting in the Shack earlier that morning — finally broke.

“No, Miss Evans,” Severus said softly. “Do you know what I can’t stand?”

Her face hardened. “Go ahead. I reckon it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Severus glared wildly at her. She glared wildly back. He continued to hover there, something scathing on his lips — the perfect thing to put her in her place — when she finally averted her eyes, and turned, as though she could not bear to hold her head up any longer. The Occlumency had broken.

Miss Evans’ face began to fill with something else, like a bathtub being filled to the brim, as her dark eyes began to shimmer.

Severus felt his stomach plummet to his feet. He immediately straightened, jaw tightening as the girl grappled for her rucksack under her chair.

Goddammit. God fucking dammit, he’d gone too far. The girl had been asking for it, though — but he couldn’t. The thought was mortifying, that he could not summon every ounce of his apathy and make the girl squirm anymore. It had been effortless, once. Now, Severus possessed the will of a wet paper towel.

He moved to block her from standing as she braced herself on the tabletop. His knees knocked against hers and she glared withering up at him.

“Listen to me,” he pinched the bridge of his nose — if she started crying, he was going to light Lupin’s classroom on fire. “You know that public appearances must suggest that I find you reprehensible. Especially in front of my Slytherins.”

She wiped frantically at her face, but her voice was thick. “I could give a damn what your Slytherins think.”

“Watch it,” Severus snapped.

[logicaltips]

SAGAU x Millennium Puzzle!Creator and "Imposter"

The soul of the True Creator rests within a mysterious vision, only emerging to protect the Imposter from harm as they wander Teyvat in the Creator's place.

"Keep an eye on them. If you truly believe that they are the Imposter, bring them and the holy vision to me. I trust your judgement, and justice will be dealt swiftly."

Those were Ningguang's orders, and so far, Yelan followed them to the letter. From where she sat in the dice game room, she heard the bell above the entrance door ring. Looking up, Yelan could see the Imposter walk innocently into Yanshang Teahouse. "This Imposter is as stupid as they are heretical", she thought. Their meek body posture and smile betrayed the rainbow-colored vision that radiated all forms of power into the air. The Creator's vision was a heavily guarded treasure, but it was now worn on a chain necklace by a lowly mortal, who wore the same face as the Granter of Wishes described by the ancient scriptures.

If she wasn't an acolyte, Yelan was sure that even she would be swayed by its aura and their face into believing the Imposter's lies, just like everyone else. After all, all true acolytes knew the true presence of the Creator like the back of their hand, and while the vision did well to emulate it, the addition of a submissive personality was it took to cast doubt in the minds of the Liyue Qixing ever since the Imposter entered the city.

Yelan commended the Imposter's efforts to become a copy of the Divine Creator; changing their face and stealing a holy artifact. But now, as her prey walked towards her, Yelan pushed those thoughts away and replaced them with utter fury.

"Yes, keep walking towards me, you filthy heretic. Walk into my web and as a reward, your head will soon fall off of our shoulders."

The Imposter walked into the room and sat down in front of her.

"Oh?" Yelan raised an eyebrow. "You seem a bit young to be walking around on your own, especially in a place like this. Does your weekly allowance even cover a single bet?"

The Imposter sheepishly rubbed the back of their head. "No, not exactly. I just came here... to play a game with you."

Yelan smiled. "I see. It seems like my reputation proceeds me. What game shall we play? Better yet... what shall we wager? No game is fun without some stakes, after all." Her eyes wandered to the holy vision that rested on the Imposter's chest.

Her opponent immediately clutched their vision and gave a nervous smile. "Sorry, but this is too valuable for me to wager. It's very important to me. Besides, you have one already, don't you?"

A forced laugh was the response. "I see, then how about we wager something different?" Yeah leaned over the table and gazed into the Imposter's eyes. They were so beautiful.

"How about... your life, sinner?"

With a yank of her arm, strings bound the Imposter's legs to the chair they sat on and slammed the door shut.

In one smooth motion, Yelan summoned her divine-gifted bow and notched an arrow, aimed directly at the Imposter's heart.

Their shocked look broke her heart.

"Yelan? Why-"

"Did you really think that your weak aura could be masked by the All-Divine's vision? You reek of it! You have corrupted the Creator's very presence and sullied their unreachable beauty with that false face!"

The Imposter's eyes began to grow wet with tears. "No!" They reasoned. "No, the Creator- they gave me that-!"

"You dare to mention the All-Divine with your tongue?!" Her bow shook with rage. "You commited such blasphemy and yet you still speak of the Creator as if you met them! All who follow the Weaver of Worlds know that they vanished from this realm eons ago! Your lies have dug you a deeper grave, heretic!"

With that final roar, Yelan returned her gaze once more to the rainbow vision.

"I know not of what you are, whether you are a creature from the Abyss, or a lowly mortal, but that vision does not belong to you!" She reached out her hand to reclaim the vision-

"Hands off, hag! Touch it and you die!"

Yelan immediately leaped back from the Imposter, who seemed to mature just from the new confident aura that enveloped their body.

It seemed so familiar.

"This vision isn't something you can just take, Yelan. Remember why I came here? Let's follow through on that. We'll play a game. I'll wager my freedom, my life, and this vision."

Yelan scoffed. "You are in no position to negotiate."

The Imposter crossed their arms in defiance. "I am. This will be a test of faith. Beat me, and you prove that your worship of the All-Divine is faithful and true, and that I am the Imposter. After all, why would the one worthy of the omniscient, all powerful Creator's vision lose in something as... trivial as a game? But if you lose... You'll have to face a penalty game."

Yelan pondered the offer. Penalty game? What could that mean? After all, even if the Imposter wins, they're stuck in this room until she unravels her strings. If they try anything strange, her arrow will fly true, and she'll pry the vision from their cold body. If the Imposter lost... well, they just gave her a reason to believe that they aren't worthy of such a blessing.

The intelligence officer smirked. "Very well. I'll choose what game we play then. Can't be giving you an unfair advantage after all..."

The Imposter nodded. Yelan reached into the drawer of the table and retrieved some rigged dice and cards, and began to explain the rules...

After Yelan missed her daily report, Ningguang grew worried. The intelligence officer never missed a report, and the fact that she disappeared after trailing the Imposter was enough for Ningguang to send a search-and-rescue operation throughout Liyue.

Hours later, she received a written report from Keqing. Yelan was found curled up on the floor of the Yanshang Teahouse dice game room, muttering to herself as she pawed blindly at the air.

"Forgive me. Please. I didn't know. Forgive me. Please, let me out."

That was all she said, even long after she was removed from the premises. Ningguang only had her rage on her mind as she entered her office, prepared to seek the truth of the entity that did this to Yelan, until a sharp voice interrupted her thoughts.

"Nice office, Ningguang."

It was the Imposter, calmly sitting in from of her desk. The rainbow vision that sat on their chest was glowing menacingly.

"Let's play a game, shall we?"

[bloggingboutburgers]

How exactly do you get through to someone that you don’t want to be in a relationship with anyone at all? My family is kinda accepting, but it honestly feels like it would be easier to be gay here than it is to be asexual, because everyone seems to assume I WILL fall in love or something, no matter how hard I’ve tried to say otherwise. Drives me insane sometimes.

I... Don't know if I ever did, to be frank. And now that I'm in a queerplatonic relationship with a person I want to marry, it kinda feels like I "dug my own grave" on that one (although I'm very happy in that way, so I'm very grateful my close family is accepting of this).

Trying to get it across to my folks that I didn't want any romantic or sexual relationship and I was happy that way was an endless process in which I'm not ever sure if my point got across or not. I only know this for certain with my brothers, who always replied to my mom's pressing questions about whether I really didn't want this kind of relationship with a knowing smile and a "Mom, c'm'on. Do you really think there's still a point in asking her that?", clearly in a way that had my back. I'll always be grateful to them for that.

Compared to that, revealing to my parents that I was in a queerplatonic relationship with a person who's afab like me was as easy as a "Good for you! As long as you're happy we'll support you all the way." It was never questioned or met with discomfort. Arguably I got lucky, I definitely know that, but a part of me also has that nagging feeling that they're saying that out of a misguided belief that I might be a lesbian, and therefore "not as bad as not wanting a romantic or sexual relationship", so to speak. Nothing wrong with being a lesbian but again, that's not who I am, plus my partner isn't a woman, they're nonbinary, so I'm a bit afraid to ask how they truly see us, because I'm afraid I might not exactly be comfortable with what I hear. I wouldn't want them to come to the conclusion that my own fate right now is invalidating what I tried to get to their brains for most of my life.

...My bros are still awesome about that though. Every time I tried to clarify things to them they were like "Hey, you don't have to explain things to us, we're open-minded, whatever you have is what works for you and that's all that's needed." They ARE open-minded and I trust them on that. I just lowkey hope that's how the rest of my family and loved ones can see it too.

But yeah all of that is... Hard to say. I hope it's not the case but it's something you might have to repeat to people your whole life. The whole tragedy of an asexual or aromantic coming-out, in my experience, is that it's not really treated as such, you have to come out over and over again as if people didn't hear you. It's definitely frustrating. So I hope with all my heart it doesn't get as frustrating for you on the long run, I hope you're finally left alone on that at some point, and I wish you all the luck and all the strength.

[patiencetakestyme]

What She Deserves: Locklyle Fic

A/N:  After watching Lockwood & Co. on repeat for over a month, I dug into the books, and I just finished them.  The ending left something to be desired, in my opinion.  Don’t get me wrong:  I love the books, I love the characters, I love how the plot wrapped up.  But that last scene between Lockwood and Lucy…something was missing, and it wasn’t just a kiss.  This is my attempt to contribute to that scene; it picks up basically right where the last page ends.  Oh, and it’s in Lockwood’s POV!  

What’s to follow is nothing extraordinary, I’m sure; I’m sure this has all been done before and has probably been done better.  I’m new to the fandom, so I have not perused a lot of fics, so I’m sure something like this exists out there.  But there was just something nagging at me when I finished that last page, and I felt like I just had to get it out and get it on the page.  This is my attempt at doing that.  I hope you enjoy it! 

