#inconsequential outrage

[the-cryptid-fox-who-eats-rocks]

Complaining about my favourite podcast (But also praising it dw) DISCLAIMER:

While writing, I noticed that my harsh criticism of this particular episode might imply that I either feel little sympathy towards people who have struggles with S/H or EDs, or that I have any issue with the fact that these people might relate to and like this episode. I haven't had these experiences myself, so obviously, I can't speak on anyone's feelings towards the episode. I'm only critiquing it from a horror and writing perspective and how much it fits the Flesh, as well as TMA's usual writing style. I can absolutely understand that this episode would be scary, or offputting, etc. to someone who relates to it. If you have an issue with this rant or find that I said something insensitive or inaccurate, PLEASE TELL ME! The last thing I want to do is invalidate anybody.

This is going to be a tiiiny bit nitpicky. TMA is an amazing podcast and I love it deeply. It consistently manages to give me chills or even genuinely terrify me, and even when it doesn't, I can always understand what they were going for and why someone might find this scary. Take "Anatomy Class", for example, which is very popularly clowned upon for not being scary. I didn't really find it scary either, but simply the way the statement was written and acted conveyed a deep terror, even if I couldn't relate to it. HOWEVER

Mag 171 - The Gardener

Had NONE of that. The episode is one of the statements Jon gives during what I lovingly call the eye-pocalypse. From my understanding, these are each meant to be the culmination of said fear. Most of the previous ones were AWESOME, in particular: -Mag 170 - Recollection (The lonely) - Not the best and it did not really speak to my personal understanding of the Lonely, but it was PERFECT from a story standpoint, for Martin as both a person and an avatar of the Lonely. -Mag 169 - Fire Escape - It really got me. It both mentioned a side of the Desolation rarely discussed, as well as really speaking to the simple fear of fire. -Mag 168 - Roots - THIS ONE IS GOOD. It genuinely terrified me. It painted such a vivid picture of the End, not just within its realm of the new world but also how it is the ultimate fear in a way. Genius, will never listen to it again, 10/10 would NOT recommend -Mag 166 - The Worms - Again, Genius. I didn't understand why it pointed out the fact that the people hadn't been happy with their lives previously, but other than that it made you FEEL the Buried VISCERALLY. It was genuinely uncomfortable to listen to, yet somehow delightful. -Mag 165 - Revolutions - Beautiful. The form of it as a poem really depicts the unreality of it all. Even though it did remind me of the Spiral rather than the Stranger at times, it was still extremely well written and quite scary in how dizzying it is. It was very different from how the Stranger is usually portrayed, which was sort of disappointing, but whatever. -Mag 163 - In the Trenches - Beautiful. I love the slaughter as it has consistently been depicted extremely well, and this is no exception. It sort of reminded me of the Piper, one of my all-time favorites. It did an excellent job at making you understand how all these individual people have become part of this war and it makes you mourn for them. - The ones I didn't mention were all good, but simply didn't stand out. The Sick Village didn't feel like the Corruption, but was still scary, Curiosity had good parts but wasn't scary (Still interesting tho), etc. -MAG ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY FUCKING ONE; THOUGH?!?! NONE OF THAT!

The metaphors felt like they were written by the guy who writes cheesy love letters using phrases like "You were the puzzle piece that made the puzzle that is my heart complete". like, "a rich and earthy cocktail of insecurity and self-hatred"? "growth is most effective when the orchid is suffering from aggressive dehydration"? Gee, I wonder what that line is about! "Never let it believe itself good enough, and continue always to ensure the body that it is certain it must attain is that impossible, distended mess" My guy. The metaphor is falling so flat I might get papercuts. It's a flower. It just felt way too obvious to be a horrifying metaphor that made you slowly realize what it was actually about, yet too indirect to properly speak to the genuine, visceral, direct terror that usually characterizes the Flesh. It felt very cheaply written compared to the other episodes, like the author didn't quite know what the Flesh even was themselves. Since when was the flesh so deeply centered around body dismorphia in this particular way? Sure, there was one episode about a guy who went to a spooky fitness studio with spooky people, but even there, the insecurities or unrealistic body standards weren't what made the episode scary. What made this one and ALL episodes about the Flesh scary was the visceral feeling of wrongness of having something DONE to your body(or in that episode, someone else's), to have it twisted or changed or broken, or the apathy of realizing that, to some, you are just another cut of meat. This episode, however, states that the true horror comes from body dysmorphia, which to its credit, I honestly find a cool, new point of view. The classic example - looking in the mirror and not seeing yourself, but instead a horrible wrongness is obviously Flesh territory, so exploring it sounds very intriguing.

So

With that amazing idea for a new angle, WHAT do they do????? "Oooooooh looook she's skinny because anorexia oooooh scaryyy!"

"Oh my goooood too much exercise and unrealitic goals are detrimental to your heeeeaaaalth!" "LOOK at how ✨frail✨ she is!!! She is clearly not beautiful!" It's so weird. The part that gave me BY FAR the most frustration was the one about the "Bone Rose". It genuinely weirded me out in all the wrong ways. It pretended that the scary part of eating disorders and the likes wasn't that it completely overtakes your life and destroys your self-esteem or that it utterly warps the way you percieve your own body, but INSTEAD that in some cases, it makes people very skinny. It took "You're all skin and bones!" to a literal extent. Obviously, being emaciated can be the base for body horror, but not like this. I know a horror podcast isn't meant for mental health advice, but it still leaves a really bitter taste in my mouth that, essentially, the message of the Bone Rose segment was "EDs and Body Dysmorphia are bad because they can make you very skinny and frail, which is clearly disgusting." It just tries to solve Bodyshaming with MORE, OPPOSING Bodyshaming! This episode honestly really disappointed me. Even for the statements which sort of missed the mark, I could still enjoy them because they either were still good even if they missed the essence of the fear, or because though they could've been scarier, they still were well-written and scary. This one, though? I wanted to like it, I really did. I love the Flesh as a fear and all of the previous episodes about it were simply awesome. But Mag 171 simply misses everything that makes the Flesh scary. It didn't convey its unique fear through metaphor, storytelling, or good old-fashioned descriptions of gore. SO, I'm not saying this made me lose faith in the writer/s of TMA, or anyone else involved. I won't like every episode, and it seems that for this one, I simply wasn't the target audience. I didn't really vibe with the episode, which is fine. I blame neither the creator/s nor myself, this just happens. As a fellow writer, I know that not everybody will be able to connect with or enjoy everything you write.

[autumnmobile12]

Quietly and Without Complaint

...

Post-Canon

“President Takami visited me yesterday,”  he signed.

Shouto twitched in surprise.  “Really?  What did he want?”

“Seems he’s visiting all the former League members.  Those still alive anyway.”  He paused, thinking.

In the process of freeing up space in Tartarus for new and more dangerous inmates, the Commission had ruled the continued incarceration of a crippled, voiceless, and dying man inconsequential, and with the efforts of Dr. Yoshida affording Touya some semblance of a life independent of constant medical monitoring and support, his sentence was reduced to quiet house arrest, far from anyone.  At the hearing, President Takami’s exact words had been,  “Todoroki Touya’s claws have been cut.  High security would be a waste of resources.”

Even now, Shouto wondered if the unanticipated mercy was a favor to their father.  To prevent public outrage over the release of a perceived dangerous terrorist, even if a gilded cage was still a cage, it was announced nationwide over a year ago the villain Dabi had finally succumbed to his injuries in prison.  And all the while, he’d been relocated to their family’s old vacation house to live out the rest of his life.

“We talked,”  Touya signed, then corrected.  “He talked.  I wrote.”

“I see.”

“He wanted to know how I was.  How I spend my days.  If I needed anything.  If I was treated well here.”  He snorted.  “Odd things to ask a convict.”

Shouto smiled.  “And what did you tell him?”

His brother shook his head.  “Nothing.  Why should I tell him anything?”

“You’re afraid if he sees you’re doing well, he’ll make your conditions worse?”

“A little.”  Then the familiar, malicious gleam returned to his eyes,  “But I also don’t like him.”

“The war’s over, Touya,”  Shouto admonished.  “It wouldn’t hurt to make new friends where you can.”

Touya’s eyes went stony and he raised his hands in a sharp, angry gesture.

“Of course.  Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking about Twice.”

[hrizantemy]

I know this might be an unpopular opinion, but I really don’t want Nesta and Cassian to have kids. In fact, if it ever happens, I’m going to lose it. Cassian has consistently shown that he doesn’t truly stick up for Nesta when it matters, and I find it baffling when people try to claim otherwise. Sure, he might defend her over small, inconsequential things, but when it comes to the moments that really matter—the ones where her safety, dignity, or even her life is on the line—he’s either silent or outright against her.

For example, when Nesta was threatened with execution by his High Lord, where was Cassian’s outrage on her behalf? Somehow, in that moment, he managed to be the angriest person in the room—at Nesta. Not at the people threatening his mate with death, but at Nesta herself. That kind of reaction tells me everything I need to know about how little he actually supports her. And what’s even worse is that he never sticks up for her in a way she can actually see. He might defend her when she’s not present, but that doesn’t mean much when he can’t or won’t do it in front of her. To me, it’s as if he’s ashamed to stand by her publicly.

Nesta deserves a partner who will defend her fiercely and without hesitation, someone who understands the depth of her trauma and her worth. Cassian, on the other hand, consistently diminishes her struggles and turns the blame on her for his own frustrations. So, the idea of them having children—bringing innocent lives into a relationship where there’s already such a clear imbalance of respect and support—feels completely wrong to me. It’s just another way Nesta would likely be set up to carry the emotional weight alone, while Cassian continues to falter in being the kind of partner she truly deserves.

Let’s say Nesta and Cassian have kids—something I’m already against for a multitude of reasons—but let’s go there for a moment. People love to talk about how Cassian owes so much to Rhysand, how his loyalty to Rhysand is unwavering and absolute. That’s fine if it’s just about Cassian himself, but when you bring children into the mix, it becomes a lot messier. Does that same blind loyalty extend to his own child? What happens when the Inner Circle inevitably starts dictating the path Cassian and Nesta’s child should take? If Rhysand or the IC decide that their son or daughter should do something dangerous—be it for Velaris, Nyx, or the Night Court as a whole—is Cassian going to push his child into that role just because Rhysand says so?

We’ve seen time and time again that Cassian doesn’t stand up to Rhysand, not even when it’s about Nesta. So why should we believe he’d suddenly draw the line for his child? If Nesta is against putting their child in danger—and she absolutely would be—is Cassian going to stand with her, or will he just side with the IC again, telling himself it’s for “the greater good”? And what if Rhysand, in his High Lord arrogance, decides to berate or humiliate Cassian and Nesta’s child the way he’s humiliated others in the past? Is Cassian going to step in and tell Rhysand to back off? Or is he going to stay silent out of “loyalty” to his High Lord? We’ve already seen Cassian fail to defend Nesta when Rhysand and the IC crossed lines with her—what’s to say he wouldn’t fail his own child in the same way?

And here’s an even darker thought: what happens if Cassian is put in a position where he has to choose between his own child and Nyx? Because let’s be honest, the IC has made it very clear that Nyx is their priority. If there’s ever a scenario where Nyx’s safety or future conflicts with that of Cassian and Nesta’s child, can we really trust Cassian to pick his own blood? Or is he going to fall back on that same unshakable loyalty to Rhysand and Velaris, even if it means sacrificing his child’s well-being, dreams, or even life?

These are not small questions. They’re the kind of conflicts that arise when someone’s loyalty to others outweighs their loyalty to their own family. Cassian has already shown us where his priorities lie when he didn’t stick up for Nesta during her most vulnerable moments. If he couldn’t do it for her, why would we believe he’d do it for their child? The idea of them having kids only highlights how deeply flawed and imbalanced their relationship is—and how dangerous that could become for anyone who relies on Cassian to choose them over the IC.

I know people are going to say I can’t bring up “what if” scenarios when it comes to Nesta and Cassian having children, but I absolutely can and will. These are exactly the kinds of things you need to think about when you’re considering children. Having kids isn’t just about how cute they’d be or the idea of expanding a family—it’s about responsibility, protection, and making decisions that prioritize their well-being, no matter how hard those decisions might be. And when we look at Cassian’s track record, there are glaring issues that need to be addressed.

What if scenarios aren’t just hypothetical—they’re preparation. They’re about asking tough questions: Will this person defend their child in every situation? Will they be able to separate loyalty to others from loyalty to their family? Can they provide a safe and supportive environment for their child to grow up in? With Cassian, I have serious doubts. People like to argue that Cassian would be a great father, but his inability to consistently stick up for Nesta against the Inner Circle shows a troubling pattern. If he can’t stand up for his mate when Rhysand or others overstep, how can I trust him to do it for his child? It’s not outlandish to imagine situations where his loyalty to Rhysand or the Night Court would conflict with what’s best for his family—because that’s already happened with Nesta.

Parenting isn’t just about love; it’s about action. It’s about hard decisions and protecting your child, even when it means standing up to people you care about or respect.

People like to dismiss these concerns, but they’re real. They’re exactly the kinds of things that can happen in a world where power, politics, and loyalty are always in play. These aren’t just random, baseless hypotheticals—they’re extensions of behaviors we’ve already seen in Cassian. If he couldn’t stand up for Nesta, who has been humiliated, threatened, and dragged down by his so-called family, how can I believe he’d do better for his child? These are the kinds of questions that must be considered, because having a child isn’t about what works in the moment—it’s about building a future where that child feels safe, protected, and prioritized above all else. If Cassian can’t consistently prove that he’s capable of doing that, then these “what if” scenarios aren’t just speculation—they’re warnings.

I also don’t think Nesta is ready to have children—and honestly, I don’t think she will be for a very long time, if ever. It’s not a criticism of her as a person, but rather a recognition of where she is emotionally and mentally. Nesta has been through so much trauma, and while she’s made strides in healing, that doesn’t mean she’s in a place where she’s ready to take on the responsibility of motherhood. And the truth is, not everyone needs to be a parent, nor should they be forced into that role if it doesn’t align with where they are in life.

Motherhood requires a certain level of emotional stability, patience, and selflessness. Nesta has spent so much of her life being forced into roles she didn’t ask for—caretaker for her family, the scapegoat for everyone’s frustrations, and now a warrior in a world that doesn’t truly understand her. She’s only just starting to rediscover who she is outside of those expectations. To thrust her into the role of a mother would be unfair, both to her and to the child, because she’s still working through her own pain and figuring out how to live for herself.

Nesta deserves the time and space to fully heal and to decide what she truly wants out of life, free from the expectations of others. Becoming a mother isn’t just a matter of love—it’s a lifelong commitment that requires you to be in a place where you can give your child the emotional support they need. Right now, Nesta is still learning how to support herself. She’s still processing her trauma, learning to trust, and rebuilding relationships with the people around her. Adding the pressure of motherhood to that mix would only risk reopening old wounds or creating new ones.

And let’s not forget how much pressure the Inner Circle would likely put on her if she did have a child. Nesta has already been judged and criticized for every move she’s made; imagine how much worse it would be if she became a mother. Every parenting decision she made would be scrutinized, and knowing how they’ve treated her in the past, it’s easy to see how they’d weaponize her struggles against her. That’s not an environment where anyone, let alone someone like Nesta, could thrive as a parent.