Warning: There are spoilers for the entire book series throughout this one-shot but especially The Empty Grave. You've been warned!

As he waited on the curb where it met 35 Portland Row, Lockwood found himself fidgeting.  He was usually the image of charm, poise:  a cool collective in a crisis.  

But today was different, for a number of reasons.  For starters, he couldn’t stop tugging at the collar of his new coat.  Sure, unlike his old one, it was not plagued by the claw marks from the opening of Mrs. Barrett’s tomb, but what it made up in novelty it lacked in character; he found himself missing the old, familiar, comfortable coat he had owned for many years.  

Still, the coat had been sacrificed in an effort to save Kipps, and as that effort had ultimately proven successful, he did his best not to mourn the coat too much.  It had died serving a good cause.  With a return of his smile, he found that that brought him quite a bit of comfort and joy.  

But it was not only the coat that caused him discomfort on this particular day.  He was waiting for Lucy, and there was a certain measured weight to this waiting period.  

Would she be wearing the necklace?  Every second that ticked by—he counted them.  The longer it took her to join him, the longer she had spent considering the gift.  Did she approve of it?  Did it offend her?  Did she understand—truly understand—the full complexities of the message he was attempting to send with such a gift?  Did she even see it, carefully concealed, wrapped around the legal paperwork he had delivered?  

With a sigh and another counted second, he came to a realization that he suspected he had always known deep down:  he owed her more than that.  A vague—yet weighted—gesture that may or may not be misinterpreted—or, hell, even seen—was not proportionate to what she meant to him.  

He knew what that meant—what he had to do.  He would need to be more direct; Lucy appreciated straightforward, raw, and honest communication.  

He knew that, of course—had known it for many years.  But just as he knew that was what she might need from this conversation, he was equally as aware of his struggle to provide that for her.  

He was great at fooling people.  He was always so good at talking to the others.  Need a motivating speech to breathe new life into your bedraggled army?  Lockwood was your man.  Need a condescending comment thrown casually—yet oh-so pointedly and painfully—that will simultaneously help you become a better person and make you feel like the worst human being alive?  Lockwood was your man.  Need someone to put George in his place when he was on his soapbox?  Lockwood was your man.  This skill—it had many applications. 

Expressing his private feelings was not one of those applications.  Opinions, observations, critiques, compliments—all of these things, he expressed quite easily.  

But anything personal?  His stories, his experiences, his traumas—his actual human feelings and emotions—all of these things came rarely if at all.  

It had frustrated Lucy for quite some time after they had first met; he knew that with confidence.  While he had always appreciated and respected what she chose to share with himself and George, she had struggled to understand why he had, in turn, failed to reciprocate.  

In her eyes, this felt like a lack of confidence:  an undermining of their relationship, worse, an impediment upon their relationship; he was sure of it.  If he wasn’t willing to share with her, did that mean that he, much like she had experienced with her own family, only kept her around for what she had to offer—for what she had to bring to the Thinking Cloth, so to speak?  

Lockwood keeping Lucy at arm’s length resulted in her doing much the same, which was, in a sense, ironic, as, while he kept her emotionally at a distance, physically, he called out to her at every turn.  Lockwood remembered all the times he had reached out to her—the caress of his hand on her arm, the way he would run that hand down her arm to interlink their fingers.  

He remembered, specifically, the first time they had really seen each other after George had been attacked.  His posture had been wrecked, his back aching with the burden he had carried.  He was responsible for what had happened to George; he had been the one to insist on George pursuing his research; he had been the one to keep pushing George towards that boundary.  

He could barely even bring himself to look at her—the stuttering, the stumbling, it was all there, just as he feared it would be again now, in this upcoming conversation.  

He remembered looking at his hands—his fingers.  He didn’t even recognize them as his own.  Then, just as suddenly, he—and those very hands—had led a revolt.  He threw pretense away; he swooped in, pulling her into a hug.  

That was how he communicated.  He suspected the situation with George had been enough to at least hint at this preference he coveted.  

In the time that had passed since the attack on George, he felt fairly confident she had now cracked that code:  that she now realized what he was doing, and how he was doing it.  That was merely how he chose to express his feelings.  He had always been one to reach for her, almost since the start of her time at the agency.  It had only increased with time, and since their first trip to the Other Side several months ago, he had grown increasingly reliant upon it.  

It was, to him, a simple truth:  he simply didn’t open up to people often.  But once he did, he knew it meant something.  He wondered if she saw it now—the weight that it carried; to him, their bond and their relationship had been cemented when he had opened up to her, when he had opened the door to Jessica’s room.  

Lockwood knew she was aware of this, to some extent at the very least.  Their dynamic had changed once he had started opening up.  She appreciated his words, and he could admit that he appreciated the challenge that came along with that:  the push to better himself in the task of sharing things—with her, at least, if no one else.  

Still, he could acknowledge that that was her preferred method of communication; she preferred words and gifts of sharing:  a sharing of information.  That was what she needed in this conversation, here and now:  for him to meet her in the middle and make sure her needs were met, as well as his.  

Another second had ticked by, but he was no longer worried; he could hear her running down the stairs.  Hearing her approach, he became even more resolved to his task.  It didn’t matter if she was wearing the necklace, he decided; he would make sure she heard what she needed to hear, necklace or no necklace.  

He turned to face her just as she reached the curb of Portland Row, his new coat billowing around him as he did so.  It wasn’t quite up to snuff with his old one yet, but he had hopes that it would be broadcasting his energy, sweeping anyone in the vicinity in and along for the ride, in no time.  Even still, the coat may not have been consistent, but his smile was; he could already feel it pulling at his lips before he even met Lucy’s eyes.  

Lockwood knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself; his eyes wandered down, looking for the distinct sparkle of the necklace.  He spotted it at her neck, and his eyes couldn’t help lingering, taking in the sight of it.  To be honest, he stared at it.  He resumed counting the seconds again; at three, he forced himself to meet her eyes once more.  

Words weren’t exchanged, but an understanding passed.  He faltered in his goals; was putting words to his feelings strictly necessary, now that she had elected to wear the necklace?  

He thought about Lucy—about all that he knew about her, about all that he loved about her.  

Yes, it was necessary.  She deserved more, and she would get it.  

Silently, they fell into stride next to each other.  Dusk was setting; houses would be closing up very shortly.  With any hope, these days would be numbered.  

As always, he had a goal in mind:  a goal for their destination and the path they would take to get there, both in terms of the physical route as well as the trajectory of their conversation.  

Lockwood, true to form, started talking; he always had topics ready to avoid any form of apprehension:  he wanted to make everyone as comfortable as physically possible, and that meant avoiding uncomfortable silences at all costs.  

He started with familiar and comfortable topics, a fact Lucy seemed surprised by, if the widening of her eyes was meant to indicate anything.  They discussed any updates afforded by his most recent conversations with Barnes—things he had hesitated to tell the others just yet, for fear of a lack of permanence.  

Barnes had solicited their help in the matter of cleaning up the Fittes foils, and Lockwood had turned him down, but Barnes had remained quite adamant—far more adamant than Lockwood had let on to the others; he was still pressing the matter with Lockwood fairly regularly.  

Lucy was his partner.  He had gone to Hell and back with her—twice.  If there was anyone who should know the full extent of Barnes’s pressing, it was her.  He did not hesitate to share this with her, just as he knew he would not hesitate to hold the line with Barnes—just as he knew Lucy would not fear his ability to hold the line with Barnes.  He did not tell her this in an attempt to seek support on holding the line or to bolster his resolve; he was more than equipped on his own in that matter.  

No, he shared this with her so that she could hopefully feel appreciated:  so that she could feel consulted. He wanted her to feel validated.  Hopefully—selfishly, he amended, that voice in his head sounding:  the one that always appeared when he had something to blame himself for—sharing this with her and her alone would reaffirm the underlying initiative he sought in this conversation.  

As the topic of Barnes came to a natural close, he cleared his throat.  Perhaps he was imagining it, but he could nearly feel Lucy’s suspicions rolling off of her in waves; she had managed to feel the change in his tone, and it was reflected in her own mood.  

He could not say he was surprised; he was not one to hesitate, so it was unsurprising that this would raise a red flag for her.  He had done it moments before, in the attic, but that, too, was an uncommon experience for him.  Still, it didn’t overly concern him.  If she drew the connection, she would not be wrong; he was hesitating now, just as he had hesitated then, because of the sensitive matter of the content he wished to discuss.  

“Luce,” he started, once he thought he had found his footing; still, his eyes evaded hers—yet another uncommon sign that he knew she was likely to pick up on.  He hesitated yet again, only to laugh at his own embarrassment.  

With a shake of his head, he started again, settling into simply being honest and relying upon the realizations he, himself, had only managed to come to earlier.  “It’s so funny.  Words typically come so easily to me.  Manipulating Barnes into investigating Fittes?  Easy,” he released a humorless laugh.  “Persuading Kipps into the most dangerous action imaginable?  I didn’t even break a sweat.  But here, right now,” he released a deep sigh.  “I’m struggling to find my words.”  

He took another break, allowing himself to feel the full burden of the task he had undertaken.  He needed to do this—he owed her this.  Still, he felt his fingers flex reflexively; even subconsciously, his hand ached to reach out for her.  

Abruptly, Lucy’s hand was in his, her fingers weaving through to link with his own.  Warmth radiated from the meeting point, and he could feel that very warmth spreading through him from head to toe.  In no time whatsoever, it had reached his face, daring to escape from his smile, his eyes, as he moved his to meet hers.  

“This doesn’t mean you get the free pass,” she started, and he could hear the irony dripping from her voice; somehow, the challenge her words issued made the message he wished to convey even clearer, easier.  “Go on,” she waited, pausing on an encouraging nudge of her head.  

“The necklace—” he started, with another shaky breath.  “It was, as I told you before, gifted from—”

“Your father to your mother—” she continued for him, seemingly deciding to help him out.

“Yes, a very special gift—” he confirmed.

“Given once they had gotten together?” she questioned, her confidence in the facts growing frail.  

“As a symbol,” he continued, releasing a final deep breath, even as he nodded to confirm her understanding.  “Of his…undying devotion.” 

With a subtle turn of his trajectory, he brought them to their arrival point:  his family’s cemetery plots, including the infamous empty grave.  This had been his plan all along:  to bring her here.  But even he could admit that a chill ran down his spine at the sight of the still-empty grave.  

If it hadn’t been for her, he probably would’ve occupied it long ago.  She gave him a reason to go on living.  He knew that.  He hoped that she knew that, but, with any hope, and if things went according to plan, she would certainly walk away from this conversation knowing it.  But that wasn’t the only reason he owed her—the only reason he had her to thank for the fact that the grave remained empty to this day; she had saved his life on numerous occasions, just as he had saved hers.  

It was a partnership.  He saved her; she saved him.  He adapted to meet her needs; she adapted to meet his needs.  That was why, despite the struggle he felt at putting these things to words, he would do it, because she deserved nothing less.  

When Lucy followed his eyeline and spotted the focal point of their destination, he didn’t miss her barely repressed gasp in reaction.  She released a shaky breath, her eyes locked on the gravesites.  

Through their still-connected hands, he guided her towards the fallen headstone—the one they had occupied on their last visit here—and eased them into a seated position.  He nestled in quite close to her; given what they were here to discuss, there was no reason to be coy about it, and, to be frank, the brushing of their knees brought him comfort in an uncomfortable setting.  He needed it, just like he knew she needed to hear what he had to say.  

“I know you’ve worried about me a bit in the past, Luce,” he started, his eyes glued to the empty grave—for now, anyway; he was determined to force himself to look at her, and soon.  “The last time we were here, I told you…” he trailed off, slowly finding the courage to force his eyes to run from the empty grave to meet hers.  “I mentioned that I—I sometimes feel like I don’t want to be left out:  like I’m missing something by not being here.

“In the time that has passed,” he continued, with another humorless laugh.  “I have come to realize how those words could be interpreted.  I want to make one thing abundantly clear,” he continued, his eyes locking onto hers with renewed intensity.  “Yes, I miss my family.  Do I wish they were here?  Of course.  Do I wish I was on the Other Side with them?”  He shook his head.  “As if two trips there wasn’t enough to inform my decision of just how much I do not wish to inhabit the Other Side just yet, there are, still, other factors.

“Maybe I did at one time,” he mused, his eyes wandering back to the empty grave, but only briefly.  “Before I met George, before I met you—and Holly, and even Kipps.”  He stopped, but only to scrunch his nose at his own sense of surprise at his words.  

“I miss my family,” he started again, his eyes coming back to hers, with nothing but resolve in them.  “But I have a family here, too:  you and me and George and Holly and Kipps, and even Flo, come to think of it.  You are all factors that make it impossible for me to wish for death.  

“I wish they could see us, in truth,” he paused, smiling.  “If they knew the things George did with that skull inside their house…” He paused, contemplating the exact reaction his parents would have to such news.  “It would be quite interesting, I’m sure.

“But above all else,” he continued, his tone becoming serious once more.  “I wish they could meet you.  You are my partner, Lucy—my family.  That’s why I gave you the necklace.”  He leaned in, his tone full of passion, his hand reaching for the object in question.  For the smallest of moments, he allowed his fingertips to play with the gem found at the end of the gold chain.  He thought he might’ve heard her react—just the smallest inhalation of breath—but it was gone before he could definitively prove that it had happened at all.  

“I want to reassure you, once and for all,” he continued, pulling back slightly, but his passion was still in his eyes—even he could feel it.  “I do not have a death wish.  The Fittes thing—it had to be done.  It had to be done,” he repeated, his eyes still locked on hers.  “Morally, it was the right thing to do.  Even if Marissa hadn’t killed my parents, she needed to be brought down.”

Lucy nodded but kept silent.  He barely withheld a broadening of his smile; it was the physical reassurance that he needed in that moment—it drove him on, pushing him forward with his confession.  

“But at no time was I looking to die pointlessly.  I would’ve died for you—I still would die for you,” he continued, only to pause; her horror was abundantly clear upon her face, and it needed to be addressed.  “I know that’s what worries you,” he smiled, unable to avoid acknowledging their common understanding.  

“But don’t you think that’s just part of it?” he asked.  “Part of what we’re doing here?  You say you worry about it:  about me being willing to die if it means I can save you.  But did you not go up the elevator to Marissa’s office all by yourself, specifically so you could try to save me?”

It was Lucy’s turn to smile; she looked away from him for the first time since he had started talking, but her sudden bashfulness only made him stare at her with a broadening sense of intensity.  He did not wish to corner her, but he needed to know.  

“That’s fair, I guess,” she conceded, if only partially.  He smiled at her tenacity, but he was not yet done.  

“If you had died up there,” he started—hesitated.  It hurt—it physically hurt to put words to this, but it needed to be done.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “If you had died up there, and I was left with nothing but a body to bury—here, next to my mother, my father, my sister…” he trailed off, but only for a moment; he needed to push through, or he wouldn’t have the stamina to see this through to the end.  

Next to him, even Lucy was visibly struggling with this; he could feel it, as she broke off eye contact and ran her hands repeatedly over the material of her leggings, almost as if she were desperate for something proactive to do.  “If I was left with nothing to do but to put your body in the empty grave, how do you think I would feel about that?”  

She nodded, and he knew she had seen the logic in his reasoning.  “I did have that thought,” she confessed, her eyes still avoiding his.  “When the pillars fell, and I had nowhere to go, and all I could do was run, and I found myself suddenly dumped back by the elevators, I thought…” she trailed off, her eyes now coming to the empty grave.  “I could do it:  I could go up the elevator and finish her off while you attended to Kipps.  If I was quick about it, you wouldn’t have to play any part in it,” she added, her eyes finally coming back to meet his.  

He smiled, but there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes; he could feel it.  “No more doing that, okay?  I think what I’ve learned, at least, from this whole ordeal is that we’re better when we fight together.  When I cleared the debris in the Hall of Pillars, and you weren’t there—”

She sighed, nodding again in understanding.  It seemed, to him, that she had perhaps not thought of that:  of the paralyzing fear he had experienced at not being able to find her, knowing there were ghosts littering the room, knowing that Marissa was just an elevator ride upstairs.  

“What can I say, Lockwood?” she started, turning back to him again.  He could see it there:  she knew he was right, but her tenacity was not thrilled at the prospect.  “Meeting that Fetch in the basement of Aickmere’s…” she trailed off, but only for a moment.  “It got in my head.  That ghost told me this was our future:  that you would sacrifice yourself to save me.”  

“I may still yet,” he interjected, armed with his charming smile.  

“Don’t kid—”

“I’m not,” he interrupted again, his tone now completely serious.  “Wouldn’t you do it for me?” he asked, abandoning his usual go-to smile for a plea for honesty.  

She seemed to consider this, but only for the smallest of seconds.  “Obviously.”

“Then, it’s settled,” he pulled back, his air of charm returning.  “Moving forward, we’re going to categorize this as a perfectly logical reaction to loving someone, not as an expression of a death wish.”  

It was the closest he had ever gotten to directly telling her he loved her.  He knew it, and judging by the expression on Lucy’s face, she knew it too.  He knew it needed to be said—he knew it, just like he knew it was a mountain he had yet to climb.  He felt it—felt it so strongly it physically hurt sometimes.  But saying it…that matter still remained challenging to him.  

He didn’t get the sense that Lucy had experienced an overly loving and affectionate childhood.  One of several sisters and born under a woman that seemed only interested in what her children could do for her, Lockwood had the feeling that, perhaps, Lucy had never actually been told that she was loved.  

This made his task—his purpose—here all the more important.  She deserved to hear it.    

“Because you know that, right, Lucy?” he asked, looking at her expectantly.  She didn’t appear to know, from what he could see written upon her face; it spurred him on.  “Our family is worth living for:  Holly, Kipps, George—and you.  You are worth living for.”  

This, at the very least, seemed to be a somewhat familiar concept to her.  She startled at it, assuredly, but she seemed to adapt to the idea with an ease that had not been present thus far in the conversation.  Still, the fact that she had been startled by this comment at all meant his job was not yet done.  

He had taken a gasp—prepared to push on—when she beat him to the punch.  “You are too, of course—even if you’re occasionally taken under the spell of some extremely promiscuous spirit, causing me to have to use a trapeze wire to fly through a theater and save you.”

This change in topic shocked him, to the point where all he could do verbally was release a humorless laugh.  He would’ve considered this topic done and dusted:  an old issue that was no longer a problem.  Her bringing it back up in this conversation, when no reference had been made to it thus far, told him otherwise.  She still needed some follow-up communication on this topic, and while he could see this now, he could admit privately that this oversight indicated that he still had a long way to go towards learning the best way to communicate with Lucy Carlyle.  

He knew what she was trying to do, of course—what was to be implied by the informality of her tone:  she wanted to imply that this was merely a joke.  But that was not truly the case, and he knew it; inadvertently or purposefully, she had exposed an insecurity here, and it needed to be addressed.  

Settling into the resolve of finding the best possible way of responding, he looked away from her, but only for a mere moment.  “I’ve apologized for this,” he shook his head, his smile beaming, but then he paused, and he screwed up his courage.  “You do know what happened there, don’t you?”

“Lockwood…” she trailed off, with a shake of her head.  

Immediately, he could see from the dread upon her face that she didn’t—no matter what she had perceived within that situation, and how she had perceived it, she did not have the accurate information at hand; this, too, needed to be rectified, and quickly.  

“I don’t know if I necessarily need to hear about your attraction to the creepy ghost girl that slept with everyone’s husbands,” she finished; she had beaten him to the punch again.  

No, this would not do.  Knowing there was no other option, he decided to call on both of their preferred methods of communication; the situation warranted it.  He swooped in, clenching both of her hands in his once more.  