Motherhood isn’t something that should be forced on Nesta as part of her “redemption arc” or used to soften her edges for the sake of a storyline. She has the right to take as long as she needs to heal, to figure out her purpose, and to decide if children are even something she wants. Right now, she’s still building her own foundation, and until that foundation is solid, I don’t think she’s ready—or that it’s fair to expect her—to take on the enormous responsibility of raising a child.

Nesta has so much self-loathing buried deep inside her that the idea of her becoming a mother feels almost impossible for her to even comprehend—because she doesn’t believe she would make a good mother. Nesta has spent so much of her life feeling unworthy, undeserving of love, and like a burden to those around her. Even as she begins to heal, that inner voice of doubt and self-hatred still lingers, constantly telling her she’s not good enough. How can someone who struggles to see their own value believe they’re capable of raising a child?

Nesta’s guilt and shame run so deep that she often feels like she poisons the people around her, no matter how hard she tries to do better. She believes that she’s failed her sisters, that she’s failed herself, and that every relationship she’s ever had has been marred by her inability to let people in or show them the parts of herself she doesn’t hate. Those feelings of failure and inadequacy would only intensify if the question of motherhood ever came up. Nesta would likely convince herself that she’d ruin her child, that her anger, her fear, and her pain would seep into them and make her unfit to care for them.

It’s not hard to imagine her rejecting the idea outright, not because she doesn’t care, but because she believes her love wouldn’t be enough. Nesta has always struggled to reconcile her desire to protect the people she loves with her belief that she’s not worthy of their love in return. When it comes to something as vulnerable and selfless as raising a child, those fears would only grow louder. The idea of creating a life, of being responsible for nurturing and shaping another person, would terrify her—not because she doesn’t want to love, but because she doesn’t think she’s capable of being the kind of mother a child deserves.

Nesta has spent so long convincing herself that she’s irredeemable, that she’s nothing more than the sharp edges and pain people see on the surface. Even as she works to heal, to accept herself, and to believe that she’s worthy of love, it’s a long and difficult journey. Until she can see her own value, it’s hard to imagine her believing she could provide that kind of unconditional love and stability to a child. And the tragedy is that Nesta does have the capacity to love deeply—she just doesn’t see it in herself. Until she can, the thought of becoming a mother would only amplify her self-loathing and fears of failure.

It’s not that Nesta wouldn’t care for a child if she had one—she absolutely would. But she would carry the constant fear that she’s not enough, that she’s somehow damaging them, or that they’d be better off without her. And that’s heartbreaking, because the truth is that Nesta’s love, while imperfect, is fierce and unyielding. But until she can see that for herself, she’d never believe she could be a good mother.

[bunnyreaper]

welder!ghost au

After taking so many welding lessons from Simon and developing a crush, you decide to make him a little something to show your appreciation.

(f!reader, simon is a fucking weirdo, jealousy)

As soon as you'd set your mind to the idea, it wouldn't leave you.

Just like everything to do with Simon, it's buried its way into your brain and taken up residence there, gnawing away until you decide to do something about it.

How you're going to do it is something different, though. There's no way in hell you could get away with making something secret in Simon's workshop, right under his nose like that. That man is far too observant to let something like that slip by, and the surprise is part of the fun.

You want to show him everything you've learned from him, every moment that you've hung off of his every word and listened to everything he has to say, every time you've watched him work and absorbed his expertise.

You settle on a bracelet, braided stainless steel, each step made by your loving hands. Hopefully, he'll wear it, and hopefully, you can guess his wrist size properly--fucking massive isn't exactly a precise measurement.

It should take too long, not with everything he's taught you, and you can be back to working in his shop again instead of the one across the city with the guys he doesn't like. You wouldn't go there under any other circumstances, were the situation not desperate. And when you get there, you understand Simon's judgement completely, not that you ever doubted it to begin with. The guys are creepy, and they stare, as well as make comments that are misogynistic, flirtatious, or an outrageous mix of both.

You're on high alert almost the entire time you work, but you try to push it out of your mind in favour of making everything perfect for Simon. Each weld, each sand, each polish, has to be perfect for him because anything else would be doing his tutelage a disservice. You've seen the disappointed looks he's given some members of the classes when his mask is flipped up, but you'd never been on the receiving end--always so eager to please and impress. That won't change now. You won't allow it.

You braid the steel wire with a drill and a vice, cut the pieces you need, sand the ends and get to work on welding them together. It's delicate work, and your mind only slightly drifts to some of your lessons where Simon had lurked behind you, the heat of his body so close to yours as you worked.

You finish the edges and bend the metal to the desired shape, trying to imagine Simon's wrists as you work--which is surprisingly easy considering how much you've stared at that sleeve of his.

The second you finish, you bolt out of that horrid workshop, off in search of a nice box and some wrapping to finish off the gift. You had a session with Simon the following Monday, and it's then you'll present it to him--if you're feeling brave enough.

Monday rolls round, and the workshop is empty when you arrive, save for Simon working away in the corner. You can tell by the way his posture stiffens that he knows someone has entered, even over the noise of his work, because he's always so perceptive.

The box is in your hand, and your palms are starting to sweat as you call out to him. "Hey Si."

He finishes up what he's doing and makes his way over, setting his welding mask down and revealing his handsome features. "Just us tonight." His comment seems fairly inconsequential, but honestly, you preferred it that way, getting to be the sole focus of his attention.

You nod in response, knowing you should just get the gift giving out of the way so you can both get to work, but your stomach twists with worry. What if he hates it? What if he never wears it?

"What's that?" He asks, eyes flickering down and clocking the box and the source of your troubles immediately.

You thrust it at him, almost as if the box burns to touch. "A gift, for you, it's silly really, but I just wanted to say thank you for everything..."

For the lessons, for his attention, for never treating you as lesser.

He rips off his gloves before he gets to work on the wrapping paper, and peels open the jewellery box to see the steel band inside.

"If you hate it, it's fine. It's just a little token of my appreciation." You rush out your words--damage control.

His dark eyes flicker between you and the bracelet, his expression unreadable before he pulls it from the box and places it around his tattooed wrist. The fit is perfect, but his reaction isn't as his expression sours. "Where did you make this?"

"Huh?" You startle, as that wasn't what you expected to come from his mouth at all.

His eyes narrow, and you swear he takes a step closer. "You didn't make this in my shop. Where did you make it?"

Oh fuck, you think, realising you have to admit to stepping foot in that other shop. You avert your gaze as a sheepish expression overtakes your features. "Uh, PK's shop, I wanted to surprise you so, I went there..."

His hand grips your chin, forcing you to look him right in those stormy eyes. "You wanna make something for me? You make it in my shop, yeah? My student, my shop."

The possessive words make you shiver, make you want to fall for your knees, and beg for forgiveness for the unknowing betrayal.

"Yeah, okay, of course... I mean I hated it there, I swear, they gave me the absolute creeps." You try to laugh away the swirling guilt and discomfort you feel. "Left as soon as I was done, and even gave them a 1 star review. But, I'll never go back, I promise."

Your eyes shine up at Simon's, waiting for him to relax.

"That's my girl." Finally, his touch releases and he steps away, grabbing his gloves. "Let me finish up what I'm working on real quick, yeah?"

"Of course." You nod quietly, watching as he walks away as your stomach starts to sink. At least he didn't take it off. "Do you... like it?"

He stops still, checking out where it sits on his wrist. His expression doesn't change, but you can hear the sincerity in his words. "Love it."

And a week or two later, when Simon asks you to come by the shop one night outside of your sessions, you're not entirely sure what to expect.

He explains he's trying something new, and needs your help, and doesn't explain anything further. But it's Simon, so of course you comply, of course you trust him.

It's only when he brings out a micro welder and a small length of gold chain that you realise what's happening. The intense look in his eyes before he gets to work leaves no room for argument, and you silently accept your fate as he permanently attaches that little bracelet to your wrist--a dainty little 'S' charm hanging from the middle.

[jkthiighs]

I fell into LotR - chapter 2 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually) ➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent ❀ word count ; 4.4k disclaimer: this chapter might feel weird but it'll make sense in the long run TRUST TRUST

Ensnared. 

       You really should have thought this through. Of course, they would ask for proof; in fact, it would have been suspicious if they hadn’t. So why couldn’t you produce an answer? Anything would do–anything inconsequential. Your mind raced through the timeline of the movies, teeth catching the skin of your lip, searching for something that could suffice. Meanwhile, Gandalf and Elrond were staring you down expectantly, impatiently even, as they waited for your reply. Surely, this woman did not possess more foresight than a sorcerer's capacity? Even more so than the Elven race? 

        “Well, I could tell you of the council members you invited? There's Legolas, son of Thranduil. Gimli, son of Glóin, or Boromir, son of… Well–I’ve forgotten his father's name, but I know he's the steward to… uh, Gondor. A-and he has a brother named Faramir. There’s Aragorn, son of Arathorn II and heir to Isildur. The hobbits–” You had started rambling, but the half-elf cut you off. 

        “Clever words from a clever tongue. Yet cleverness is no proof of innocence. This does not attest to your claim to see the future,” He started. “It only deepens the suspicion that you are a spy. Perhaps in the service of Sauron himself.” 

        Gandalf raised a hand in your defense. “Now, now, Elrond. Lady, uh–what is your name, by chance?”

        “(Y/N).” You offered quietly.

        “Lady (Y/N) deserves a chance to speak in her defense, and perhaps, uh, offer explanations. You and I know very well not everything is as it appears.” Gandalf spoke with a cadence that was slow and steady, and yet a ghost of a smile haunted the corners of his words, a mischief buried just deep enough to wonder if you were imagining it. 

        They don’t trust you, and why would they? You needed something more convincing. “I… I could tell you of your daughter’s decision, Lord Elrond, and your grandchild that results from it. But it’s nothing you haven’t seen yourself, and it does not break your heart any less.” You were fidgeting again, this time with the silk of the tablecloth that was draped around you. ‘Might as well just get it over with, right? What’s the worst that could happen?’

         “I’m sure you’d rather I just tell you about the ring, though... Well,” You took a deep breath before looking the two immortals square in the eye. “Frodo gets the ring to Mordor, but he isn’t the one who destroys it. Gollum takes the ring from Frodo but falls into the fires while holding it, thus ending the power of Sauron.” 

        You expected a reaction. Disbelief or skepticism. A raised eyebrow. Outrage, maybe? But there was nothing, not even a blink. It was like they were frozen. At least for a few moments, anyway. “‘Well’ what, child? Please, do not keep us here all day.” Elrond spoke suddenly, his irritation seeping into his voice once again. You furrowed your brows, confusion plain on your face. “What do you mean? You didn’t hear what I said?” 

        Gandalf sighed, tapping his staff on the ground once or twice as he re-adjusted his stance. “You haven’t said anything. Now, what can you tell us of the Ring?” It was clear the old wizard, as patient as he claimed to be, was getting irritated as well, but you couldn’t understand why. You had told them already, hadn’t you? 

        “The ring will be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. That is its fate.” You answered again, this time with a tilt of your head while you studied the pair. Once again, their faces held no reaction. Frozen, unblinking. Could it be that time paused to prevent you from telling them the future? Their future? ‘What is this, a k-drama?’ You decided to test this theory. Before they could scold you again, you spoke; “Gandalf, you will perish fighting the Balrog that lurks within the mines of Moria.” 

        No movement. Their eyes held no indication of understanding, either. ‘Fascinating.’ You would have kept going, if only to see them stuck there while you admired them as if they were statues. But something–no, someone, interrupted. 

“I will not let you tarnish this universe by spoiling its events so soon.”

        You thought it might have been the wizard at first, but he was still standing there, unmoving. Elrond as well. You looked around the room, spinning on your heels. The guards nearby were also frozen, but otherwise, no one else could have produced that voice. You could feel your heart racing, pulse echoing in your ears. 

        “What was that? …God?” You asked tentatively aloud. There was no reply, but time remained anchored in place. “Who are you? Are you the one who brought me here?” You questioned, looking up towards the ceiling–towards the sky, as if it would help apparate the disembodied voice. You weren’t even sure why you had bothered asking or where those questions came from. But the sound was so…otherworldly, that it seemed unlikely that it was anything but.

“You have been chosen.”

        This voice…did not belong to one speaker alone; it was a tapestry of tones, some high, some low, some no louder than breath. It rolled in like midnight mist—low, steady, and velvet-smooth, each word drawn out with patient precision. The voice was neither warm nor cold, neither urging nor warning, yet stern. Like it was inviting you to step forward, to become something more. Beneath its calm exterior lay the faintest thrumming, a subtle reverberation, as though the voice itself had roots that reached deep into the fabric of the world. 

        “Chosen? Chosen for what?” You were still now, listening. Waiting. ‘Wait…should I be asking permission to speak?’ This wasn't the quiet authority that the immortals in front of you exuded; this was…absolute. Looming. Like breathing wrong might warrant punishment. It wasn’t oppressive, per se, not yet. But it was heavy. 

“To be my sword. My champion.” 

        The voice answered, but you could tell it wasn’t in full. You had a million questions, your mind reeling like it did when you first arrived. But what could you say? What could you ask that would compel a god to answer? You decided on the simplest: “Why me?” 

“I needed someone…moldable, with nothing to lose. Become my vessel and be rewarded.”

        The voice was beckoning now, as if a siren’s lure. You felt your anxieties quelled, your mind lulled, and your hands stopped fidgeting. “What…do I have to do?”

“Obey. You will be my weapon. You will strike without question, without hesitation, mercy, or failure.”

        Could this be the work of Saruman? Or Sauron? You didn’t know. You’ve never heard the voice of a god before. But this one didn’t feel evil. All you could wonder is ‘why’, but you had no will to do so besides one: “What is the reward?” At first, there was nothing. A few moments passed, and you could feel a sort of…amusement in the surrounding air. As if a knowing smile. Victory, even.

“You will not survive ‘middle-earth’ as you are now. In exchange for your life service, I will offer you the abilities of a warrior.” 

        The voice melted into your head, coiling around your thoughts, consuming your being. It showed you the rules, the exceptions, and a taste of the power it offered. This entity knew your deepest desires, your lust for acclaim. The need to be seen, known. Praised. You could be renowned. A hero. In this world, in others. All you had to do was accept. All you had to do was sacrifice. You could not choose any power of godlike capacity, but there were others. Your favorite. The Ghost. The weight of the sword in your hand, the finality of its bite. Your own. Heat spread from your stomach, bloomed into your chest. You felt it snake around your heart, squeezing your pulse ever so gently. ‘Be mine, ’ it called. ‘Sacrifice.’ 

        You would never return home, but you never really wanted to, did you? There is no harm in giving away something undesired. You could no longer tell what wants were your own, what thoughts, what feelings. It blended–no, disappeared into nothing. Refusal would end this dream and would have you tossed aside like garbage. Forgotten into the world you came from. You didn’t want that, right? You wanted to be here. You chose this place. Your testing grounds. ‘Accept.’ It cooed. Coerced. Seduced. ‘Accept.’ A flicker of doubt rose up—small, trembling—but it was crushed under the weight of a thousand unseen hands, ushering you toward your fate. Finally, the words rose from your throat: “Okay…I will be your champion.” 

        The entity—no, your god—did not answer, but you felt its satisfaction ripple through the stillness like a hand smoothing silk. And suddenly, without warning, you were wrenched from your body, no longer standing in Rivendell, no longer yourself. Some unseen force hurled your consciousness elsewhere, locking you behind another's eyes, another's flesh. You were a passenger only, bound to observe, bound to learn. You started out young, heir to a great clan: Sakai. You bore his tragedies as your own—the sting of failure, the hollow ache of endless training, the terror of battle crashing onto blood-soaked shores. You lived Jin’s life thread by thread until the weave of it was damn near indistinguishable from your own. Every failure, every broken bone, every skill and victory, all yours to claim. You wielded his katana as if it were an extension of your very arm, and it was. Months went by, bleeding into years. You got what you wanted and became the Ghost. And when the last invader fell, when Jin’s story closed, you were hurled back—snapped into the body where it had all begun—facing the wizard and the elf once more, as if no time had dared to move.

        Were you the same? Maybe. That was up for debate. You barely recognized your own voice, steady and unyielding. A distant part of you missed the anxious girl from moments before—at least you understood her, but did it even matter in the grand scheme of things? You stood in the same body, wore the same borrowed silk, and yet it was as if your bones were heavier, your blood thicker. You were a stranger to yourself. But knowledge thrummed under your skin, restless and alive, and nothing had changed outwardly. Exhaustion clung to your bones, but otherwise, everything seemed untouched. Seemed. You looked down into your empty hands, not having time to ponder what the hell had just happened before the grey old man cleared his throat. Time had resumed, and they were still waiting for your answer. ‘Right…’ It took a second to recall what the three of you had been talking about before you responded. “The Ring’s fate will be the same whether I interfere or not. However, I might be able to save some lives along the way should you permit me to travel alongside the hobbit.” 

        The words left you crisp and sure, but they startled you all the same. When had your fear been replaced by certainty? Lord Elrond furrowed his brows, clearly contemplating your answer, but Gandalf seemed to ignore it altogether. He was staring at you, more so than before. There was something different; he could sense it. Before, you had been merely foreign. Now, there was something else—something coiled around you, silent and strangling, like a serpent enveloping its prey. Yet you stood there, unafraid, like a lamb resting against the jaws of a wolf.

        “Knowing the enemy’s move before they make it could prove useful,” Gandalf said carefully, finally turning his gaze from you to the elf. Elrond, ever the skeptic, shook his head. “You’d place the fate of Middle-Earth into the hands of this…oddity?” You frowned with a few curses in mind, but said nothing. “She has come to us with knowledge no others possess. With war imminent, we are in dire need of allies. At the very least, we should have the council decide together what to do with her.”

         Elrond stepped away, looking out onto the terrace as he pondered your existence. But then something clicked. You could see it in the way he turned to look at you. “Tell me then, clairvoyant. Why do you ask to ‘travel alongside the hobbit’? No such decision has yet been made–or rather, no hobbit has yet offered themselves to bear such a burden.” 

        Your heart skipped a beat, having not even realized you’d slipped. “I told you, I’ve seen the future.” The reply was a matter of fact, like that was all you needed to explain. You could see it was not enough. Not for him. “Besides, hobbits are resilient in ways greater beings overlook,” you added, an attempt at smoothing things over, knowing that was a sentiment in which the wizard would agree.

        Gandalf’s eyes sharpened with intrigue, turning towards Elrond with a knowing raise of his brow. “Resilient they are. We’ve certainly seen enough to understand that fate often falls upon the smallest of shoulders.” The elf was still unconvinced, and he couldn’t fathom why the wizard had already taken your side. The man always had a penchant for taking in strays, it seemed. Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Even if we believe your claim of foresight, the path to Mordor is not gentle. You might have been able to enter my halls undetected–but stealth alone will not guard you against Sauron’s forces.”

        You raised your chin slightly, but before you could move to speak, you felt your deity’s amusement—anticipation, tickling the back of your mind. A glint from steel across the room caught your attention, a glimmer in the corner of this vast chamber. Something foreign lies neatly arranged upon a stone table–metal gleaming softly under the ripples of pale moonlight. Weaponry–your weapons placed like an offering. A gift of goodwill from your new master. Unmistakably familiar were a curved katana, a matching wakizashi, two elegantly crafted bows, and a set of kunai. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Stealth is hardly my only strength now, I assure you.”

        “Prove it.” Elrond’s voice is crisp, a direct challenge that pulls you out of your trance. ‘What is it with this guy and proof?’ You gave a polite nod to mask the exasperated sigh that left you, though you were sure he heard it all the same. Elvish acuteness and all that. Slowly, deliberately, you approached your blades. The pair of immortals watching closely, not even realizing the weapon's appearance until the katana was in your hand. A shiver of recognition runs through your veins, your grip instantly comfortable–familiar, an extension of yourself. Jin’s memories pulse at your fingertips. However, in this body, the blade was heavy. Holding it out in front of you tired your arm quickly, and that would not do. Dread filled you as you realized you'd have to dedicate time to strength training…again. Your personal hell: never being able to escape going to the gym, no matter what timeline you were in.

        “How did you sneak weapons in here?” Elrond's voice cut across the hall, demanding and wary. With a quick motion from their lord, the guards nearby took up their bows and aimed their arrows directly at you. “They were not there before,” Gandalf murmurs, fascinated. He was not as concerned with the elf’s actions as he perhaps should have been.

        You turned, looking more at the archers than their lord, calculating the distance. Fear still managed to bite deep in your chest, knowing that if you mistimed a deflect, it would mean your end. But you didn't need to draw it; the katana remained sheathed, and you weren’t here to fight. Not them, anyhow. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill from my…benefactor,” whatever that meant. You responded calmly, turning the blade effortlessly in your grip, every movement elegant, practiced, controlled despite its weight. “I may have come here by mistake, but I wanted to help. I can help. Do you truly consider me a threat, my lord?”

        He said nothing, tension thickening until finally Gandalf breaks it, voice gentle yet firm. “Elrond. She has offered her service willingly, and clearly she has some measure of skill. Again, we should at least bring her before the Council. Let all decide her place.”

        The elf sighed, visibly troubled but finally conceding. “Very well,” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, to which his guards lowered their bows. “You will join the Council on the morrow, but understand this: if you threaten the lives of anyone here or Middle-earth’s fate in any manner, no weapon nor strange ‘benefactor’ will shield you from my wrath.”

        You bow your head respectfully, taking into account the gravity of his words as relief floods through you. "You got it." Elves were harder to convince than you originally thought. 

        The Master of Rivendell looked less than pleased, his face twisting into that sort of angry, disapproving look that turned him into a meme, creasing lines into his otherwise flawless face. “Escort Lady (Y/N) to the guest chambers,” Elrond instructed firmly, barely turning to his guard's direction. “She shall remain there under guard until the Council convenes.” 

        Gandalf seemed amused. You placed your katana back onto the table where it appeared, not expecting to be allowed to carry it with you, as irritating as that was. You had grown rather fond of them in Tsushima. With a sigh, you followed the guards without further protest, through winding halls and picture-perfect scenery. ‘That's one thing the fanfictions never mention,’ you thought to yourself whilst admiring the roaring waterfalls. ‘Despite all this, you still manage to miss your phone.’ Withdrawal from technology was hard, but luckily for you, there was literally no other choice. Still, you found yourself reaching towards your back pocket for the time or to Google a question you had, purely out of habit. 

        When you arrived in your chambers, the room inside was breathtaking. Ethereal and elegant, blending seamlessly with the surrounding landscape. Evening sunlight filters softly through expansive, arched openings, ever so gently illuminating the room with tranquility. You had thought that ‘under guard’ meant you were a prisoner, but it was hard to feel like it when the room was fit for a king. Intricately carved wooden pillars and graceful arches framed the space, depicting motifs of leaves, flowers, trees, and Elven figures. Candles rested in beautifully crafted holders, adding warmth with an ambient glow. The bed itself was a dream; rich, silken sheets in earthy, muted tones. The frame smooth, dark wood. Outside, lush greenery and winding pathways visible through open balconies that overlook the gardens. 

        The design was so open that you had no idea how they planned to keep you from leaving, but you were hardly complaining, nor did you want to. Your first instinct was to run and jump straight into the bed, but you stopped yourself to save what little dignity you had left. The saree was already dangerously loose around your hips now, and you feared it might come undone entirely. You needed real clothes. There was no way you were going to face a council of Middle-earth's greatest heroes looking like you'd stumbled out of a frat party gone wrong. So, before they could walk away, you turned to the guards with a coy smile. “Could you request the seamstress to visit me? I am in desperate need of new…appropriate attire for the upcoming meeting.”

        The elf raised a brow, looking you up and down. At first, the look was that of vexation, but as his eyes caught more and more of your exposed skin, a flush crept into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. After a moment too long, he tore his gaze away with an ‘ahem’ and a readjustment of his posture before giving a curt nod. He walked away so fast you thought he might trip and fall along the way. 

        After he disappeared into the distance, you were alone again. As much as you could be, anyway. You sat quietly on the bed, running your hand over the silk, finally having a chance to catch up to all your thoughts and feelings. ‘Dropped into a fictional universe, ensnared by a god, thrown into a different one just to be ripped back and tossed back into the beginning.’ You lie back on the bed, closing your eyes for a moment. It was hard to wrap your head around. Especially the part that seemed more like it belonged more in Solo Leveling than in your life. You closed your eyes and collapsed back into the bed, finally letting the exhaustion settle over you. It had only been a day in this universe, but you had spent a few years as The Ghost, and that was…a lot. Not worth dwelling over at this moment. However, before the beginnings of sleep could settle, you heard footsteps coming towards your…archway? There wasn't a door after all.

        It was a beautiful elf maiden who approached. Long, flowing brown hair framed her delicate, ageless face. Her pale blue gown rustled softly, decorated with embroidery of silver thread that shimmered in the fading sunlight. “You asked for me?” Her voice was warm and soothing, like a lullaby. You sat up on your elbows, offering a polite smile. “Yes, thank you for coming.” You replied.

        The seamstress stepped fully into the chamber, having carried a woven basket filled with fabrics and measuring tools. “I was told you needed suitable attire for a council meeting. Was there…anything else that you needed besides that?” Her words were kind, but there was careful curiosity in her gaze that was unmistakable. It felt like she could damn-near see through you. 

        “Well, I don’t have any clothes. Like, at all. So if it’s possible, I’d like to commission two or three pieces for travel and such.” You sat up fully now, fussing with the edge of your silk so that it revealed no more of your chest. “I have something specific in mind if it’s not too much trouble.” 

        The she-elf tilted her head slightly as she looked over you and the tablecloth you wore. “‘Commission’?” She asked, her voice betraying a bit of playful disbelief. “You plan to pay?” 

        “Yes…By courtesy of Lord Elrond.” A lie, and it made a grin spread to your lips, which caused the seamstress to let out a soft laugh. “Very well,” she responded, taking the chair that was next to your bed and placing it in front of you, sitting down, and pulling out a piece of parchment. “Please, describe your wish.” Her eyes twinkled with interest, but you couldn’t tell if it was your imagination or not. 

        You hesitated, trying to find the right words. The memories of Jin’s attire flashed vividly before your eyes. “Clothes that are comfortable, battle-ready, but still look good,” you started carefully. “I’m sure that might sound strange.” 

        “On the contrary,” the elf seamstress replied warmly, already sketching out her ideas on the paper. “We elves hold both beauty and practicality in high regard. I would be honored to craft garments that reflect your spirit.” You watched her draw closely, and though you didn’t doubt her ability, you knew she wouldn’t come up with what you were thinking. You thought perhaps explaining it more might help. 

        “It’s… sort of a warrior’s outfit, not the kind you’re used to seeing here, I think. The top is loose, it’s called a kimono, but for you, perhaps it’ll look more like a robe. I want it dyed a deep crimson—not bright, more like aged blood or dark cherry wood. It should fall past the hips, with wide sleeves that don’t cling too tightly—enough room to move freely, or conceal blades if necessary.” The seamstress nodded thoughtfully as you continued. “The lower half is a kind of pleated trouser—wide-legged and heavy, almost like a skirt at a glance, but stiff, like armor made of cloth. I’d like it dark, nearly black, maybe with the faintest green or blue tinge depending on the light. They wrap around and tie at the waist—thick, layered folds that hang in straight lines.” To your surprise, she managed to sketch down everything you had requested, but you were hardly finished. “There’s an obi belt around the middle—a wide sash to hold everything together. Gray or charcoal in tone, maybe with a white rope layered over it to secure weapons or pouches. It should sit tight but not restrict breathing. Layers matter—not for beauty, but for function. I’ll need it to endure movement, travel, and fighting. Light enough not to drag me down, but strong enough to survive swordplay.” You thought that maybe your ramblings might have been too much, but the she-elf had a smile on her face. 

        “All this is just…one garment?” Her tone was teasing, yet you felt embarrassed all the same. “Too much?” You asked sheepishly. She shook her head. “Consider it done.” 

        Once the seamstress had taken her measurements and later her leave, silence fell again. You sat there for a long while, still unsure of what to do with yourself. You were tired, but now sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually, you wandered toward the open archway. Beyond it, a narrow balcony unfurled like a ledge carved into starlight. Cool marble met your bare feet. The breeze was gentle, brushing past like a whisper, carrying the scent of pine and wet earth. You leaned against the curved railing, eyes tracing the dark lines of treetops below, waterfalls glittering in the distance. The sun had set now, giving way to the stars. They were unfamiliar—sharper, whiter, scattered like glass across black velvet. You couldn’t make out any constellations, nothing you could recognize. This wasn’t your sky, wasn’t your world. 

        That’s when it hit you. 

        Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but like an ache. A hollowness inside your ribs. You would never go home. That realization was quiet and cruel in its finality. No more late-night drives. No more playlists. No more gaming. No more phone. No more family. No more you, at least the version you were yesterday—rather, before you came here. A single tear escaped down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly with a deep sigh, as if the night itself were watching. “I ain’t no bitch.” You cursed to yourself. “I chose this, so suck it up.”

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[saturnsag3]

You’re not even listening - will smith x macklin celebrini

summary: mack’s rambling self and will being obsessed with him

wc: 1,170

Will was sitting on Macklin’s bed, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, legs sprawled out and his back against the headboard. His phone was in his lap, but he hadn’t looked at it in fifteen minutes.

Because Macklin was pacing.

And rambling.

And being unintentionally hot about it.

“…I mean, like—okay—if you're gonna switch shifts with someone, at least let me know in advance,” Mack was saying, hands flailing for emphasis as he walked across the room again. “Don't just text me at 7 a.m. like ‘hey can you cover tonight?’ when you knew you had plans for three days. It's inconsiderate. And I know he’s dating Bree now and thinks his time is precious or whatever, but—dude. You're not the only person with a life.”

Will made a soft sound that might’ve been agreement, but honestly?

He hadn’t heard more than a word or two.

He was too busy watching Mack’s mouth.