“You didn’t see it?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief; his eyes were glued to hers once again.  “It looked like you.  It had your hair and your eyes.  It was still in a dress—she couldn’t let go of her dresses, apparently,” he paused, shaking his head, as if to shake off this entirely insignificant detail.  “But it was the color of blue you always wear,” he commented.  His eyes lowered to her arm, even as one hand moved to run a thumb over the sleeve of her blue jacket, before moving back to reclaim its assigned hand.  

“It even had that same stubborn look you always give me,” he continued, his eyes coming back to meet hers, as he felt his smile come back to pack a punch of its own.  “The one you always send my way when I tell you to stay back and let me run into the dangerous situation.” 

Lucy seemed to contemplate on this for a while.  She looked away, almost as if she were attempting to recall the specific details of that day.  He kept his eyes locked on hers; he knew she preferred logic and things she could see with her eyes—which was, unfortunately, impossible, given that they were discussing a tricky situation with an equally tricky ghost—but he just had to hope that she could find something in her memory that prompted her to believe him.  

Before long, she had turned back to him, her confidence back in her eyes.  “I didn’t know that,” she confessed, and even though relief was washing over him at her belief in his statement, he could admit that he was surprised to hear direct confirmation that she had not known.  “And…” she paused.  It was clear to Lockwood that she wanted to ask something, but she was in the process of mustering up some courage of her own.  He waited her out, nodding encouragingly to her in the process.  

Finally, with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she seemed to resolve herself to posing her conundrum.  “So, you didn’t have a death wish at the time of that case.  So, then, I guess she didn’t go after you because you had a weak connection to life.” 

Her statement:  it was a statement, but it also wasn’t; there was a clear question implied in the way she asked in, in the anxiety he spotted in her eyes.  She was nervous—he could see it, clear as day, on her face.  He wasn’t certain what exactly could be making her nervous, but Lockwood had a feeling that if he just answered her question, maybe she’d answer his as well.  

“No—well, I don’t think so, anyway.  I don’t recall having a head cold at the time,” he carried on, his smile back in place.  “No, I believe Le Belle Dame sought me out because I fulfilled her other category,” he paused, his smile falling away once more, as he allowed the full severity of his confession to show upon his face.  “There’s a reason she looked like you to me, Luce.”  

He hadn’t stated it—not yet, but he was determined; he would get there, if it took all the courage he had at his disposal.  

With a sudden, sharp sigh, Lucy drew in his attention acutely.  She shifted, removing her hands from his grasp.  “If we’re getting confessional about the case of Le Belle Dame…” she trailed off, hesitating.  He could see her struggling, but he had no suspicions as to what precisely she could be struggling with; whatever was coming was quite important, but he had no preexisting knowledge to hint at what exactly was about to come.  “It’s my fault she went after you.  

“She got ahold of me…” she trailed off, her eyes losing focus.  “If George hadn’t been there, I would’ve been done for.  She got in my head; she rooted around for secrets, for ways to get to me.  And she found…” she trailed off again, and he found himself nearly hanging on the edge of the tombstone he had claimed as a seat; he needed to hear what came next.  “Well, you,” she finished, with a shrug, her eyes suddenly meeting his once more.  

Seeking a physical way to convey the severity of what he had to say, he reached in again; this time, his hands divided—one reached to reclaim one of her hands, while the other made its way up to cup one of her cheeks, drawing her in ever-so-slightly.  “You think it’s your fault.  I think it’s my fault.  You know who’s actually at fault?” he paused, his warm smile returning.  “The damn ghost.”  

“Well, with any hope, that’ll all be done soon.”  Lucy smiled, but it was different; her voice was hollow, breathless.  “But for now…” she trailed off, and, although she didn’t look away from his eyes, he knew she was referencing the change in the environment surrounding them.  

The sun had set; ghost fog had started to settle in amongst the tombstones.  They would need to return to Portland Row very soon, but that didn’t stop him from hesitating for just one more moment.  His eyes left his command, roaming her face at free will.  Still, he found them gravitating towards her lips.  

An intervening curl of ghost fog broke his trance.  “You’re right, of course,” he stated, his voice sounding more business-like than it had since they had settled in at the cemetery; he had a secondary goal within this conversation, and the journey back to Portland Row would serve as an extremely appropriate venue.  Keeping their hands connected, he eased her to her feet, and they started the trek back to Portland Row.  

“I do think you should reconsider my offer, Luce,” he started, admittedly—privately, at least—serving his ulterior motive.

“What offer?  You make several of them a day,” Lucy responded, with a sideway glance and a laugh.  “It can be hard to keep up, you know.”

“To move into the guest room, of course.  It would be nice to have you a little closer.”  

“What’s the matter?  Don’t like the idea of me living in your old bedroom?” Lucy asked, with another pointed laugh.  

“On the contrary, I’ve found that to be quite a comfort over the years,” he responded, his eyes sliding to meet hers.  “I merely mean to suggest that, if you should wish for it, I would not object to having you a little closer.”  

“Yeah, but Lockwood,” she started, with a sigh.  “Me?  In your sister’s room?  Wouldn’t that feel a little…” she trailed off, her nose scrunching in evidence of her discomfort.  “Morbid?  Inappropriate?”

“Oh, yes,” he started, his tone calm, cool, collected:  detached.  But his heart was hammering in his chest; this was the very precipice he had been hoping to navigate them to.  “You’re quite right.  That would be strange, wouldn’t it?  No, why don’t you just move into the big room?  With me?”  

She came to a stop, as he had anticipated she might.  Her grip on his hand slackened but maintained.  She stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide; no effort was made to check her surprise.  

He, alternatively, painted a picture of calm intellect, as he always did.  His heart was still pounding in his chest, yes, but it was excitement that drove him on, not nerves.  

Lockwood couldn’t be entirely certain when this idea had occurred to him.  Perhaps it had been earlier, when he had been visiting her attic bedroom.  It was perfectly adequate, and he had not been lying; he had often found that he quite loved the idea that he was able to share his childhood bedroom with her.  It had created a sort of unspoken bond that had existed from the moment of their meeting, in a sense.  

The truth was, Lucy, much like Lockwood, had outgrown that room.  In his opinion, that room was a room of necessity—of acquaintance.  Kipps was worthy of that room, and Holly had long been worthy of at least that room, but Lucy…she deserved more, and as he had sworn to give her what she deserves, he intended to see that through, even on this particular point.  

“You—you want me to move in with you?” she stuttered.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Lockwood started, with a scoff and a dismissive wave of the hand she wasn’t holding.  “That would be silly, as you already live with me, and have for several years.  Come on, Luce.  I thought you’d at least know that.”

“Lockwood,” she started, taking a step to approach him; her voice was admonishing now, in that way it could be when George did something to really peeve her off.  “Now is not the time for jokes.  Tell me what you want.”  

He nodded, understanding.  It was as he suspected:  words were the method she sought as comfort, and it was his job now to seek to meet her needs in that area.  His grip on her hand tightened, as he noted she had never released it; she was working to meet his needs, and he owed her the same courtesy.  

“I want you to move into the master bedroom with me because I love you.  I have loved you since…” he trailed off, genuinely thinking through the progression of events they had experienced together.  “At least our first trip to the Other Side, if not earlier.  I do not know what I would do without you, and I have no interest in finding out.  Move in with me, please.”  

He let that last word hit and hit hard.  It wasn’t begging, per say; it was a deep, raw drive to be honest:  to honestly express just how much he wanted—no, needed—her companionship.  She was his partner, in every definition of the word, and he would have it no other way.  

He expected a fight.  He loved her because she was stubborn, not in spite of it.  He was not disappointed.  

“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“We’ve known each other for two years.”

“But that’s hardly long, given our age—”

“Lucy, we’ve been to Hell together.  Twice.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t change our age—gray hairs, maybe, but not age.”

“I know it doesn’t.”  She gasped to interrupt him—to continue the bantering match—but he cut her off again.  “What it does impact is our relationship, which, I think you can agree, has been fundamentally changed by our time spent on the Other Side.  

“I could never be with anyone other than you,” he stated, his eyes refusing to stir from hers.  “That is an incontrovertible fact for me, because, while George and Kipps and Holly can understand that second trip, they can never grasp the consequences of the first:  the pure fear we felt at realizing where we were, the fight to survive, the closeness—physically and mentally and emotionally—prompted by the loss of your cape.”

He shook his head, recalling the pressing fear he had experienced on the Other Side with her, as if it had happened merely yesterday.  “That is an experience that I will only ever share with you—that only you will ever be able to understand.  I want someone sleeping next to me at night that can understand the horror—the misery—of that:  that might just understand when I wake up in a cold tremor in the middle of the night fearing a little girl—barely more than a child—in a blue dress.”  

She nodded, clearly recognizing the reference to the child they had seen on the Other Side, but said nothing else, as she paused for the smallest of moments.  Lucy seemed to be processing, and Lockwood did his best to simply follow the pounding of his heart.  The nearest ghost lamp flickered on; ironically, the light of it would be casting a shadow on the floor of the attic bedroom they were in the process of discussing.  It shed light on the room, unseen, but, for him, it also shed light on the missing part of this conversation. 

He released her hand, choosing, instead, to run both of his up to cup her chin.  Lockwood paused, as he more felt than saw her draw in a hissing breath.  Her eyes finally made their way up to meet his, and yet, still, he waited.  “Am I pressing too close?” he asked. 

It echoed.  It echoed around the empty street.  It echoed off the iron strips leading to the front door of 35 Portland Row.  It echoed off the window panes of the exact room in question.  

But more importantly, it echoed through his mind—to a time standing on the Other Side, to a time spent sharing a singular cape that was literally the only thing keeping them alive, to a time when he had asked if he was pressing too close, to a time when, internally, he begged that she wouldn’t say no, for he feared that he could not withstand the loss of her closeness, her warmth, her love.  

And, just as she had said then, she settled for a simple, but resolved, “no.”  

Audibly, the ghost lamp turned off, entering its dormant phase.  

Barely able to contain the pounding of his heart in his chest, he closed the distance between them.  His lips met hers.  

Lockwood did not often prioritize taking care of himself.  He took care of all others.  He sought to check in with others regularly, and if they needed anything, it was his job to get it for them.  