The way his lips moved when he got heated. The way they curled around his really emphatic words. The way they puffed out when he stopped to breathe, or when he paused just long enough to collect the next complaint.

Will’s jaw was propped on his hand, elbow resting on his knee, just quietly observing this entire show while his heart did backflips. He loved when Macklin talked like this — when he got all worked up and dramatic over something completely inconsequential. Will used to think it was funny.

Now he just thought it was hot.

“I swear,” Mack continued, walking back to the dresser to grab his water bottle, “if I get roped into covering one more shift because someone can’t manage their own schedule, I’m gonna lose it. Like, I don’t care that you have a dinner reservation or a concert or whatever—if you’re not responsible enough to find coverage ahead of time, don’t make it my problem. I already worked Saturday. And Sunday. And literally every fucking day except Wednesday. That’s not even—like—legal. Or moral. Or whatever.”

Will’s lips twitched into a smile. Mack had no idea. None. He was still pacing, still talking, his t-shirt riding up just the tiniest bit with every step and his cheeks faintly pink from the heat in the room.

Will leaned back against the headboard again and blinked slowly, watching him like he was watching something sacred. Like the way Macklin talked, moved, lived was somehow all meant for him.

“And then—then!—he has the audacity to be like, ‘you looked chill today, so I figured you wouldn’t mind.’ I—looked—chill? What does that even mean? How does someone look chill? I had headphones in. That doesn’t mean I’m available, it means don’t talk to me. I—Will?”

Will blinked. Mack had stopped moving. He was standing there with one hip leaned against the dresser and his brows pulled together in a cute little crease. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” Will said, lips curling.

Mack squinted at him. “No, you’re not. You’re looking at me like I just sprouted two heads.”

Will’s voice was low, casual. “You do this thing with your mouth when you get worked up.”

Mack blinked. “What?”

“That little—” Will gestured vaguely with his fingers. “You like… bite your bottom lip for a second? And then your nose scrunches? And your mouth moves kinda fast when you’re mad, and it’s—” He stopped, gave a helpless little laugh. “I dunno. It’s hot.”

Mack’s face turned bright pink. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re literally making stuff up to distract from the fact that you weren’t listening to anything I just said.”

Will shrugged. “I heard enough. Jeremy sucks. He owes you a smoothie and like ten hours of sleep.”

“Will.”

Will just looked at him.

And Macklin opened his mouth like he was about to launch into another paragraph of outrage.

But he didn’t get the chance.

Because Will stood, slow and calm and steady, and crossed the room in three long strides.

And then, without so much as a warning, he grabbed Macklin’s face and kissed him.

Mack made a soft, startled sound — hands fluttering at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. His lips parted in surprise, just enough for Will to deepen the kiss, one hand sliding around to cup the back of Mack’s neck, the other settling gently at his waist.

It was a kiss that said shut up, but also please keep talking forever.

It was messy and warm and so full of feeling that it made Macklin dizzy.

When Will finally pulled back — just barely — Mack’s eyes were wide and dazed. “What… what was that for?”

Will didn’t answer right away. He just smiled, leaning his forehead against Mack’s. “You were ranting.”

“I was talking.”

“And I was enjoying every second of it.”

Mack’s hands finally found purchase in the front of Will’s hoodie, tugging him closer. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m obsessed with you,” Will said simply.

Mack blushed deeper breaking eye contact. “That’s… whatever.”

Will kissed him again, lighter this time. “You love it, baby”

“I hate it,” Mack whispered, smiling against his lips.

“No, you don’t.”

Mack kissed him back.

And when Will pulled him into a proper hug, warm and tight and full of everything unsaid, Macklin sighed into his shoulder and whispered, “You still owe me an apology for not listening.”

Will grinned. “I’ll kiss it out of you later.”

Mack rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Will murmured, kissing his jaw, “here you are. Still talking to me.”

sages thoughts⋆˙⟡: the ongoing saga of will’s infatuation with macklins face, im also gonna update that masterlist soon, bare with me and i hope you guys enjoyed!

[rimatsu]

The entire fandom is freaking out one way or another over what will likely be entertaining but empty fluff pieces. This is the equivalent of that one 911 article that was like OMG who will stay and who will leave?? without actually answering a single question

more notably, the interviews are focused on the actors, not the characters they play. that tells me everything i need to know about the network's intentions: they're not promoting the actual content of the finale, they're appeasing the angry masses with "fun" but ultimately inconsequential bits. the loud and fake outrage over bobby's death has suddenly vanished. goal temporarily accomplished!

buddies are so transparent and easily manipulated it's almost pathetic. except i refuse to feel pity for a group of people repeatedly falling for the same low-effort tricks. you know it's half-assed when the queen of delusions herself lizzie calls the out baiting (notice how the worst buddie journo offender is distancing herself from this mess bc she can anticipate the enraged fan response when the show inevitably fails to deliver again). and i just lost sympathy for abc and the 911 advertisement team: you reap what you sow. deal with the fallout on your own since your idea of online damage control is tossing a plastic bone to rabid dogs.

[bodybeyondstories]

story prompt: a couple of witchy gay guys are sat on a beach people watching and making minor modifications to passersby until the beach is suddenly a catalogue of hunky men with outrageous proportions

Witchy gays are a large part of my friend group! This was fun, also made me realize I need a more coherent mechanism for how magic works (beyond verbal suggestion lol). Ended up a quick mix of dick growth, ass expansion, a little bit of macro if you stick around til the end.

1101 words

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"He could start a small country with that thing."

"Was that one you or me?" Olly asked, his head slowly following the sight of an overstuffed speedo bouncing between two tanned thighs moving with sudden awkwardness across the beach. Its owner glanced down with a look of worry as the waistband of his swimwear drooped farther from his actual waist, weighed down by the unexpected mass stretching them to their limit. The worry turned to a flush of embarrassment as he made eye contact with Olly, who wasn't even bothering to hide his attention behind the pair of sunglasses dangling just below his chin. "Either way, fantastic work," he said with a wink at the overendowed beachgoer.

"That might have been a group effort," said Amir, turning to his friend. "He's always here when we are. Bad timing, I guess."

"Tragic, really. Not to mention he's definitely a grower. Must hit fifteen, sixteen inches when he really gets going."

"Let's not go overboard," Amir warned. "This isn't exactly in the rulebook."

"It's not against the rulebook, either. It's just practice, right?"

"Yeah, of course. They kept warning us that body mod spell work is complicated and risky..."

"So we get the feel of things by trying out minor shifts."

"Inconsequential changes."

"Negligible adjustments. No one gets hurt. Unless our regular ends up tripping over his own--"

"Careful! The spell's still active."

"Oh...shit..." Olly trailed off at the sight of a silhouette walking towards the sunset, a third shadowy limb swinging down past his knees and seeming to droop even further towards his ankles. The tatters of a speedo blew across the sand as he tried to hold his gargantuan cock complacent through a panicked scurry back up the beach, onlookers not hesitating to unapologetically hit record.

"We're gonna be hearing about that, aren't we?" said Amir. "This beach is already developing a little bit of a reputation for its...proportions."

"Well ok, we might be getting better at this than we thought," offered Olly with a smirk. "Maybe too good."

"You're sure it's not just because we're sitting on top of a half-assed transmutation circle?" Amir lifted a corner of their shared beach blanket to reveal a softly glowing sigil partially buried in the sand.

"A half-assed transmutation circle of our own design," corrected Olly. "Besides, there's nothing half-assed within a half mile, thanks to you."

"I like what I like," Amir blushed, gazing around at a landscape of astonishing bubble butts. Each a unique variation on themes of perkiness, roundness, muscle, and mass, yet most all of them visibly beyond the realm of quotidian normalcy. "At least most of them can still reasonably shove into normal pants. We learned our lesson after, well,"

"Right," said Olly, eyes drifting up to the lifeguard tower. "I think 'beachball buns' may have been a bit much."

"He broke the sides of the chair," said Amir, thinking of the lithe, toned lifeguard who had been trying to play it cool for as long as possible as his cheeks inflated to catastrophic proportions. "He could barely make it down the stairs."

"Yes, and now we know about sudden shifts in centers of gravity," said Olly, reminiscing on the sight of the lifeguard's bodacious bubble butt jiggling out of control, throwing off his momentum as he tried to make it down the steps.

"Where's he even going to find new swimwear that fits?" asked Amir, still fixated on the memory of those stretchy trunks ripped to shreds as he trudged up the beach with his newfound counterbalance, trying and failing to hold the pieces together and cover up his globular cheeks. "Or anything that fits."

"And the look on his face trying to squeeze back into his car... Someone had to shove the door closed from outside. It went viral overnight. Definitely your best work," Olly smiled at his friend.

"Ugh," Amir fell back onto the towel, resting on his elbows. "We need to be more subtle."

"Fair enough." Olly locked eyes on a beachgoer waist deep in the water, his impressive musculature glistening in the setting sun. "Like just improving what they're already going for." The swimmer paused for a second to wriggle his shoulders as they inflated into noticeable boulders, his back widening with striated muscle.

"Right, just little boosts here and there," said Amir, as their new target turned around to reveal a juicy pec shelf expanding inches in front of him. With one hand worriedly kneading his sensitive tits, he started moving to the shore. As he emerged from the water, he seemed to keep rising, stumbling awkwardly as his body lengthened upward by a foot and a half. "Was that you?"

"Like you said, just little boosts."

"I think that was more than a little. I meant just enough for a little wardrobe malfunction." As if on queue, a comically large dick fell out the leg of his trunks. He hurriedly tried to maneuver his hog back above the hem, positioning it around one thigh, tears showing in the thin fabric as it jumped a couple inches in girth.

"Not two in one day," Olly mocked.

"I don't know, maybe it's something in the water." Amir gestured dismissively on the last word, only noticing the sparks of chaos magic fling off his fingers when it was too late. "Hm. We...should...go. I think that's enough for today."

They began packing up their beach supplies and knocking sand off the sigils, carefully placing them in their packs as a growing panic crept its way from the water up the shore, beachgoers slowly and inexplicably inflating with mass. The new lifeguard, whose buns were already on their way to beachball size, blew the whistle, calling in swimmers from farthest out. His face flushed as they approached the shore, rising fifteen, then twenty feet out of the water, Olly and Amir narrowly dodging the shadow of one kayak-size foot that came crashing down onto their stuff.

"Oh, uh, sorry," came a deep booming rumble from above, massive finger daintily brushing off the remains of their sigils, their glow fading away with the setting sun.

"No problem, dude!" Olly yelled up at the giant only to be met with the sight of a gargantuan prick swinging just above his head, oozing a small river of precum.

"Wait..." his face was slowly turning to terror as he realized his chest cleared the lifeguard tower. "What's...happening to me??"

The two friends looked at each other for a long moment then turned and began digging through their backpacks.

"Ok," said Amir. "Let's jot that down."

[starstruckbyacomet]

REVIEW: 9-1-1 Season 8 Never Finds Its Rhythm

I just read a review of 9-1-1 Season 8 by Katey Stoetzel. Once again, I agree with every single thing she wrote.

It actually makes me sad, because these are some of what she mentioned:

For much of this season, it didn’t seem like there was ever a plan in place. Many ideas feel hastily thrown together and fail to deliver on a larger scale.

Episodically, the season succeeded more than any overarching story.

A lot of Eddie’s story this season feels like a result of not knowing what to do with him, and it’s become very obvious on screen by how little effort is being put into writing him a decent storyline.

For Hen, the rest of 9-1-1 Season 8 was a series of inconsequential moments.

Maddie and Chimney (Kenneth Choi) also lacked in their stories this season, hardly getting much to do in the first half. (Because Brad Torrence took up most screen time in the first half of the season 😒)

9-1-1 never seems interested in exploring their characters to that level of depth in 9-1-1 Season 8, especially for Buck.

Great performances kept 9-1-1 Season 8 tethered while its storylines didn’t. (Exactly! The writing is garbage in many ways. If the show didn't have exceptional actors, it would not survive this long).

However, what hit me the most is this paragraph:

If 9-1-1 Season 8 gets credit for anything, it’s for boldly killing off a main character. Bobby’s death, while tragic, was the most interesting thing this show has done in a while. It shakes up the status quo for every character, something 9-1-1 needs. But by the end of the season, it ultimately falls flat. The three-episode grieving arc to close the season did not live up to expectations, much like the rest of what 9-1-1 Season 8 promised. 

Bobby's death is arguably the most important storyline in the show so far. In my opinion, it's even more important than the Begin episodes. This is the one storyline where Tim Minear was supposed to deliver his best. Yet, the landing is still flat and disappointing.

I've seen a lot of major character death and the subsequent grief in other TV shows. They are always handled with care. Although heartbreaking and often devastating, those storylines are among the best I've ever seen, except this one.

If this is Tim's best effort, I have little confidence in how he will deliver Season 9 and beyond. Especially because I suspect that he was forced to let Peter go. I don't think Tim actually has a clear path about what to do with the remaining characters after Bobby's gone.

There are moments when I feel that Tommy Kinard is trapped within this show. This is one of those moments. Tommy is a great character, and he's held hostage by a mediocre writer whose writing is so unreliable, that he has to rely on gimmicks like outrageous disaster scenes and shipbaiting to keep people interested.

Tim's shipbaiting has ruined several characters in the show. He made some fans dislike Maddie. How come Maddie told Buck to call Eddie, but when Buck asked her should he call Tommy, she told him to learn to live alone? Didn't she just tell Buck to call Eddie? So, she thinks it's better for Buck to live alone than being with Tommy, but Buck doesn't have to live alone when he could call Eddie? If Maddie doesn't like Buck to be with Tommy, she needs to say it out loud. No need to use 'Buck has to learn to live alone' as an excuse. It makes her look like a wishy-washy character who lacks a backbone.

Tim also made Buck a man-child who couldn't decide for himself when it's about Tommy. After Tommy broke up with him, Buck repeatedly asked other people whether he should call Tommy or not. Why couldn't he decide for himself? Then he used Tommy as distraction from his loneliness, and hurt Tommy's feeling by making Tommy feel like a cheap hook up. After that, instead of apologize, he only called Tommy when he needed a favor. Tommy deserves a better partner than this Buck.

Last but not least, Tim ruined Eddie's character because of his baiting. First he made Eddie hurt — and ultimately broke up with his girlfriends, using Eddie's undying love to Shanon as an excuse. It seemed romantic in the surface, but actually he made Eddie look like an asshole. I think Tim just wants to make Eddie perpetually single to feed the Buddie delusion. It's also why he made Buck usually dumped by his LIs.

However, after the backlash, ABC seemed to oppose the Buddie baiting. Then the show took a 180⁰ turn. Eddie repeatedly became hostile towards Buck, probably to thwart any romantic accusation about them. Unfortunately, once again the show made Eddie look like an asshole in the process.

At moments like this, I half-wish that Tim let Tommy go with a happy ending, so I can also let this show go. The fanfictions treat him better than this mediocre show anyway.

[purplelupins]

A Pretty Butterfly

|The Watchmen|

Rorschach x fem!reader

Summery: Watching a stranger from your windows quickly turned into a human connection you craved. You just wanted to help this strange man who walked past your home everyday…but it seemed you got more than you had bargained for.

Warnings: SLOW BURN, violence, mentions of rape and assault, age-gap (reader is mid -late 20’s and Rorschach is 45) smut, dub-con, fingering, obsession, stalking, anxiety, Rorschach being a tit, pessimistic thoughts, self-sabotage, sunshine and grumpy old man dynamic

Word count: 13.8k words

MINORS DO NOT ENGAGE YOU WILL BE BLOCKED IF YOU DO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DONT READ THIS

Notes: In the film, they claim Rorschach is 35, but the comic has him at 45 so I went with that instead. a special thanks to my buddy @mandowifey for sending me down this rabbit hole and helping me out with my scatter brain🤍

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You didn’t mean to stare.

That was a lie.

…a half lie.

You liked to watch, but you didn’t mean to latch onto one face in particular when you peered out of your window. You never really had before; perhaps the odd flamboyantly dressed hooker or someone with outrageously done hair, but you couldn’t say you had ever taken notice of someone who seemed so inconsequential.

It was his red hair that made you look twice, at first.

From your little window, above a small tea shop that was run by a family who smelled of jasmine, you first saw that little man who wandered the streets of New York with his picket sign.

“The end is nigh” it said.

The first time you saw it, it made you laugh a little. So pessimistic. You wondered why he felt the need to forecast such a statement to the city. Was the end all he could see? Was there no good in his eyes?

Silly, you thought, to busy yourself with a stranger’s story that you had fabricated entirely in your mind.

But then the second time you saw him, those words made you think.

Perhaps it was close- the end, that is. The more and more that chauvinistic Dooms Day Clock ticked, the more you started to believe that man.

It was inevitable.

Perhaps it was close, too.

You wondered if he was unstable- mentally or otherwise. Wandering the streets when he should have been getting help. But the more you watched, the more you realised about him and his meandering walk; never once did you see him lash out or scream like you had seen so many times from those who injected and snorted and drank any substance they could get their hands on.

You watched him for months- accidental at first, then you found yourself checking outside your window to see if he was there. It was as if he was your own personal dooms-day clock- each time you saw him it was a tick. Somehow you found him far more comforting than the Armageddon timepiece the government kept.

Then you got tired of walking from your desk to the window, and moved it up against the glass. You told yourself there was no harm in thoughtfully gazing at someone…you weren’t harming him or yourself. You liked to pretend you were friends…though you knew he wasn’t even aware of your existence. You bet he had a million odd stories of the world around him- he looked far older than you. Older and harsher.

Then came the day that changed your private little relationship.

The day he stared back.

It had scared you half to death when you had been watching him in your usual daze- silly smile on your face and chin in your palm- and he had paused. He had looked down the street, stopped, then snapped his head up to look you in the eye. He was 25 feet below you yet he saw you so clearly and you felt stripped bare.

You had nearly fallen out of your chair to scramble away from the window; goosebumps had sprung up on your arms and your feet had pins and needles in them. Your heart had leapt into your throat and pounded furiously. It had taken you 10 minutes to finally inch back to the window. To your relief, he was no longer there, but then distress began to set in as you wondered if you had scared him off. He didn’t exactly look blessed with monetary abundance, and you doubted he appreciated a strange woman staring down at him.

The next day, you thought he might not pass your street; having a stranger watch him was likely not on his to-do list and there were hundreds of streets for him to march down instead of yours.

However, even though you agreed with this likelihood of him not coming back, you found yourself unable to complete any work until noon. A call from your employer was the only thing that snapped you out of your reverie, and even then, you could barely focus on your work.

Your knee bounced as you did your best to prioritize, and almost got lost in the work in front of you until out of the corner of your eye, you saw a flicker of red. It was embarrassing how fast you looked down, not that you truly cared.

Your heart jolted. He was there. You didn’t scare him off.

Then, he looked up again.

This time, you didn’t run. You held your ground…and even managed a little wave.

He didn’t wave back, and you even wondered if he saw it.

He only readjusted his sign over his shoulder and kept walking.

What an odd man.

Though you supposed you were just as odd to show such an interest in him.

Perhaps a little perverse…

You blanched at the thought; hoping to god that he didn’t think that.

While making dinner, a thought struck you. You made just a little extra food, and saved it in a container, even writing a note for yourself to not forget to give it to that strange man. You knew it was silly, and forward - truly very unlike you- but in a city where it was next to impossible to make any selfless human connection…you didn’t want this to go to waste. Even if he told you to piss off, at least you could sleep at night knowing you tried.

So you waited.

You truly hoped against hope that your wish to show compassion wouldn’t be seen as anything but what it was…though a part of you began to think you were practically asking for trouble or misinterpretation. The longer you sat the more nonsensical you felt as your knee bounced twice the speed of your heart beat.

It was almost 10 am when he came into your view, only this time it was as if he materialised out of nowhere instead of the slow walk from your right to your left.

You didn’t even wait to see if he would look up.

You didn’t let yourself think.

You dashed to your door, food in hand, and tore down the stairs to the small gate separating your home’s entrance from the figures trudging past. You opened it and stepped out onto the street, trying not to get stepped on by passers-by as you looked for him. To your luck, he was only ten feet down from your building, and before you could stop yourself, you quickened your pace to catch up.

“E-excuse me! Sir?” You called softly once you were behind him. The man came to a slow stop and turned- a stoic look on his face.

Now that this man was in front of you and was giving you his very real attention, you felt your lungs cease their function for a few seconds, no words forming in your mouth either.

He was handsome…in a strange sort of way.

He looked…jagged, and guarded.

Thin, short, and tired…but by god you couldn’t look away. Not until you realized you were staring again.

Simple and to the point.

You looked down at the container of food in your hands that was still warm.

“I’m- I apologise…I wanted you to have this…it’s getting cold.” You said, holding out the food to him.

Most impersonal act of kindness in recorded history, well done.

You returned your eyes to his face, and found him looking right back at you. Neither angry nor kind. He simply looked…beaten. Tired of his life…tired of the world…you didn’t know for certain. But you understood.

Somehow.

“I’m-…I’m sorry for staring. And I hope you’re not allergic to anything…um, there’s a fork in there, you can keep it, good to have, you know?” You knew you were rambling, and very aware that he hadn’t looked away from you once. You fought to hold his gaze, but admittedly it was an intimidating stare.

He turned to walk away, and you felt panic fill you.

“Please take it.” You tried again, but he didn’t say a word.

He silently left you standing there, and you felt like New York’s biggest idiot.

It was the rambling…defiantly the rambling. Oh maybe it was the act itself I mean he probably isn’t used to having that kind of- okay now that’s a bit of an over-assumption…he might have lots of people offering him kindness…and now you’re the one standing on the street staring at a lamppost.

…pull yourself together.

You watched him disappear, just like your pride; whatever had been left of it. Your shoulders began to sag as defeat settled into you and turned your tongue sour.

Which was why you decided to do the exact same thing again the next day.

You waited. Perfectly ready to not see him after that embarrassing display yesterday…but sure enough, there he was.

You noted that he did not not look up today, not that you blamed him.

You were out the door before you could dissuade yourself.

“Mister!” You called.

He didn’t turn this time.

You repeated yourself a little more clearly. “Mister!”

He kept walking. And somehow every time you almost caught up to him, he would slip out of your grasp.

You could only continue like that so far down the street, and eventually had to give up. He was stubborn…and you could be too. You didn’t know this man’s story, and if he didn’t see himself as good enough to receive kindness, then you could continue until he did understand…or until he called the police on you for harassment.

So you did it again. And again.

You told yourself you would try two more times and if he didn’t take them…that would be that. You would have to move on.

You made a rich stew, and even put a few pieces of bread in a bag for him. You steeled your shot nerves, and began to walk down to your entrance before even seeing him.

You saw him coming from a few blocks away, and very slowly made your way into his path. He gradually took in your form, but didn’t pause or even stop. Not until he was a foot from you. But you held your ground.

“Look…I’m not…I don’t know why you won’t let me help you, but I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get some gold star or have you boost my ego by being thankful…I just want to show you kindness and if that’s too much for yo-“

He held his hand out to you, palm up. He didn’t look away, and blinked slowly.

You might not have been the best at reading every person you met, but his message was obvious. “If I take it will you leave me alone?”

You grinned timidly, and placed the food in his hand gently. “Keep the container…they’re good to have.” You said under your breath almost out of habit- it had been something your mother did and now you found yourself doing.

He took it without another word, and you felt a pleasant heat bloom in your chest.

The next day, you childishly watched for him again- as if he was your Santa Clause or Tooth Fairy…although he looked like he might knock someone’s teeth out rather than give them a couple coins for them.

You made a soup that would fill him up and picked up an extra loaf of bread to give him. Both sat on your lap as you sat on your stoop, ready for him. You kept telling yourself you just wanted to help out a lonely soul like yourself, and that you weren’t developing a juvenile crush on the man who hadn’t even spoken to you.

You leaned out periodically to see if you could see him, and found yourself readying your nerves to confront him again.

You sighed and went to lean out again, only to freeze rigidly.

“M-morning-“ you squeaked.

The very man you were waiting for was standing just feet from you, staring, and his free hand in his pocket. As if he had come up from the gutters themselves.

You hadn’t prepared for this kind of sudden interaction, and found yourself mentally throttling your brain to do something.

Anything.

It seemed however that whatever god was above you decided to take mercy on you for once, and the man reached out his hand just as he had the day previously.

You wordlessly handed the food to him then remembered the bread. “Oh! This um is for you too…it’s fresh.” You added, pretending like your cheeks weren’t warm and your hands weren’t shaking.

You smiled gently, but it faded fast when you notices a small group of seedy men approaching the two of you. You didn’t like to instantly label people, but this particular flock of men were well known in the area…you had watched them many a time from the safety of your window.

You instantly began to shrink in on yourself, and it seemed your change in demeanour was enough to catch the older man’s attention. He followed your stare behind him, and his nose momentarily scrunched up in a displeased snarl. A mere twitch.

Vermin.

Rorschach felt something ugly build in him. He knew their faces well…rape, theft, assault, vandalism. These men were true scum under his boot…he hated that he couldn’t put them in their place without his face.

“Hey-yo mammi lookin good!”

“Hey you wanna lift that skirt a little more?”

“Whatcha doin with the little rat, hm?”

You could feel your heart rate pick up as they got closer, and you hoped that they didn’t realize you lived in that building. You wished you didn’t feel so small but-

The older man handed the food back to you without even looking. It was enough to bring you back to reality, and you took it quickly- the last thing you wanted was to antagonise him. Then he turned his body fully to the approaching group, and he waited patiently.

Your heart stopped. Was he about to-

He didn’t move from his stance in front of you, and he almost looked bored. Inconvenienced.

“The fuck you gonna do weasel?” One of them sneered.

That’s not very nice-

They’re not nice PEOPLE

You watched, terrified, as they got into his face and towered over him. The last thing you wanted was for him to get beaten for just being near you-

“What’s your fucking problem huh? Just gonna stare at us with those freak eyes cuz you can’t fight?” Another taunted, guffawing.

You winced, and your eyes unfocused…just like they used to-

But then, something in the men changed like a light switch. With his back to you and now a few feet away, you couldn’t tell if the man had said something, or done something, but what you did know was that the skinniest of the group was clapping the biggest on the shoulder and telling him “The little rat ain’t worth the trouble.” But there was an urgency in him what wasn’t there before.

The men huffed and some blew kisses at you which made you wrap your sweater tighter around yourself wishing you could disappear. Your eyes refocused as you heard them walk away, and you slowly looked over at the older man who was now half turning back to you.

You stared at him, your appreciation evident on you face. “I- Thank you sir…I don’t…” Don’t want to think of what might have happened if you weren’t here, you wanted to say, but you kept it simple instead. You sighed and shook your head, then held out your offering to him, and the bread you were sure he would like.

The man stared, and rose his right brow slightly, then took both from you. He turned and left you there as if it was a normal day.

Your heart was still beating wildly by the time he had left your sight, and you couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread through you as you thought about him defending you; even if it was simply him not in the mood to witness a young woman have her dignity taken…he had done something, and that made you stare after him longer than usual.

You didn’t ask why he came back at all.

Nor why he was right by your stoop that morning.

And you never inquired as to why he never asked why you didn’t give him money.

He knew why you didn’t. Perhaps not enough to make a full admission to himself but he sensed something in you…that stupid little girl. You didn’t give him money because money was too easy to fall into sin. Gambling, drugs, whores…all for money.

You wanted your kindness to stay as it was intended to be- good.

The warmth you had felt stewed in your stomach right through to the next day; you had made your way to your favourite shops early that morning and picked up a few bags of things to cook with. Then as you went to turn to your building, you paused.

You knew that red hair a mile away, and you only needed to look a few feet to see it resting against your stoop entrance.

He-

You looked around at nothing as if someone might tell you what you were seeing.

He was sat there on your building’s steps, newspaper in hand…reading. You considered continuing walking down the street and pretending like you didn’t see him or live there, but you felt silly even considering such a thing.

He didnt look up at you, and didn’t acknowledge you as you slowly approached the steps.

“Morning.” You said gently. Your cheeks began to flush when you looked at him- attempting to retrieve your keys from your pocket without tripping. It came out almost absentmindedly, seeing as you didn’t exactly want him to know that you had been fixated on how to approach him…although you supposed you had already had blown that when you watched for him every day and chased him with food…

He didn’t say a word.

An anxious knot began to tighten in your stomach. You truly didn’t know what to do…you didn’t want to seem rude if he just hadn’t heard you. You got to the first step and glanced down at your hot coffee. You wondered if he was able to speak at all…At this point, when you figured you were mostly talking to yourself and that he likely barely listened to a word you said.

“You need this more than I do…it’s September now…getting cold.” You bent down, hoping your paper bags didn’t rip, and placed it onto the second step by his boot.

You wanted to ask him why he was on your steps; wondered if he was waiting for you; wondered if he might clasp a hand over your mouth and slit your throat the moment you walked past him. It wasn’t that you wanted to think the worst, but after years of seeing the worst in the city, you couldn’t help it. You hoped that you were wrong, for you sanity’s sake.

The man still hadn’t acknowledged you, and your arms were growing heavy. With nothing left to do, you opted to walk past him and unlocked the door; chancing a glance back at his form. Perhaps you were delusional, but you swore you saw his head turning back to its original position. Had his gaze followed you?

A glance.

It was small and secret and you were elated.

You wasted no time in running up the stairs into your apartment, and grabbing the food you had saved from the night before. You counted the seconds mentally that it took for you to descend the stairs again, hoping it wouldn’t be enough time for the man to disappear.

You nearly tripped on the last step when you saw him standing and folding the newspaper. In another attempt to regain your composure, you slowed your pace as you came to the top of the stoop. You almost handed the food to him from there, but it made you feel like someone with a saviour complex instead of just trying to be nice. The tentative step you took down to his level seemed to finally grasp his vague attention as he looked down at your feet then up to your face.

You held the food out by his gloved hand.

“I hope you’re okay, mister.” You said earnestly, holding his gaze, “It’s horrible out there.” You didn’t know what made you say that, but it had been something that weighed on your mind for months…perhaps years. A dormant thought that his picket sign had awakened.