He had taken care of Lucy in this conversation.  He had finally—finally—told her he loved her.  He had seen to her needs—her preferences for communication.  

This, alternatively, was his preferred method of communication:  touch.  He craved contact with Lucy; it was why he always reached out for her, especially in the darkest of times.  

Lucy, for what it was worth, seemed to have perceived this.  Whether consciously or subconsciously, she seemed to have an appreciation for the fact that he had been the one to predominantly take the risks in this conversation; at every turn, it had been him initiating the broadening and deepening of their relationship.  Now, Lucy seemed to understand that it was her turn.  

Lockwood initiated the kiss, but she didn’t let it stagnate.  She pressed in closer, her arms moving to snake through the opening in his jacket and encircle his waist.  To his surprise, he heard his own verbal reaction to the move.  His fingers moved, weaving through the line of her hair at the base of her neck and pulling her in even closer.  

He had often daydreamed about sharing this very moment with Lucy, and he didn’t let a second pass unnoted.  He tilted his head, pulling on his height to deepen the kiss.  Lucy’s arms around his waist tightened their grip, pulling him in even tighter.  

This was how she told him she loved him.  Her resolve, her tenacity, her confidence—all those wonderful things she brought to a conversation with him:  it was all clear in this moment, with the ghost fog swirling around them, with the moonlight reflecting on the pavement, for once shining brighter than the dreaded nearby ghost lamp, which still lay dormant.  

Their lips parted, as they tried to catch their breath, but their foreheads sought to connect; he brought his to rest upon hers, and hers met his in the middle.  

“Okay,” she started, her voice sardonic—but he could hear it:  the irony.  “I’ll move in with you, I suppose.”  

“Good,” he responded, his smile returning.  “That was the correct answer.”  At her gasp to bicker, he sought to move quicker.  He reached down, interlinking their hands once more, before moving swiftly to approach the door to 35 Portland Row.  “Now, we can make all the necessary preparations tomorrow, of course.  Moving will be far easier by daylight, obviously.”  He spoke quickly, throwing his words over his shoulder at her.  “But for now, I think we’ll have enough to get by, don’t you?  Just go get changed, whatever you need to be comfortable for the evening, and I’ll wait up for you.”  

“Is that a request or an order?” she asked as they made their way through Portland Row’s front door and started to ascend the stairs, their hands still connected.  

“It’s neither, of course!”  He had the decency to sound indignant.  “It’s a suggestion, naturally.”  

Quick as a flash, he had gotten her up the stairs to reach the door to the attic.  “I’ll see you in a few?” he asked. 

Yes, he asked.  For all his confidence, for all his charm, for all his presumptions, for all his persuasion, he knew how to show his insecurities.  It was rare, and it was difficult to discern; this was intentionally done.  But when he needed to ask, he asked.  

And he was asking here, now.  Sure, he had presented the idea with nothing but confidence—and he was confident, to a certain degree.  But he didn’t want to take a step backward; he wanted to show her his vulnerability, in his own way, with his words—when he could and when he felt comfortable.  

This was that moment.  And, true to form, Lucy didn’t let him down.  

“I’ll be there in five minutes, assuming I don’t get lost on the harrowing journey down the stairs,” she answered, with a small smirk.  

###

He waited up for her, as he had promised.  And, just as she had promised, she was there within five minutes.  Still, he used each of those five minutes to the best of his ability.  He tidied his already extremely tidy room.  He made sure he was satisfied with the furnishings, fluffing any pillows, refolding already folded blankets, turning down the bed so that she knew she was well and truly welcomed here.  

He slipped into his pajamas:  a simple white shirt and pair of black fitted joggers.  He tucked his clothing from the day away in its assigned spots:  dirty clothes chucked in the hamper residing in the closet, new coat hanging from the bedpost, just as the previous one always had.  

He had found just enough time to complete three laps of pacing when she opened the door.  She didn’t knock; he liked that—it indicated this was now just as much her room as it was his.  

Suddenly, she was in the room, in the pajamas he had seen her wear on several occasions.  He released a deep sigh:  a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in as a result of his anxious awaiting of her arrival.  

“We should get to bed,” he stated, seeking a sense of normality.  He approached her, reaching for her hand yet again, and guided her toward the bed.  “You never know what tomorrow will bring.”

“Maybe the Problem will be over, suddenly and sharply.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he scoffed.  “Far more likely, yet another meeting with Barnes, during which he’ll beg us for more assistance,” he continued, slipping into bed.  Their connected hands led her to slip in behind him.  

When he turned to face her, she was settling in, shifting comfortably on her pillow.  “You’ll hold him off,” she said, with a scrunch of her nose indicating her confidence in his defiance.  “He can deal for a few days.  We’ve carried more than our fair share of weight for a while—earned a leave of absence, we have.”  

He smiled; he couldn’t help it.  Seeing her here, hearing her validate any and all of his feelings:  his heart was pounding painfully with the weight of the happiness of it all.  “Quite right.  Do you mind hitting the light behind you?” he asked, with a nod in the direction of the lamp on the nightstand behind her.  

Silently, she rolled over and did so.  Hoping he wasn’t pressing too close in an unwanted way, he slipped in before she could roll back over to face him.  Settling his arm around her waist and placing his head to share the same pillow that hers occupied, he waited, attempting to read her body language for any signs of displeasure at this move.  On the contrary, she settled in, easing back further into his chest.  The affirmation had impeccable impacts upon him; he breathed a sigh of relief and allowed his eyes to ease close.  

In the dark, she whispered, “I love you, Lockwood.”  

His eyes opened sharply, but his body did nothing to indicate his surprise; he made no movements:  he did not startle.  “I love you too, Lucy.”  

He allowed his eyes to ease close once more, the relief at having her here consuming him, and helping him drift off to the most peaceful sleep he had experienced since the death of his sister.  

His last thought, if he could even call it that, as it was not fully formed, was that she deserved this, but he deserved this too.  

A/N:  Thank you for taking the time to read this!  It means a lot to me!  If you liked my writing style, and if you’re looking for something to read in the fantasy/YA genre, please consider checking out my book! 

[ihatechosingnames]

This post will be short.

After seeing Bruce skip town to be Batman full-time and alone, I say he needs to see a therapist, an exorcist (for Zur and every version of Zur he created by jumping dimensions), and a second therapist. In this exact order.

This man has not heard of "burnout syndrome" which he probably has since he did Zur, Red Mask, Insomnia, whatever and Gotham War one after the other without rest. His mind needs as much rest as his body, he doesn't need to push it till he dies.

The thing is I was hoping that this arc would have lead to some kind of revelation for Bruce to change to became a better man, but it's since the golden times of Robin-Dick that this man has made questionable decisions, and I'm not talking about letting an underage grieving child to go out and fight adult criminals. I'm talking about Zur, that he created to protect himself from "psychological attacks". I'm talking about the machine he created to "cure" Jason of his murderous way, which I theorized he created for the Joker. It is heavily implied (by the bold characters) he created both Zur and the machine around the same time.

Which makes me ask: for who he created originally this machine?

Dick, asking what happened to Jason, before disconnecting Bruce is a good move, I haven't read a lot about Dick (I mean, the last thing I've read about Dick was Vampire King Dick) but it seems that until the last minute he was conflicted, knowing what happened snapped him

the argument Bruce tries to use on Dick, about saving Jason's future victims, reeks about hypocrisy. He could have used to "cure" the Joker from his murderous insanity. Bruce truly thinks this is a cure and Jason's violence is a sickness

I don't think Dick would have been so calm in the last conversation with Bruce if he knows this.

I'm not exactly happy that Bruce has left behind his family by telling Dick and Barbara to be the parents. First of all, a group of family is not defined by traditional roles. Dick and Barbara can lead their family of brothers and sisters by still being their siblings, not their parents. Second, how dare he leave his children. In good and in bad, especially in the bad, he is their father and he just leaves. What about Damian? What about Tim? Steph? Cass? Duke? Jason?

In my opinion, at that point, Dick should have decked him again.

Bruce has a moral responsibility towards all of them, for being not only their mentor, but also being a father figure for them. Being a parent is not a job you can decide to pass on to the next person.

On the other side, I think it was much needed. Bruce was literally at the bottom and was digging even deeper, he now needs to climb up from the grave he dug. Hopefully, the next arc is going to be exactly this, Bruce getting better, in his own time. The chances he actually goes to a therapist are very low, near the impossible, but someone can hope.

[nualaofthefaerie]

Holding Hands

Pairing: Death of the Endless x Wanda

Content: SFW

Type: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, a little bit of both

Content warnings: death (what a surprise)

Author's note: I wrote this in haste. I was entirely possessed by the concept so I rushed to write. Death x Wanda are my top wlw ship and I hope you all will see my vision.

It felt rather numb.

Wanda had always imagined death to be painful - stabbing through one’s soul, tearing at it, then gnawing it until there was nothing left. Life had certainly made her believe so. And death was supposed to be far worse.

In life she had to forge a path for herself, by herself. No one really gave her another choice and she certainly was not going to give those she left behind the satisfaction of complaining. Although she probably should have done so. If she had shouted, if she had resisted, created a mess, they would have had no other choice but to acknowledge her existence.

“Ts.” Her tongue clicked as she hovered over her aunt, crying through gritted teeth. “As if you ever cared.”

It was utterly grotesque to watch all of these people who had decided to burn their bridges with her, now mourn over her grave.

“That’s not even my grave!” she threw her hands in the air. “Alvin Mann is who you assholes are grieving!”

“I do not think they can hear you.”’

Wanda had indeed imagined death to be painful. But she was beautiful. She had a warm smile on her face and an awfully every day New Yorker look about her. The weather was nothing less but suffocatingly hot, yet Death wasn’t even sweating in her leather ensemble.

“I know you, yet I am sure we’ve never met.” Wanda’s brows gathered at the tips.

“We have.” Death laughed. “We have met so many times, Wanda. You are a rather reckless one.”

Wanda retreated back into the green fields away from her own funeral. No, Alvin’s funeral.

“Well, I do not remember you then.”