The man took the food, and it was then that you noted a certain despondency in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way his weathered face made them stand out so much more amongst the lines of age.

He left you there again just like he always did: silently.

Just as you were about to wander back up into your home, you glanced down and stopped and smiled.

There sat the coffee cup you had handed him.

It was empty.

Perhaps he was accepting your gestures in hopes of having you eventually leave him alone, but you were only fuelled by his recipiency. It became a routine for you to keep extra food for that man. Even if you ordered take-out, you kept some for him.

You noticed, however, that not long after you made contact with the strange man, a few things started happening to you that certainly had not before. In fact, you were beginning to ponder your sleep quality as you often woke up to far less food than when you had gone to sleep. Were you sleep walking? Or simply forgetting all together how much you had eaten?

Then came the dreams. At least a few times out of the week, your dream-addled mind swirled with unclear images of someone or something visiting you at night- a shadow, a whisper, a puff of smoke in the wind. You swore you woke up with things moved, but there was no forced entry that you could find, and thus you never thought more of it than you needing more sleep.

Weeks passed as you took it upon yourself to care for this man, even though he seemed to dislike the company. You knew he found you childish, it was beyond evident in his face when he stared at you. But even still, he took what you offered him, albeit begrudgingly.

Each time you saw him, a part of your heart felt bruised. Not that you pitied him -you were certain he would resent any pity- but you could tell when a person was damaged. Be it from something personal or the world itself…it didn’t matter. You were all hurt in your own way. You wondered how long it had been since someone was kind to him; had he known much kindness at all? Had he lost everything? Did he have anything to lose in the first place?

You hoped you could provide him with a tiny little ray of hope amongst the arduous reality.

Perhaps you were too optimistic like your mother had said when you were little…but you didn’t care. Not when it helped you sleep at night and get through the days of listening to the dwindling city below you.

But then, he stopped coming.

It had been a full month and a half since he had first accepted your offering. You had gotten so used to your routine that the first morning it happened, you felt sick- like a punch to your gut. You heart had dropped to your toes and your tongue felt heavy and your ears rang. You instantly thought the worst. Of course you tried to rationalise it, telling yourself that he most likely just wanted a change in his route and would be gone for that day…or perhaps he simply got sick and didn’t go for his usual walk.

When you sat there at your window, having gone back up dejectedly, you found yourself staring into nothingness. You hadn’t realized how attached you had become to that little man.

This man who never spoke had become a friend of sorts…some kind of stanger who gave you a tiny bit of human contact that you grew dependant on. It wasn’t as if he was kind to you, in fact he was a little standoffish when it came to you…you wondered if you bothered him more than anything else…and the more you thought about it the more you realized you probably did.

That night came and went; quiet and lonely aside from those strange dreams. Your eyes prickled when you awoke- already feeling empty.

You felt so silly. So selfish. Ridiculous really.

You felt even more ridiculous when you called in sick to work even though you couldn’t afford it. You found yourself wandering the streets without the slightest idea where that man came from or what his routine was, so you picked some directions to try and set off. There was no plan, you just needed to know that the one person you actually cared about wasn’t laying dead in an alley, at the very least.

It took three hours.

Three.

Asking various vendors and urchins of the streets before you were pointed in the direction that ultimately led you to that tuft of dirty red hair. He was passing by a news stand, that simple pace carrying him as always.

“Mister!” You called before you could tell yourself this was stalking…and the fact that you had no plan whatsoever.

The only indication that he heard you was when the man’s steps faltered for a moment. A slight pause in his foot and a tightening of his shoulders.

You ran to him, and moved into his field of vision. He stared at you almost like a stranger, and that stung you more than it should have. But you did your best to remain calm and kind.

“I haven’t- you-“ you tried, but failed to catch your breath, “I thought something had happened to you…but I’m so glad to see you safe. Can I- can I buy you lunch?” You asked him.

The man stared at you hard, that line between his brows even more pronounced than usual. He was thinking.

Rorschach loathed how bare he was without his face. If he wasn’t in disguise he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you to take your pity elsewhere, anything to get you to unstick yourself from him.

When he didn’t budge, you shifted on your feet, looking around to break his intense eye contact, “I- you dont have to repay me or anything…just a bite to eat. I care about you…- more than I should probably.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You almost jumped at the voice that left him.

That was the first time he had said a word to you, and you admittedly never would have thought that that would be his voice- it was so deep and hoarse that you shivered.

Then you realised what he had said.

“I sh-…why?” You asked, scrunching your brows together.

He hated his weakness in finally speaking. You would never let go now.

“People like you don’t care about people like me, and vice versa.” His words came in a rumble, and they tore you down so easily. A stomp to your heart.

You tried to pretend like tears weren’t welling in your eyes; like you were stronger than the curt, sharp words of a man you barely knew. “And what kind of people are my people?” You pushed, though it sounded more desperate than you wanted.

His face was pure stone. “Good people.”

You swallowed. “And you’re bad?” The question was timid; any wind that had been in your sails was long gone as soon as he had opened his mouth.

“Yes.” He rasped. Rorschach didn’t have the patience to baby you, and frankly his temper was rising the more you made him speak.

“Call me naive…but you don’t seem bad to me…you look…worn down.” You shrugged. “You seem like you need a little good in your life…and I really want to help you with that-“

“No you don’t.”

He said it so quickly it was as if he had practiced it or said it before. You wondered how many times he had gotten hurt.

As you searched for any retort, he continued, and began to stalk towards you causing you to back away. “You don’t want to help with anything. What you want is to feel a little less self absorbed than you already do but in doing so you only fall further into your pathetic, egocentric existence. You think you’re being compassionate? Look again. You’re nothing but a privileged little girl looking for a new toy until she gets bored and wants another one. Look in the mirror for once and see what you really are, you wretch.”

His words rang in your ears, and you felt lightheaded. He stared you down a moment longer, then he was turning around and disappeared into the crowd before you could find a rebuttal or feel your hands. You were numb.

Your heart ached as much as your feet did, if not more.

No…certainly more. You felt nauseated.

It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped on you from the top of one of the skyscrapers above you. You felt cold and breathless.

You didn’t remember walking home, but you must have seeing as you were sitting on your couch, coat off and tears dry by 6 pm.

You never thought he cared that much; thought he just saw you as a free meal and you were alright with that…but hearing what he had thought of you all along made you want to double over at your stupidity.

Had he been obvious in his distain and you just hadn’t noticed? You supposed it had been you who forced him to take your food in the first place…he had tried to get away from you but never could because you were so persistent. You were selfish in your want to help, and it had angered him terribly.

And you had lied to yourself; you had told yourself that if he told you to piss off, you would just have to accept that…but here you were with him telling you just that and you couldn’t handle it.

You should have known it was only a matter of time before you pushed this stranger too far…

He was like a wild dog; he would respect you…and then he wouldn’t.

And now you felt even worse for comparing him to a dog.

You hung your head in your hands and let your tears fall. In your want to help someone you had only made an enemy, and made yourself feel more alone than ever.

But that one morning still played over and over if your mind- when he hadn’t let that gang of men get any closer to you; he could have so easily just taken the food and walked away to leave you to their mercy…but he had stood his ground.

Your head ached as you tried to rationalise everything and piece it together.

But all you could come up with was that he thought you were a horrible person…and you were starting to believe him. You supposed you were nothing more than a caterer for him and you had pushed his boundaries too much.

It was all your fault.

A week passed. Every night, you still made the extra food for him, only now you left it out on the stoop since you didn’t see him anymore; hoping he might wander by when you weren’t looking. But you felt your heart ache when it was untouched. On more than one occasion the food was taken, but you assumed it wasn’t your…friend.

Of course, you had no idea that the very man you urned for sat beside those containers almost every night for at least an hour without his face. He never touched what you left for him, and he stared at it in distain. You were young, and you were stupid. He gathered he couldn’t even call you a whore yet…hell you almost had a pretentious halo around you from being born still. He wondered how it felt to be so utterly ignorant.

Rorschach hated that he knew more about you than you thought. That he had taken up the habit of perching on your fire escape outside your window as he wrote in his journal, and you cooked or read.

What he didn’t know was why you did this. Rorschach was a master of puzzles and he loathed that he couldn’t figure your motive out, not fully at least.

You said you cared.

Said you wanted to help…

Stupid.

There was no way in hell that anything you said was true. There was some kind of poison lacing your words and he had already let himself be exposed too long. No one liked Walter Kovacs, and no one liked Rorschach; they used him and worked with him…but like?

No.

A young woman liking him?

Unheard of.

Preposterous.

But that first day you had come to him on that filthy street had felt like an itch had been scratched. For months he had felt eyes on him on that particular stretch of street, but when he had finally spotted you upon your little perch, he felt what it was like to have a question answered for once. It had startled him. You had startled him. He had imagined it was an old, fat creep spying on the passers-by or a whore looking for a client…just like her…

But then there you were- this soft young woman with clean clothes and a gentle stare; you had almost fallen out of your seat, red cheeks visible even from his view point below.

Just another strange woman then.

Then…and only then when you had burst out onto the street, and run after him did he allow himself to look at you. Actually look at you.

You had looked irritatingly familiar.

There was a timidness to your eyes- a sadness that had turned to kindness. A stark contrast to the sadness in his own eyes- a sadness that had turned to venom and ice long ago.

Your voice was soft as you spoke all in a rush and apologising as you held that peace offering to him. A warm meal.

Selfless.

You were young, and selfless.

You didn’t care that he was as filthy as the street you stood on. That he hadn’t even spoken a word.

You had just wanted to help.

Stupid.

Rorschach was pleased that he had chosen to leave you there; he wasn’t one to pick up strays.

But you were stubborn. He loathed how stubborn you were. Treating him like he was a bug under your microscope.

That next time when he finally took your selfish, presumptuous offering, he considered not eating the food lest it be poisoned, but then again that wouldn’t be the worst thing he had endured in his lifetime.

He had watched you retreat back into your little home like some little, pathetic mouse.

He wasn’t young, or stupid, or naive, or innocent.

He wasn’t about let his gaze wander to some girl who would be a whore in a year or two.

At least that was what he had told himself up until night fell. Once the city was plunged into darkness and his disguise came off, Rorschach clenched his bloodied knuckles as he scaled a near-by building. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop until he came to a familiar neighbourhood. Rorschach had huffed behind his mask, and crawled down the ladder system to your window; a sick, juvenile curiosity making him feeble. Contempt flooded him.

He sat outside your window…watched you as you put yourself to sleep; tugging frustratedly at your night-dress when it bunched up under your blanket. There was an innocence to you that made his nostrils flare under his mask and his ears ring; as if an old memory was trying to resurface. It was ludicrous, of course.

Your window had opened surprisingly quietly, and he soundlessly eased himself inside. Your home was simple and comfortable despite likely having a landlord who didn’t give two shits about you. Tidy enough for a young woman. Rorschach stalked from shadow to shadow, mapping out the apartment. Then he came to your bedroom, and he paused; watched how gently you breathed as sleep took you. As if you didn’t have a care in the world, or perhaps you simply weren’t aware of the scum that lay below you.

He told himself he was just collecting information on this strange person who had extended him a disingenuous olive branch. Nothing more.

It wasn’t that there was an itch in his hands when he saw you, or a twitch in his eye when he heard your voice; that you got under his skin.

You little creature.

A little light that had turned on in his dark world.

He hated the light.

He stared at the dress that you had worn that day- draped over the back of a chair in the corner of your room. It had sat at your knee, a modest length especially given your young age. It wasn’t often that a young woman attempted to protect herself with a show of dignity. He gathered you must be hiding something…

You were odd. A sliver of grey in his black and white world.

He hated grey. It made no sense.

Then there was the routine that you forced him to partake in.

He found his steps slowing when he passed your building- not out of expectation but out of a foolishness that made him engage in the childish game you laid out.

Your presence ate away at him like a corrosive acid.

Each day he expected you to not be there. To disappoint him like everyone else.

But you never disappointed him, and he loathed it.

There was twice where he had made it past your building with no sign of you, and he had decided that the game was done and he could carry on with his existence, but then that frantic little voice of yours would make him stop. Calling after him like he was so important. Like you needed to give him your kindness as much as you assumed he needed to receive it.

Then he found himself slipping.

So stupid.

Putting off jobs or rerouting himself to pass your window. Just a glimpse- a reassurance that you were alright like double checking that you have your wallet when you leave the house.

Then it wasn’t enough. He began to sleep there on your stoop, picket sign beside him like an old friend. He didn’t care if he saw you in the mornings, but he saw the type of people who frequented the area and he wasn’t about to let a single one get past your door. He didn’t need the blood of a foolish woman on his hands as well.

The image of your bloodied, violated limp body made his stomach churn; just like it had when he found Blair Roche’s remains. And that was what scared him- or the closest thing he could feel to fear.

He held this pristine little being in his pale hand, and he knew that the longer he held it, the more likely it became that he would ruin it. Crush you in his palm just like that man had done to that little girl all those years ago…taking Walter Kovacs with him.

And he would not drag you down with him. He would not stoop to that monster’s level.

So he stopped showing you his disguise. He couldn’t have you know he was there, just like the rest of New York. He needed you to forget about him; treat him like a ghost you saw out of the corner of your eye.

When he was across the city that morning and still heard your voice behind him, he had felt his muscles tighten in distain.

Because then it wasn’t a game anymore. He was done.

But you were so insistent that you cared.

You truly cared.

You had spent god knows how long looking for him.

As soon as he had heard you, he had to steel his composure lest you attempt to lure him back into your scheme.

He hated that you had gotten him to speak, but he had watched you crumble under his words; it was alright that you were upset. He could handle that far easier than your kindness- perhaps you might even grow from a little cruelty.

Weeks passed, and he found himself returning to his usual schedule; almost appreciating the simplicity of the dullness and angst.

It was a Tuesday night when Rorschach sat on an old roof top, jotting down his visit to Daniel Dreiberg’s home- noting that he had gotten even lazier with his physique and needed to stop lying to himself about the state of the world. The odd scream and rushed fuck in an alley-way rang out below him here and there; the usual.

Dull, really. He sighed, and tucked the book inside his coat. He leaped down to the neighbouring roof, and trudged along it.

Then from down below, he swore he heard a familiar voice.

Rorschach almost rolled his eyes as he came to the edge of the roof and looked down. It was dark, but he knew your voice from a mile away- you had forced that skill upon him.

You were backing away from five men, all considerably more imposing than yourself and your warm drink. Hot chocolate to be exact. You always had at least one once a week…taking a stroll to a small coffee house-

Rorschach ground his fist into the brick to halt his unnecessary thoughts as he crouched.

He listened to the men taunt you, and saw them back you into an alley wall.

He watched, bored, waiting to see what might happen. Then the more he listened, the more he came to realize that the conversation being had sounded familiar.

“What you thought I’d be locked up forever, pumpkin? Nah they just needed some good behaviour ‘n that was enough for them to slap my ass outta there.” One of them laughed, and he neared your cowering form.

Rorschach noted just how badly you shook.

“What? You’re not happy to see me? Cmon now, don’t you have a kiss for daddy, hm?” The man sneered, successfully trapping you against the disgusting alley wall.

Rorschach began creeping down closer to hear, his eye twitching under his face when he watched the other men keep a look out and stare at you like meat on a plate.

“There you were thinking you were so smart with that speech of yours… “My boyfriend raped me and made me watch him launder all the money.”.”, he put on a horrible high pitched voice to mock you, “God you sounded pathetic. 15 fucking years…got out in 7…missed you, you know?”

Rorschach’s brain itched as he tried to recall this particular monster…it was all so-

Then it clicked.

That nagging familiarity of your face wasn’t a coincidence. He had seen you before, of course he had. He felt so stupid.

He had been outside the courthouse after you had given your heartbreaking testimony and that vile man was sentenced to 15 years for assault, murder, rape, and money laundering with attachments to drug trafficking to the homeless. Some monster with a god complex. He had seen you come down the stairs, one of your eyes still black, and head down as the onslaught of reporters and media flocked to you. You had been in the damn paper, why the hell didn’t he remember that. You were barely legal too…he remembered how his stomach had churned-

Your scream snapped him out of his memory, and he was leaping down into that alley before you could finish your cry for help. You sounded so terrified.

As Rorschach landed, a knife was held up to your lips, ready to carve your face. He felt rage fill his veins; was there no end to the putrid barbarians that staked their claim on what they saw fit?

He cleared his throat. Each head turned to him, including yours, as he stood.

As one of the most recognizable figures of New York’s underbelly, Rorschach was used to the look of fright directed at him. What he was not used to was the look of solace that washed over your tight features once your eyes locked onto his inkblot face.

Rorschach found something rewarding in your eyes.

Fuel.

The man holding your throat nodded for the man closest to Rorschach to attack first, which he did. His neck snapping echoed louder than your sobs.

The cold knife poked carelessly into your soft cheek, and you did your best to squirm away.

The next man to lunge at the vigilante smashed his bottle of beer against the brick wall, smirking as if his glass weapon would do any good. Rorschach let him get close. Then faster than a bullet he snatched the man’s weapon-laden hand and squeeze tight; the bottle breaking easily in his fist and puncturing the man’s hand like a balloon on a tack.

Two other men attempted to assault Rorschach, and each time he found such generous abundance of horror and dread in their eyes right before he gifted them each with an irreversible injury.

One after another, the men fell, until it was just Rorschach, the man holding you, and you.

He knew the dog had a name- knew he had heard it specifically- but he couldn’t bring himself to care. No doubt he would hear it over a news channel tomorrow.

The lout man held you tight, and knocked your head against the wall to stun you before turning to Rorschach. You slumped to the ground and watched as the masked vigilante took measured steps to him as if to speed up the process.

You had heard of the Watchmen before, and the countless criminals they had put away and subsequent lives they had saved…but Rorschach wasn’t what you had imagined. He didn’t tell you to save yourself or ask if you were alright. He was silent.

And somehow you found comfort in that-as if you were in the fight with him instead of a damsel in distress. You couldn’t look away, even going so far as looking for something to immobilize the brute of a man who had stolen so much from you all those years ago when you didn’t know any better.

Then once you looked up again, he was down in a heap.

You didn’t even see the altercation, but regardless there was an evident dent in the side of his bleeding head.

The filthy alley floor dug into your knees as you sat and stared. Your mind was playing catch-up with your eyes, and you felt as if the world had been eradicated from your shoulders.

You felt tears well in your eyes and a line of gratitude on your tongue.

Then the masked man turned to you and your entire world shifted when he spoke.

“Go home.” Was all he said.

But it wasn’t how he said it or what he said.

It was his voice.

You knew that voice.

You missed that voice.

You had wanted so badly to understand that voice…

Even the compact build and attitude were right.

Your lungs burned from you forgetting to breathe for a moment.

You stared up at his looming figure, eyes wide and tears long forgotten.

“It’s you…” you whispered. “You’re Rorschach.”

He let out a noise that sounded akin to a growl and a sigh. The sound send a shiver through your cold body. Then without another word, he pulled out a grappling hook like you had seen on the news, launched it, and disappeared into the smog and thick dark.

Rorschach berated himself for hours following the incident. So badly that he beat an old pimp into a coma and ripped his face off to breathe as he sat on a fire escape.

This was a nightmare.

You knew him. Knew his face and his voice.

He had slipped.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

There was only one thing he could think of that might rectify it, and it didn’t include you living.

He sighed.

Rorschach stood outside your door, returned to his disguise, and found that he could hear your footsteps through the thin wood. You were cleaning… doing something to distract yourself. Your hands were shaking judging by how you kept dropping things.

He knocked three times, and heard you pause at the sound. Paranoid. Frightened. You very quietly approached the door, and took a look through your peephole before falling completely silent.

You weighed your options; you could not open the door, and risk that pissing him off and breaking the door down…or you could open it and simply speed up the process of whatever it was he wanted. It took ten seconds before you pulled the door open for him.

There was no hiding how startled you were by him being there…now that you knew exactly who he was.

You were looking for something he say, he could practically hear your mind working away…up until your eyes fell on his bashed cheek and the blood drying there. You hadn’t realised he had gotten hit during the fight.

“Y-you’re hurt,” you murmured, and he nodded, not letting his eyes leave you. You sighed and stood aside, “Come in.”

He stared at you for a moment, then slowly walked past you into your home as if it was the first time he had been there. Like he didn’t know the layout and where you slept and how you folded your clothes or the hangers you used.

“Sit down.” You gestured to the couch, and offered a very small smile as if to reassure him that he was welcome there. That you weren’t holly terrified of him.

Rorschach sat, and watched you as you approached him with a cloth and small bowl of water. You sat close to him, and brought the cloth up to his cheek after wringing it out, but he caught your wrist before you could get any nearer.

He looked at you. Truly looked at you. Looked through you.

“You shouldn’t waste your tears on something so undeserving as a man.” He rumbled.

Your eyes were locked on his, and you felt as if all air was sucked out of you. You still weren’t used to that voice of his; pure gravel.

His words hung heavy in your ears, and you realized that you must have looked like an absolute mess- tears still drying on your cheeks from sobbing for your life in the alley.

He watched you take the tactless comment and he slowly released your wrist, and you gently began to clean his injury and grime on his face. There was a firm line between your brows as your worked- wiping the sharp planes of his face while trying to ignore his eyes on you, burning a hole through your skull.

His face came clean, and your bowl of water was murky and pink. This was possibly the most surreal nights you had had in a very long time. You went to get up but again, his hand caught your forearm and kept you seated. You looked from his hand to his face, staying quiet.

“Why are you helping me?” He snipped, grip tight.

You blinked, and searched his handsome face for any idea why he might doubt you aside from the fear he caused you.

You shook your head, “Why wouldnt-“

“Why?” Rorschach snarled, pulling you so close that you breathed the same air- those cold blue eyes of his harsh and intimidating.

You gasped, but refused to look away. His grip hurt, but he had saved your life and you were afraid that if you said or did the wrong thing he would disappear again. It was pathetic, you knew that, but you felt a strange bond to him.

And though he didn’t want to admit it, he felt an odd attachment to you as well.

For 45 years he had only ever seen the greed and filth that came from humanity; shaped from it, starting from the very womb he was born from. Lies and hatred, murder and rape and theft and horror beyond your imagination. For him to find your grey in amongst the rubble of humanity, it felt like good gold. He was waiting to rub away a coating of false innocence and find another piece of coal.

But there you were…coming whiter and whiter until-

Rorschach didn’t like being wrong. Being surprised. It was tedious.

But it would be a lie if he said you were anything but one of the innocents.

A good person.

Each of the deeds you had done for him had in fact come from a place of benevolence, and not deceit.

Rorschach let his grip on you lighten.

Despite your brain cautioning you of the vigilante in front of you, you simply stared back at him and ignored how strong his hold on you was.you did note that he released you slightly, the same moment his eye twitched.

“I think there’s something to that old saying of a wounded soul recognizing another wounded soul…you looked like you had some decency left in you, sir…please don’t tell me I was wrong.” Your voice was soft. Gentle. But no less direct than his. You were kind, not weak, and you were hoping against hope that he wasn’t like America’s favourite hero, the Comedian when it came to women; a line of them out his door begging for his sexual attention and him using them then tossing them aside as he pleased.

“Or maybe I’m just stupid.” You shrugged and looked away, afraid he might confirm your statement. You wouldn’t put it past him to be blunt.

Rorschach almost reacted to your use of that word. For so long he had labeled you as such, and while you might very well still be…he was sceptical to assume anything of you. He continued to stare, his sharp eyes cutting into you like you were a cloud of vapour. He relaxed his grip on you again, and stared at where he had held your arm- red finger marks forming on your clean skin. You must have washed yourself as soon as you had gotten home…scrubbed yourself clean from those vermin.

Good.

“I have…I have some dinner I was going to-um…well bring down for you…if you want it.” You began to shift uncomfortably under his gaze when he looked back at you. You swore he stared more than he spoke.

He nodded after a moment, and you smiled a little.

An incandescent sight.

“Okay.” You whispered, finally getting up. It was surreal.

Rorschach watched you go, noting that a pleasant scent followed after you.

Why did he notice that?

You walked to your little kitchen, and placed the dirty cloth and water in the sink before going to grab the pot of warm soup. You filled a bowl for him, and turned around to grab a spoon when you froze and jumped back, spilling some soup.

You hadn’t even heard him walk up behind you, didn’t even feel him even though he was a mere breath away.

“What are you…?” You murmured.

He watched you startle, and looked for any last ill intent or motive; any snark comment or any price you might want to put on your kindness…but nothing came.

It never did.

His breath was on your face, and you could only stare at him. There was a tragedy to him, hidden under the dirt, and he was impossible to read. He might have been plotting your gruesome death and you would have no idea.

Rorschach focused on you.

Fixated.

So innocent…white and pristine amongst the blood, filth and rot of his world. He hated it. Hated how you were allowed to be like that; a poster child for something that didn’t exist freely.

He sighed, pursing his mouth.

You had chosen this; you had decided to care for him. You had lead him down this path.

You had given yourself to him.

You looked away for a moment, and gingerly placed the bowl down before you spilled it. Then before you could think of anything to say with this dangerous man who was a hair away from you, you felt the skin of his lips catch yours when you turned back.

You wouldn’t call it a kiss- it was more of a hook or bait. A test. But when he did it again…that was a kiss; tentative and slight as it was. He heard your breath catch , and could feel the heat from your cheeks as they warmed and flushed.

You blushed.

Whores didn’t blush.

He kissed you again, with a little more force, and your hands came up slowly to his chest, resting there like you hadn’t decided if you wanted to draw him closer or push him away.

He might have been one of the most infamous men in New York…if not America, but he was flesh and blood underneath that mask. He was warm, and sturdy.

Rorschach was far from weak, but when he felt your soft lips brush back against his, he felt something deep inside him snap.

A low growl rumbled in his chest and he unclenched his fists; bringing his calloused hands up to grab the back of your head and your jaw to draw you closer as he backed you hard against the counter.

It was messy and Rorschach held you possesively as you gave into him. Your teeth clanked together, and your rhythm was fueled with need as he nipped and bullied his tongue into your eager mouth. He gripped your hair so tight it hurt your roots but you didn’t dare tell him to stop.

He only removed his hands from you to shuck off his jacket and gloves, mouth still sealed over yours, and then they were back on you. Grabbing at your flesh, drawing you closer; chest flush against yours.

You shakily forced your hands between and the two of you and began unbuttoning his shirt- the older man hummed in regards to your tremor.

You nervously loosened his tie and let your hands wander over the skin of his collar and chest. You hadn’t expected him to be so strong, but knowing who he was, it only made sense. Before you could get any further he weaved his fingers into your hair and pulled your head away from him.

Rorschach held you there for a moment, soaking in how you stilled so obediently; staring at you as his free hand began to gather the hem of your little night dress. He huffed, and gave your roots a quick squeeze, and the message was clear: “Stay.”

Then once he was satisfied with your cooperation, he brought his other hand down to the other side of your nightie and brought the garment up and over your head with ease. He let it fall to the ground, and you followed its descent; unable to look at the older man now that you were left in your panties while he was still almost fully clothed.

He placed two fingers under your chin to force you to look at him; you felt your blush deepen when you saw how blown his pupils were. He looked determined, and feral- deep breaths making his chest heave.

Before you could say a word, Rorschach scooped you into his arms and didn’t even pretend to not know where your bedroom was. A gasp escaped you, and your wrapped your arms around his shoulders. He carried you with little effort, and had you plopped down on your mattress in seconds. The older man crawled over you before you could even sit up; lips on yours, kissing you so hard your mouth grew tender. He only paused to pull back and kick off his trousers.

Then he was everywhere.

Rough hands grabbing at your soft skin; low rumbles and hums in his chest that vibrated against you and made you need him even more. He kissed and bit at you- marking you as his. You held onto his strong shoulders, whimpering and moaning quietly as he made you forget your own name and only know his.

Rorschach bit into your neck, and rocked firmly against you. You could feel him scorching and pulsing against your core, rubbing hard against you to create friction that had you forgetting to breathe.

“P-please” you whispered, raising your hips up to meet his.

The man stopped, and you immediately regretted saying anything. He pulled away to stare down at you. You thought you had done something wrong until he spoke.

“Say that again.” He murmured, his nose brushing yours.

Your quick beating heart was so clear for him to see, along with your nearly black eyes; the throbbing vein in your neck and pulse in your chest.

“Please…” you said again, lips red and swollen.

He sucked in a breath. Having your warm, soft skin against his bare chest was the first human contact he had felt in decades. It made him feel…human. He was fighting to maintain his practiced composure, but he could feel it slipping through his fingers with that one word.

“Again.” He rasped against your lips, throat tight; invading every inch of your space. He knew he shouldn’t ask it of you, but be needed this. He needed you to say it again.

You swallowed.

“…please.” Came your timid, needy voice. Your hands started to fidget as he refused to look away, barely blinking as he took you in. Drank your generous vulnerability.

Rorschach hummed low in his chest.

“You’re mine.” He growled simply, the skin of his lips catching yours as he spoke.

Your mind was gone already, sitting in that bowl of cold soup on the counter.

You could only nod.

He sighed through his nose, and then it was as if the last part of his restraint broke. Rorschach locked his lips onto yours, and you parted yours to gasp as his hand came to your hip- squeezing and stroking your skin. His tongue moved against yours and you let out a surprised moan that he swallowed greedily. Then just as quickly, he ripped himself away from you, and you watched his veiny hands as they pulled himself from his boxers; painfully hard and leaking precum. You’d be lying in you said you hadn’t thought highly inappropriate things about the man- something about his simplicity and your need to please him. He lowered himself over you, resting his weight onto you as he bit at your lips.

Low hums would rumble through him and you couldn’t help but think he was purring. He perched onto his forearms, and shifted closer; you gasped when you felt the tip of his cock against your entrance, and choked out a cry when it entered you without warning.

There was no sweetness. It was blunt, and clear as day.

Rorschach rested his head into your neck as he hunkered over you and pushed forward, then drew back; fucking himself into you. You were no virgin, but you might as well have been. It only took two brutal thrusts before his hips were flush with yours and you were clinging to him pathetically.