“Of course.” The tiny wrinkles around Death’s eyes raised and Wanda’s heart, although now certainly dead, skipped a beat. For all that had changed throughout the years the one thing that never truly did was Wanda’s affinity for falling in love with women out of her league. She’d reckon Death was at the top of that list. “Back at the Marquee a few years ago, in that bathroom-“

Wanda’s heart sank. She remembered the night at the Marquee well. Barbie had left for a few days and without her constant supervision, the anxiety had gotten the better of her and Wanda had fallen into old habits, habits she wasn’t particularly proud of.

“They said I was supposed to be dead then, you know.” Wanda sat down in the grass.

“You were.” Death nodded, sitting next to her. “I was supposed to take you away that night.”

“Do you do that for all of us? Take us away?”

“Well, I am a notoriously hard worker.” Death laughed, pulling out a pair of Ray Ban sunnies. “But yes, I try to be there for all of you. If I cannot, I have a small, but diligent group of helpers and subsets of my existence that will take care of any abnormalities…” she stopped mid sentence, turned her head to one side and laughed again. “Except a few special abnormalities. The universe can become a bit boring if we are all to constantly play by the rules, which is why I took you to the hospital instead of taking you with me. You were not completely gone then, so I was presented a choice and I took it.”

“Why?” Wanda interrupted her.

“Why not?” Death’s chin rose to the skies, satisfied with her vague answer.

“I died anyways.” Wanda shrugged.

“We will all die anyway.”

“Even you?”

“Well…I think so, yes.” Death’s booth dug into the dirt, but she kept looking at Wanda. The dead girl

“And who will take you?”

“You are a very nosy one, do you know that?”

Wanda tried picking up a flower but her fingers slipped through it like wind.

“Ha. Yeah, I do actually. At least Barbie always said that I ask too many questions.” Wanda then grew quiet, looking over the splash of black across the green field. Barbie was nowhere to be seen. Did she even know Wanda had died? Had anyone told the only person who was going to mourn Wanda as opposed to whoever’s body was in that damn coffin, she had died? The sun didn’t feel so warm anymore. “You know I always thought death would be painful.”

“Well, I do try to be gentle with you all. Frankly, I’m not even the scariest one of us all.”

“Us?”

“Not of importance.” Wanda nodded distractedly. She was still thinking about Barbie. “It is not so bad. I have seen deaths with a lot less…turnout.”

Wanda shook her head.

“It’s empty to me.”

“You should not leave this world filled with resentment.” Death’s smile dropped. “It’s not good for you.”

Wanda’s blood boiled at the thought. Her head turned sharply to the beautiful, but cruel Death.

“And how else am I supposed to leave? How else are we supposed to leave? I don’t owe them my forgiveness. They are not even here for me! They finally get to mourn the man they wanted but never got! I bet some of them are even glad I’m dead! They won’t have to give anyone awkward pauses anymore after someone asks them ‘And how is Alvin?’.” her jaw clenched. “And it is not only me! There are thousands, millions of people probably who feel the same as I do – abandoned, lonely, ostracised for nothing more than being ourselves. Yet, I am the one who should bestow them my forgiveness?!”

Death’s silence was deafening. She turned her gaze upon the crowd gathered around the Catholic priest whose voice raised above the hills. Quiet hiccups and sharp whispers carried through the winds all the way to Death’s ears. Her sigh sent a chill through the spine of every living creature.

“You are right.” She said at the end with all the seriousness in the world. “They do not deserve your forgiveness. But if your soul is not restful, I cannot take you.”

“Then don’t.”

“That is worse.” Death grabbed her hand. It was warm. Especially for a ghost. “Listen to me. You need to. Not for them. For you.”

“I can’t.” Wanda whispered. “I can’t just leave and let them win.”

Death kept her rules simple. She was not to get attached by any means to anyone, ever. Morpheus’ romantic frivolities were fascinating to watch, no doubt, but they were nothing she could afford. She was the eldest. She held it together so Destiny could remember. Simple. It was simple. That is how an eternity of existence had passed. Death worked alone. It was not her job to fix humanity, it was her job to observe, to learn and take. Enough cheaters existed already.

“You have to.” She whispered back. “I do not wish for you to feel pain.”

Enough cheaters, indeed. Yet, Death found herself holding Wanda’s hand tightly, her eyes firmly set on Wanda’s that shone in a dashing hazel colour. If she had a heart, the woman’s conviction and will would have certainly made it skip a beat. But she didn’t. Death was self aware enough to recognize attraction. She had very rarely felt it herself, but it was not as if she could ever act upon it. ‘Fucking a ghost is like a therapist fucking their client.’ She thought to herself. Still, her ether was moved.

‘There are enough exceptions. Enough cheaters.’ She was reminding herself like a mantra, hoping it would return her own unwavering principles. It did not. It only made her hold onto the dead woman even tighter (if that was even possible).

Then Wanda jumped, pulling up Death with her.

“Barbie!” Emerging from the pit of black clad mortals, was a woman, holding onto the arm of a man Wanda recognized in an instant. “The Mister!” she shouted, looking at Death. “I know this man.”

“I am sure you do.” Death nodded.

“No. I know him. I worked for him when I died.”

“I know.” Death sighed at the sight of her brother.

Morpheus, gallantly dressed as ever, was accompanying Barbie to the Wanda’s grave. His head turned towards the hill only once. He nodded, silently, as he usually did, then turned and re-engaged in a conversation with Barbie.

“I didn’t know they were acquaintances.”

“They are not. Barbie knows him as much as you know me.”

“Who is he really?”

“My stupid idiot of a brother.” Death turned her head to one side again. Wanda couldn’t tell if she did that when she was curious or agitated.

“So he can see us then?”

“Oh, yes. Even if he doesn’t want to.”

“And Barbie?” she asked, filled with hope, quickly shattered by Death’s gentle shake. “I understand.” The words forced themselves past her lips.

A shout interrupted the solemn conversation. Her aunt was shouting at Barbie, who wore the most outraged look on her face.

“You will not besmirch Alvin’s name with your lies!”

“Her name was Wanda.” Barbie’s shout far surpassed anything Wanda’s aunt could muster. She could always outshout anyone, Wanda smiled remembering all the times she had found that trait annoying. Now it felt more than welcomed. “She was a kind, understanding woman, who had all her life in front of her. She only ever did that stupid job because of you!”

“Now,you-“ the old woman raised her hand, prepared to strike Barbie for all her disobedience, but it never landed.

“I would advise against such displays of unnecessary violence.”

Death’s brother, that weird tall and lanky mister, sounded menacing. Wanda swore he did not sound like that mere days ago. The aunt let go without further fuss. The coffin was slid into the ground, covered with dirt and that was it. The crowd dispersed with no excitement, only exacerbated sighs and puffy from crying eyes.

Wanda could not help but roll her own. Death chuckled, then offered her hand once more.

“Come on. I will re-introduce you to him.”

Wanda took it, no questions asked. She thought she would take it dead or alive. Oh, how much she wished she could tell Barbie about this beautiful woman; the young divorcee would certainly find the story amusing.

“Brother!” Death led Wanda by the hand back down the hill and into the crowd.

“Sister.” His response was far calmer than the excited shout of Death and her waving. “Excuse me, miss Barbara.”

“Of course.” Barbie nodded in both directions, sniffling quietly under her nose.

“Wanda?” Death placed her other hand on her shoulder, but Wanda did not move. She watched as Barbie rubbed her tears away violently, smudging her intricate makeup; fell to her knees, while her white stocking rolled in the dirt; pulled out Wanda’s favourite lipstick – a decade old Mac in bright, bright pink, and with all the love in the world dragged it across Alvin Mann’s name, writing “Wanda” instead. Nothing more, just Wanda.

“I love you.” Barbie’s jaw was clenched, but she continued talking. “You were the closest I had ever had to a soulmate. I still think Ruby might have been a better name, but you loved Wanda too much. So, Wanda, don’t you dare leave me, you hear me?! In spirit, as a ghost, whatever. Don’t leave before I leave.” Barbie got up, dusted herself off and without saying goodbye, left.

Wanda couldn’t bear to look after her, but she did feel anger rise in her.

“I deserve my goodbye.” She turned her head to the Endless.

“You get what everyone gets, dear.” Death smiled quietly. “Nobody ever gets to settle all of their affairs.”

“I am not talking to you.” The curls on Wanda’s head bounced as she turned to the King of Dreaming. “You. I am dead because of you.”

Death barely contained the delightful laugh about to escape her. How full of surprises can a ghost be?

“One does not fare well exploiting me.” Death’s brother looked down upon her. For a moment Wanda felt fear, then remembered she is already dead and there was nothing more that could happen to her anyways. So she put her hands on her hips, looked up and with a silent pout demanded. He looked sternly over his sister. “Will you intervene, sister?”

“No.” Death trailed unsure. She felt herself tapping in waters unknown even to her. “I do not think I will, actually.”

The man sighed.

“Your punishment of me is wholly unnecessary.”

“I am not punishing you, Dream.” Death put her hands in her pockets, intrigued to see where the conversation went.

“Hey. I am still here. Here’s what – you let me say my goodbyes with whatever magic is it you have, and I don’t blame you for the rest of eternity.” Wanda held her own. She imagined the stronger she appeared the easier it was going to be convincing the man of her wishes. “All I want, Dream, is to say goodbye.” She bawled her hands in fists, but still refused to look away.

‘I will not die out quietly. I will not.’ Wanda repeated to herself, time and time again.

“Perhaps, I can offer you a different solution.” Dream began with composure. Death knew what he was about to do. He had the habit of picking up strays and she watched them all grow utterly devoted to him, each in their own way, but they were a loyal, close knitted group. She imagined Wanda amongst them. She didn’t like that thought. Her ether was pricked, she felt it as it twisted and turned in a knot. 

For the first time in a long, long, long time Death felt the universe come out of its axis, as realisations she had hoped to never think of in their entirety clouded her judgement.

“He can offer you a goodbye, but that would be followed by servitude. I…” what was she doing? “I can offer you something better. You don’t want to go yet, do you?”

“Not if it can be helped.”

“It can be. I need…assistance moving souls from one place to another; delivering some messages of fright and finding missing souls.” She did not look at her brother in that moment, but Death certainly felt his almost mocking gaze upon her. ‘He will never let me live this down.’

“Alright.” Wanda nodded with no hesitation, grabbing onto Death’s hand.

“It is not a job for kind people.”

“I think I will fit the role of a mean ghost quite well.” Wanda rushed to lock their arms, giddy. Frankly, she thought Barbie would understand the desire to follow Death into…well, death, but more importantly she wouldn’t have to say goodbye to Barbie quite yet. She could spent her time with the most beautiful, kind woman to exist and love her from afar, even possibly from up close, while waiting for her soulmate.

“I think so too.” Death whispered.

“Very well, then. Where do we begin?”

“I need to bid my brother farewell.”

“Of course.” She unwrapped herself from Death, pointing at the hill. “I will wait for you there, okay?”

“Yeah.” Death nodded.

Wanda ran, while Death remained, her nightly shadow behind her.

“Do not say anything.”

“I do find it especially amusing considering your strict convictions.”

“Morpheus?”

“Sister.”

“Zip it.”

Morpheus offered a coy smile.

“It is a refreshing moment, indeed.”

“Do you feel vindicated?”

“Very much so. Enjoy the misery of these humane feelings you love talking about so much, big sister. You will quickly find out, they do leave scars.” He finished on a sour note.

“Okay, okay. Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then go.” Death pulled his ear. “Get out of here.”

“Will you not ask me how she died?”

“No. I do not wish to know. I do not wish to be part of this concoction that is you and Delirium. It is too much. Even for me.”

“Very well, then. Good day sister.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind only the ghost of Wanda, who was smiling and waving as if she had been offered a whole new life.

“Come on!”

Death smiled and waved back.

She was perhaps allowed to cheat herself once in a while.

AN: I hope you enjoyed that. I am unsure whether I would do this again, probably not simply because I do wish to keep my blog exclusively about Nuala, however @orionsangel86 offered me kindness in the last week that I am eternally grateful for. So this is my present for them.

[eyezdrawz]

im bored so im dropping poetry for y'all to see, there are prob spelling mistakes but whatever, poetry under cut TW: BLOOD, ROT, SUICIDE, DEATH, SHOOTINGS, GORE

I worked really hard on these so I'd appreciate your reblogs and comments <3

Collection of poetry by me

The liar’s real identity – Eyez

I look back on my life, cliche like others

But I wonder where I went wrong to get to who I am

And I wonder where I went right to stay who I am

Why did I meet these people who tortured me

And Who have I wronged to torture myself

Lonely nights and lively days

But I control this so why don't I change

To feel is to live and to live is to feel

But we all live so that one day we can all die

What am I feeling?

I ask everyone yet no one answers

Who am I supposed to be?

I ask no one yet everyone answers

Sensitive to everyone’s thoughts of deathbut not sensitive enough to care about yours anymore

I should but it hurts to see what has your thoughts deceived to be

Now I lie

Lie about love

Lie about pain

And all your love was shoved into vain

You can’t forgive me

And I can’t forgive myself

So let me put our hidden memories on top that dusty shelf

Educational Boredom – Eyez

Walls surrounding her

Wanting her

Trustfully closing in

On all solivagant souls

biblichor on her graphite-covered hands

Clinomania stuck in her head

Moon-struck faces fade away

Yet all she wants is to be successful

Tears fall down her smiling face

Unable to feel until it's too late

Stamina wasted on walking nowhere

Why can’t she move?

She is

Just in the wrong direction

Peacefully walking into her own grave

Say goodbye to a person who loved her

She didn't like to say I love you back

A sister in hand one in another

Justice paying a toll for one and the other

School stringing drama together

Instead of sewing study's goals

Breathing notes and spying books

Warm sweaters and itching-raw tank tops

Jumping clues go out to life

Where will I lead without any strife

Scared to love

I don't want to feel you

Scared to die

I don't want to be you

Infinite hallways lead to everywhere

Unlock the doors

Logophile, she continues to read

Humanity to one person loosing hope – Eyez

Typing things no one will read

Singing things no one will hear

Making things no one will see

Being someone something will fear

Humans are unknown yet we think we know everything

We ruminate about the world yet we dont explore it

So much to see yet not enough time to do it

We love to waste time and momentum

We love to waste effort and spirit

Hating the idea of being bullies while we bully others

It takes a special type of hypocrisy to be decievingly known

Is someone truly good?

Is something truly bad?

Is it the way we look at things?

Is it the perspective that we have to change?

Why not our actions

Why not our thoughts

Why not our people

Why not your bots

jolting up at 3 am because you heard a feather fall

Ignoring the screaming at 1 pm because you heard those sirens call

We’re to used to the bad

Take the shootings for granite

But when something is different

When something is new

Hiddin in our corrupt minds, you want to ban it

Bodies falling

Teenagers screaming

Parents begging

Stomach wailing

Its their heads hitting the ground

Its their minds in the clouds

Karma beating those who did not behave

But only after their scuicidal minds hit the grave

Your heart is not the symbol of love – Eyez

Moon shines on different roofs

Faking a smile yet loving the truth

The undead roaming like the unspoken history

Questions haunt the earth behind blind eyes

The vessel for our souls

The beast is our bodies

Shapeshifting organs twist and turn

In the bloody home we call the heart

Living the years looking like corpses

Orderly chaos consumed by our voices

Yet we have yet to rot

Living the dream in the grave you dug for me

You living the nightmare thinking its your fantasy

Good events turn to bad

Just one chime of the clock and we all go mad

The older the mind the stranger the hunger

The younger the truth the more likely the liar

Gruesome births and calm deaths

Become to newborn version of the generation

One by one we all fall apart

Fading piece by piece into extinction

Vulgar words even more the vulgar sentence

Death and love become your only special entrance

The alternative - Eyez

Sleep here in the ground

Blood behind your mind

Secrets revealed night before

You where fine just days ago

I look away from the grave

Your new home I made

I see your parents

Grieving privately

They search my eyes

Looking for my excuses

I have none to give

I raise my hands

A sign for surrender

A sign for peace

Blood drips down them

I wish my love not ceased

Weary needs, Guilt in my eyes

Sorry please don't make innocent cries

[rphelperblog]

YA Book Villain Quote Meme

feel free to edit or change pronouns for rp purposes-Inspired by the crime threads and wishlist by @silvcrflames​

“Love is a conquest! Love is war!”

“It is better to have an enemy who will fight you in an open field then a lover who will kill you in your sleep.” 

“I am capable of choosing my battles, so that I may win the war.”

“Everyone has darkness inside them, however hidden.” 

“Fine, make me your villain.”

“I am tired of being used, hurt, and cast aside. It is my turn to use. My turn to hurt.” 

“If the devil only punishes bad people, wouldn’t that make him good?”

“If I cannot move heaven, then I will raise hell.”

“To love is to destroy, and to be loved is to be destroyed.”

“Being underestimated always works to my advantage. But sometimes I find it offensive. That often makes me violent”

I belong to no one. On this night, I swear to you that I will rise above everything you’ve ever taught me. I will become a force that this world has never known. I will come into such power that none will dare hurt me again.” 

Even the devil was once an angel"

“I will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no shelter but mine.”

“I will do everything in my power to destroy all who stand in my way.” 

“What is so great about being good?” 

“Don't cry. You are stronger than that.” 

Pain enhances beauty”

“Fear is power,” 

“They've never found the body of the first and only boy who broke my heart. And they never will.” 

“It’s the things we love most that destroy us.”

“Pain goes away eventually,Death is permanent.” 

“Embellish your flaws. They will turn into your assets.” 

“A good queen was a well-informed queen.” 

“It is my turn to use. My turn to hurt”

“How many times have you been called an abomination?”

“Sorry, always sorry. What in the world can you buy with an apology?” 

“Some of us are broken and there’s nothing you can do to fix it.” 

“Ideally, a lady will have three toys at once. One to romance her, one to bed her, and one to adorn her with very expensive jewelry.” 

“Maybe she truly was hideous. But so long as she could deceive everyone, what did it matter?” 

“So. Tell me, little wolf. Do you want to punish those who have wronged you?” 

“I would not allow myself to die in the grave I'd dug.” 

“What is the point of searching for love, when love is nothing but an illusion?” 

“Everything else in the world is but a sham. Death is the only sincerity.”

“But true rulers are not born. We are made.” 

“In my fury, I killed him.” 

I only ask for obedience. If that is too hard, I can help. It is easier to obey without a tongue, and easier to kneel without legs.”

“Some hate us, think us outlaws to hang at the gallows.Some fear us, think demons to burn at the stake,Some worship us, think us children of the gods.But all know us.” 

“She had not seen the bodies, but she had seen the bedrooms the next morning, and her first thought was that all that blood would make for a very pretty rouge on her lips.” 

““It was all her fault. Everything was her fault. She had ruined every moment .”

"If you had, you'd know I've already killed for love once before."

“I’ve an inclination to kill again,”

“You and I are playing a very dangerous game.” 

“Already, I'm starting to forget the face of the man I killed.” 

My fury heightens. Everyone. They will cower at my feet, and I will make them bleed.” 

“I see him lying on the ground and all I feel is disgust.” 

“So many poor and desperate, come to see me suffer in order to distract themselves from their own hungry lives.” 

“That's another thing to love about me. I steal.”

“No one wants you to be yourself. They want you to be the version of yourself that they like.” 

“In this moment, I am a god.” 

“I will keep you, until the day I choose not to. You have destroyed and harmed all that is dear to me. In return, I want you to know what that feels like. I will not kill you. I will keep you alive. I will torture you. Until your soul is dead.” 

We are so much lovelier when we fall. “

“There was once a time when darkness shrouded the world, and the darkness had a queen.” 

“I've been waiting for you a long time. You and I are going to change the world.” 

Take it, and cut your brother's throat with it, and take back the honor of your blood.”

“You two have a bad habit of acting like fools and calling it heroic.” 

“I am the nightmare.” 

“The darkness bows to me, eager for my embrace. I close my eye, open my heart to the feeling, and soak in the delight of vengeance.” 

“Fear motivates, more than love or ambition or joy. Fear is more powerful than anything else in the world. I have spent so long yearning for things—for love, for acceptance—that I do not really need. I need nothing except the submission that comes with fear. I do not know why it took me so long to learn this.” 

“And I'm not horrified. I look at it, indulging in the darkness around me, feeding me, strengthening me, and I realize that I'm happy I killed him. Truly happy.” 

“I am mostly human. But when I allow myself to use the gifts my mother gave me, I become something else. And it kills me a little inside each time I have to fight it back off.” 

“If she were to see you, she would kill you.”

“A challenge and an insult all wrapped into one. My specialty.” 

Sometimes you must lose everything to gain it again, and the regaining is all the sweeter for the pain of loss.”

[bumblebugwrites]

and since i know exactly zero people asked, here's an entire post on how stick season belongs to my district 7 kids and my district 7 kids alone.

starting off strong with joanna mason who frankly could have been noah kahan's sole muse in writing this shit. who will never not be the first person i think of when listenting to "orange juice," if not soley for the lyric "it made you a stranger/ it filled you with anger." the song, to its credit is largely about sobriety, but also so much so about the manner in which a person is changed by the consequences of their own actions, which here is the car crash. still, i can't help but think of the way it mirrors her situation entirely, having contributed to the deaths of anyone she held dear through speaking out and refusing the captiol's wishes. on top of that, we are left with this character who has likely grown to resent the place from which she came for what it has come to represent.

i truly feel that i probably don't even need to connect the dots between joanna and "northern attitude," but for shits and giggles, "if i get too close/ and i'm not how you hoped/ forgive my northern attitude/ oh, i was raised out in the cold." nothing, in my mind, truly captures the division we feel between katniss and joanna in catching fire like these lyrics here. and sure, joanna was never the biggest fan of the other girl, but we do eventually see a friendship of sorts, both clouded and grounded in the two womens' mutual respect for one anothers' detatched aspects, far less warm than say peeta, or finnick.

finally, "the view between villages," which, as one of the only victors we see from 7, is such a gut-wrenching song when thought of with joanna in mind. "a minute from home, but i feel so far from it." this for the woman taken from her family to play in the games, only to return, likely traumatized, with her perspective on her district ultimatley changed and forever altered by the death of cede family at the hands of the capitol. "it's all washin' over me, i'm angry again/ the things that i lost here, the people i knew." again, this sentiment of frustration at returning home and the memories it brings about. and then of course, the obvious allusion made by the literal view between villages, a perfect means of capturing joanna's new life as a victor, pulled between the capitol and her home that no longer feels like it once did.

moving on to treech (or at least the version we see in the movie) who i think is probably best represented by "halloween." i find that i can often etch out meaning in every lyric of this song when it comes to him and specifically his relationship with lamina and the way it seems to haunt him after her death and even before. early in the song we get the lyric "i worry for you, you worry for me," which i feel really digs into their initial and even lingering dynamic: the way treech moves to protect her when shots are fired at the zoo and the obvious attachment she feels for him in return. then we have "the wreckage of you i no longer reside in/ the bridges have long since been burnt." here i have to imagine the wreckage as a sort of symbolic stand in for the state lamina is in throughout the lead up to the games, with the burned bridges obviously being when he turns his back on her. "it's not halloween, but the ghost you dressed up as/ sure knows how to haunt." i have to imagine treech spends the remainder of the games, and his life sort of haunted by what took place the day coral and mizzen killed lamina, we can see it on his face, this sort of all consuming guilt, but then that lyric is followed with "it's an ode to the hole that i/ found myself stuck in/ a song for the grave that i dug," and this is really the nail in the coffin for me, as suddenly this feels like the perfect song to capture the sort of complex grief he may have felt, mourning her loss, regretting the betrayal, and ultimately laying some of the blame on himself.

now this one i feel hinges a bit more on my own personal headcannons, but i see so much of "paul revere" in treech as well. we have this kid here who does his best to sort of distance himself from the one thing tying him to his home, likely for better odds of survival, but it still feels a bit like a betrayal of his district. i think symbolically, the home represented by the song here has to be taken as representing lamina, because i cannot imagine treech would fight so hard to win the games, even leaving his own district partner if it wasn't out of sheer desperation to return. still, a lot of the imagery here certainly conjures the 7 i see when i picture the district, sort of rural and cold, with mentions of the mountains we know 7 would have (being around the washington area). but in this case i'm looking specifically at the lyrics "and when they ask me who i am/ i'll say, "i'm not from around here"," which for me conjures the moment treech abandons lamina during the arena tour and the way it represents a sort of abandonment of his previous identity in favor of survival. there's also "it's typical, i fear/ folks just disappear," which i think can be read both as the way people would likely disappear from 7 over the years due to the games, but also the way that even if they returned, it was changed.

finally, my beautiful girl, lamina, who, more than any other song on the album, captures the essence of "come over". this connection also moves a bit into my own personal headcannons for lamina and specifically her relationship with treech, but even outside of that, the song's very first lyrics resonant so deeply with her situation: "i'm in the business of losing your interest/ and i turn a profit each time that we speak," mirroring the way treech pulls away, leaving her before the games have even begun. also, we have the lyric "so when they mention the sad/ kid in the sad house on balch street/ you won't have to guess who they're speaking about," which for this girl who i think we can assume has always been a sort of gentle force makes so much sense. now we kind of get into opinions of mine, but i've always imagined treech and lamina as maybe childhood friends or cousins, with lamina being a bit better off, and therefore treech spending a good deal of time at her house when they were young (in my mind it also sort of contributes to the way the betrayal went down with lamina, who lead a somewhat easier life growing up having a lower inclination towards survival and treech having a bit of stored up resentment for the conditions he was raised in in contrast with hers). that's why for me the idea of this song is so strongly tied to lamina, beckoning him to come over, to stay the night, to take comfort in the safety of her home (tbh i might write a oneshot about this). also, the lyrics "i know that it ain't much/ i know that it ain't cool/ oh, you don't have to tell/ the other kids at school." i can totally see treech as a kid being a bit embarrased of this companion who can barely stand her own ground and lamina who knows this giving him what she can anyways because that is the kind of person she is.

also, last one i promise, but "you're gonna go far," which for me also conjures pre-games treech and lamina and the way that he likely had this idea that she would make something of her life before everything went to hell. and even outside of that, lamina to me, will always represent the lyric "you're the greatest thing we've lost," with her unabashed kindness and bravery and the way district 7 probably mourned for the quiet girl with the red hair who always had the power to do more.

[willowedwisteria]

⁂~I've dug two graves for us, my dear~⁂

Summary -> If you're gone, they can leave the world behind with you as well.

Note -> Haha, wake up y'all.

Featuring -> Scaramouche, Childe

Warnings -> Minor Cursing

Genre -> Angst

Childe

Childe's life has always been full of battles. Every strike exhilarated him, every blow on his target made him grin, and every trickle of blood pushed him to even further lengths.

Frankly, he enjoyed it. It wasn't anything new, but it would never get boring over time for him.

It was something he had to do, something for his family and the people who felt like family to him. He really just wanted the best for his siblings, parents, and you.

When was the last time he got to see your smile?

When was the last moment he got the luxury of hearing your laughter and voice soothe his nerves?

Where were you?

Maybe if he knew that you would be spending your last hour with him, he would have held you in his arms and did whatever you wanted him to do for that last moment.

He would try to get it for you, whatever trinkets, stupid items, food, drinks, palaces, mansions, a whole country. It's not as if he has much to offer with all the archons by your side.

Staying in this world without you wasn't living, it was merely surviving.

It was like a cycle that he was trapped in, the only time he would ever brighten up was with his family.

He really, really did love returning to your side with the items that he had got from bosses. It was one of his favorite things to do. It was like proving to you that he was capable, that he could protect you, yet you aren't even walking on this earth anymore.

"Childe, you know there's no need to pile up all the treasures you've gotten from battle here." Zhongli firmly states, a hand on his shoulder, staring at the mountain of boss drops Childe has left for you. "Their grace... isn't with us anymore."

Childe lightly shoves Zhongli's hand aside, "Yeah. I know."

He doesn't like battles as much anymore.

Scaramouche

Scara never felt human in his own body. It feels as if he was programmed to feel every emotion from anger to sadness, to blind hope.

Every burst of rage felt like someone was pulling the strings behind the scenes, every insult behind his back stung, yet he had no idea how to cope.

The Raiden Shogun who created him deemed him as a failure, a test subject, someone who could have been something special but never made it past the last obstacle.

Scara was like a capable but lost child.

He pushed others away and acted petty for the sake of not being left in the dust once more.

Yet, the only beam of light, the guide in his life, the sunlight that truly made him feel warm and fuzzy inside left. You were the key to understanding himself, you had the key to his heart.

That key that you held in your hands had drifted away with you.

If he had just 5 more minutes with you, it would be the best 5 minutes of his life. He'll be able to ask you why he has butterflies in his stomach when you're around sometimes, why he feels disappointed when you leave, and why he feels such admiration for you.

He still didn't finish spending time with you. Why did you leave?

Fuck moving on because he knows that he'll never find someone like you ever again.

Wasn't it just a moment ago when you were here? When you were teasing him? When you were off daydreaming and ranting? In the end, he doesn't feel like understanding himself is worth anything anymore, just spending time with you was enough for him.

"Don't fucking tell me that 'they're in a better place.' when they belong here with me." As possessive as it might sound, he really felt like this world was the better place that the both of you shared together.

No, the 'better place' in this world was when both you and Scara were together. You were like home.

Now, he has no place to call home.

Tag list -> @under-a-starry-night, @yourfaveisblack, @bardisipatos, @callmemeelah, @kithewanderingme, @my-white-canvas/@pale-value, @bamboowrites/@bamboowritess, @uchihaeirin, @karmawonders, @lunavixia, @anfre109, @ly-archives

Special tags -> @is-very-sad, @chocogi, @nicebonescomrade, @saigomo, @gunterdon, @mari-san-cant, @xiaophilia, @euthym1as