You whimpered in his ear at the stretch of him so deep inside you. You couldn’t help but squirm slightly in an attempt to get used to him. Rorschach brought a hand to rest at the nape of your neck to keep you still as he drew out of you again then snapped back into you, making your body bounce under him. It was as if he was testing you…or perhaps testing himself.

Then you felt a puff of his hot breath as he quickened his pace, taking full advantage of how soaked you were for him. You could feel him throb inside you, and you suddenly remembered that he was only a man…a much older man who was rutting inside you like he owned you. The thought alone had you moan into his shoulder as his fat tip dragged against your insides and bruised your cervix. You rolled your hips with him, gasping at how hard he gripped your hip and neck.

He was possessive and harsh in his need for you. Like a man who had been starved and you were his first meal.

And he would devour you.

You felt his pace pick up and his thrusts turned harder and sloppier. He locked his arms around your shoulders to keep you still as he bruised your pelvis. Your back arched and hips met his in a need to feel every inch of him. You hooked your legs behind him to bring him closer. You could feel him huff into your neck, a rumble in his chest.

“I-inside me- please…” you managed to croak out, though you doubted he would listen to any request that he didn’t like at that point. He was going to make you his in every sense, and that meant filling you with his cum.

Rorschach growled deep into your shoulder and bit into your flesh. You felt him pulse inside you, then a warmth spread inside your navel as he emptied his cum into you. It had a comfort to it that made you cling to him, nuzzling your face into his strong shoulder. Ragged breaths were in your ear as he hammered into you a few more times like he was proving a point. Making sure you knew that you were his now…his secret.

You panted with him, and clenched reflexively as he began to pull out. You already missed the warmth he brought you. His shoulders were visibly more relaxed as he moved to lay beside you, and you slowly grasped his jaw and brushed your lips against his, which he returned ever harder. You pulled away, and you liked that he hummed when you did.

The man beside you leaned up onto his arm to stare down at you thoughtfully. As if he was trying to read something on you. Your skin flushed with warmth under his scrutiny, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to tell him that you didn’t cum.

When you moved your hand down between your legs where his cum now leaked from you, you twitched. Every inch of your skin was hypersensitive and when you touched your clit you almost flinched at the contact. All of which instantly drew the attention of the man beside you. He stared at you intently- a deep line between his red brows.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

His scrutiny was jarring, though you noticed it wasn’t judgemental…it was studious. Curious. You looked away from him, and felt very naked under his gaze, afraid he might ridicule you for something like that. It wouldn’t be the first time you had gone to take care of yourself and a man had almost laughed in your face.

“I’m…I didn’t um…” you tried, but he watched you so closely, and felt as if he was studying you.

He was.

Then he understood. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

“Oh…” he rasped, looking down where your hand had been. You bit your thumb nail as you waited to see what he would do or say. You liked this man more than you would care to admit, but you knew men could be selfish…and uncaring…and mean. Hell, you had never had anyone make you cum besides yourself, and your expectations were not-

Your thoughts were halted when you felt the warmth of his calloused hand on yours. You watched as he very simply took your hand from your mouth, and returned it to between your thighs, and looked back at you expectantly. At first it felt like a slap in the face, as if he was telling you to take care of yourself…but with how intensely he was gazing at you, you realised he was examining your every move. You moved your fingers and he regarded them carefully. Like it mattered greatly to him.

The older man committed everything to memory; when you petted, when you were gentle, when you moaned, when you pressed harder, when you stroked, when you arched your back, when your hand started to shake, when your brows pitched up, when you slipped your fingers inside yourself.

You found yourself unable to look away from him even as your eyes drooped and your mouth dropped open in a permanent sigh. Your breaths were coming in little gasps, and you didn’t even notice he was just as effected as you- his chest heaving as he took deep, controlled breaths.

You slowly pumped your fingers inside yourself, stroking your g-spot; then gasped out a soft whine at the contact on your sensitive flesh, at which point Rorschach deemed to be enough watching for his liking. He snatched your little hand and replaced it with his own far larger and rougher hand.

You gasped when he touched you so accurately…but this time you gasped for him.

He leaned over you, his lips just a breath away as if to breathe in your whines and pleas. Watching what he did to you.

His thumb drew small, feathery circles around your clit; alternating between direct but tentative touch, and agonizingly slow strokes that didn’t quite touch it. You began to pant, and your hands found his strong shoulders- hanging on like a lifeline. The older man hummed, and looked away from you for a moment to watch what he was doing, how slick his hand had become as a result. Once he had your hips rolling up into his palm, he eased a finger inside you, although his was noticeably longer and thicker than yours.

You gasped at the sensation.

“I-if you- ah! Can you move l-like this?” You showed him how to curl his finger inside you and he instantly followed your instruction, and even added a second finger; you cried pathetically as you surrendered to his mercy.

He stroked your inner walls for a few moments until he found what he was looking for. Once he made contact with that hypersensitive patch inside you, you let out a gasped moan that you tried to cover with your hand, but Rorschach was having none of that. His free hand that had cradled your head smacked your hand away and didn’t even pause his ministrations. This was just as much for him as it was for you. He wanted to know everything he did to you.

You whined softly against his mouth.

The movement of your hips began to be more deliberate as your body chased its craving. As if catching onto what you needed, he focused on that spot inside of you, and you let a series of moans slip from your mouth. Your pelvis bucked up into his touch, and you could have sworn that amongst the focused breathing and studious stare, you saw that man smirk.

Smirk.

He huffed out a ragged sound that must have been a laugh.

He continued to watch you, and you found yourself lost in the feeling of him and the sight of his eyes staring down at you like you were the most important thing at that moment.

Like there was nothing he would rather be staring at.

It took only a few more moments of his careful ministrations before you were falling apart in his arms. Your back arched up off the bed as you gripped his fingers like a vice inside you, and he continued his strokes, though he slowed them considerably.

The steady drag of his fingers inside you set your veins on fire. There was a mess of your and his cum between your thighs,and he used the saturated slickness to lazily finger you; carrying you through your high.

As you eyes refocused and unglazed, you stared back at him, and caught his lips with yours. He eagerly returned your needy kiss, and very gently removed his hand from your cunt.

You lacked proper judgement and acted purely on what you wanted; with his hand resting on your penvis, soaked and sticky, you took his wrist in your hand. You didn’t want to know how much blood had been shed because of those hands, not in that moment to be specific, but what you did know was that he had you wrapped around those fingers tight. You lifted them to your lips licked the slickness off of them, cleaning him. You flicked your eyes up to his, and we’re startled be how close he had moved. He hummed low in his chest when your tongue slowly lapped at them to clean him.

He drew his hand away from you, kissed you; holding you jaw surprisingly gently as if you didn’t have the shape of his hands bruising your hips or an ache deep inside you.

Your head felt light and disconnected.

Rorschach pulled away after a moment, and propped his head onto his hand to watch you. He gingerly traced your face shape with his finger, as if mapping and memorizing you. Touching your eyebrows, the ridge of your nose, your cheekbones.

He was lost in his own little world.

“I like the way you sound when you cum.” He said so a-matter-of-fact.

Your cheeks went rosy and warm. You didn’t know if you should thank him, so you grinned sweetly.

There was something in him that made it compelling to watch him. Something drawing you in as he stared back with such fixation. You didn’t know how to look away.

Not until your eyelids drooped and exhaustion took you. You didn’t know when you fell asleep, but you did know that when you awoke, your blanket was laid over you, your hair was out of your face, and you had a pair of crystal blue eyes staring back at you. Rorschach looked to have not moved an inch since you had fallen asleep. His head still propped in his hand, watching.

“Did you sleep?” You asked, rolling closer to him; your head and body consumed by your pillows and blankets.

He shook his head.

“You do you ever sleep?” You flicked your eyes across his face.

And he shook his head again.

You placed your hand on his cheek. His face didn’t soften- it never did, you noted. But regardless, his attention was on you entirely; you stared at him like he did you, then smiled gently at him.

“Thank you for trusting me.” You whispered, and he clearly hadn’t expected such a thing.

Again, he didn’t move from his place, but you noted the twitch in his brow, and small smirk that sat in the corner of his mouth. Perhaps he thought you foolish, but you didn’t care.

You pressed a kiss to his lips, and pulled away quickly even when he chased you. A displeased huff escaped him, but you eased it away when you gently hitched your leg over him. He grabbed your waist as if anticipating something volatile, but when you leaned over him, your chest against his, he seemed to pause mentally. You nestled your hips against his, your thighs on either side. With nothing between you, the feeling of his hardening cock against your lips was evident. The older man’s warmth radiated into you. You felt his fingers start to dig into your hips where he gripped you, squeezing the flesh as if he was about to lift you off. But then, you rolled your hips against him, sliding along his shaft easily given how slick you were already. He stopped all trains of thought he had for a moment when the sensation registered in his nerve-endings.

His gaze continued to make you self-conscious, but you wouldn’t shy away from him now.

You repeated the motion again, and felt him twitch and harden under you; you gasped when his hands held you firmer. You enjoyed the feeling of his cock under you, and your eyes began to glaze over when you felt the swollen tip catch your entrance, slipping inside you without warning. The soreness you felt from the night before didn’t stop you though. You watched him carefully, and while his stare was intense and focused, there was no unease or resistance.

Your cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help but stutter, “I-is this okay?” To the nearly silent man.

Again, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he gripped your hips tighter and bucked more of him into you.

You took that as a yes.

Encouraged by his action, you rolled your hips on him a few more times to get more of him inside you; a whimper and a gasp escaped you as he filled you so completely- the stretch painful but addictive. Your slower pace appeared to bother him and he ground you down onto him to get his cock fully inside you. The force made you breathe out another gasp; your hands found their place on his muscled chest to steady yourself.

With you both satisfied with being locked together, you slowly bucked your hips, drawing him in and out of you. You felt his grip grow more possessive, almost pawing at you as he held you.

You started slow, and deliberate; angling your hips to have his cock drag against your g-spot. At the first contact, your tempo stuttered, and your choked on a moan. He seemed to find your pleasure amusing as he hummed and began to meet your thrusts. He seemed to understand what to feel for after a moment when he stroked that sensitive patch, and you noted that he was very particular about hitting it.

Then you started to notice just how much pleasure he was receiving when his lips parted and the tendons in his neck began tighten.

Each time you came down on his shaft, you felt him reciprocate the movement- grinding up into you. It was as if he knew exactly what to feel for that made your toes curl.

You could barely hold a thought in your head as you felt fire brew in your veins and a tightness in your pelvic muscles.

You tilted your head back, and your arms that were braced on his chest buckled; bringing you closer to him. Your head fell back down and your eyes locked onto his- pupils blown. There was a new intensity to his face, a determination.

Then, as if he had had enough of you in charge, the man suddenly gripped you waist and flipped you onto your back. He crawled over you, and slipped his cock back inside you, earning him a whine and gasp from your sweet throat. He found a rhythm identical to the one you had set atop him, and your lips parted when you felt him angle his hips to target that spot inside you; the intense drag of his cock hitting it each time. He rendered you speechless in seconds.

After mewling and huffing out breaths, you finally managed to find a couple words.

“H-harder…” you forced out, “Ple-ase.” You pleaded.

It seemed he was intent to oblige. The gradual roll of his pelvis escalated into a harsher snap of his hips that had him watching you with rapt interest when you cried out.

Out of habit from your past, your hand flew to your mouth just like it had the night before, but just like then, he grabbed your wrist and pinned it beside your head without a moments thought. You felt scrutinized and your cheeks began to heat up so much you felt the warmth spread down your neck.

He wanted to know exactly what he did to you.

And that thought alone forced your body to clench and melt for him simultaneously.

With his careful ministrations, your orgasm grew quickly- an overwhelming amount of pleasure spawning inside you that you hadn’t felt before. Just as you had asked, he kept his pace steady and firm. His desire to know how to play you as he liked made your brain go dizzy with need, and you were intent to follow his wishes. While it made you flush even more to tell him what you needed, you swallowed your pride and forced another pathetic whimper from you. “Slower…please.” You breathed.

At your request, he leaned down over you more, his chest almost flush with yours. He kept your one hand pinned while he used his other hand to pull your thigh up and pushed your knee to your chest.

The change had your eyes rolling back, and you heard him hum; vibrations from his chest buzzing into yours making your fingertips tingle.

It took all of ten seconds before your thighs shook and you desperately rolled your hips up to meet his. He watched as your brows pitched up and your swollen lips parted. Your face flushed in ecstasy.

Rorschach could feel you tense around his cock, and smirked to himself when he felt a rush the of your cum soaking him inside you. You nearly sobbed. Eyes glassy and back arching as you came.

The older man slowed his pace, until eventually stopping all together, but only for a moment. He leaned his nose down into the crook of your neck, and inhaled softly. His grip still possessive; it made you shiver.

Then, just as you settled, he snapped his hips once, forcing his cock back into your tightened heat and he pulled away from your neck to stare you down- nose bumping against yours. You cried out from the impact and looked up at him. He had your attention now. And he began to fuck into you steadily again, but growing in need.

His message was clear.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

And he certainly was not.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[djevelbl]

Don't. He's doing a foot-in-the-door tactic

Ahahahaha currently speedrunning the catch-up of both chapters I haven't read yet--

[coloursflyaway]

hello 💘 i’m loving your stories and i have a prompt for something silly: what could the boys possibly be using a ouija board for/why did they acquire it in the first place? you pointed it out among all their iterations of clue and now i have questions lol

And finally, I have your second fic ready!

This Is How For Now We Touch

Pairing: Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.200

Read on AO3

“Hey, Edwin”, Charles says, and there is something about his voice that lets Edwin know he will be rolling his eyes at least once during the upcoming conversation.

“What is it?”

“I got us something”, Charles answers and pulls a box from the bag he’s been carrying, black and unwieldy, adorned in white scribbles. He’s holding it out like it’s something precious, which Edwin highly doubts it is, considering the look Charles gives him. “Something really really cool.”

Edwin takes a moment to look at the box, the poor quality of the cardboard and the horrible picture of teenagers that are trying to look frightened, and yes, some eye rolling will definitely be necessary here. “Why on Earth would we need a Ouija board, Charles?”

The grin on Charles’ lips would be obnoxious if Edwin didn’t like him so much.

“To talk to ghosts, of course.”

It becomes a game, even if Edwin still does not know how: sometimes, when the agency is quiet, one of them gets the Ouija board, they set up some candles, and they talk to each other through it, pretending that they cannot see the other’s fingers as he moves the planchette with them.

Of course, it is silly and quite childish, but it’s also fun, a good way to focus on each other and their words completely, and sometimes, at least for Edwin, it’s easier to say things like this, without having to speak them out-loud.

So, when he looks at Charles one day and there is so much warmth and affection in his chest that it feels overfull, overflowing, ready to burst, he pulls out the board in the evening, lights the candles, and spells out, letter for beautiful, frightening, worthwhile letter: YOU’RE THE BEST FRIEND I’VE EVER HAD.

Usually, Charles would try and guess the words before Edwin has finished them, but this time, he doesn’t; when he looks up at Edwin again, his eyes are soft and bright with emotion, and maybe it’s just the flickering light of the candles, but they look just a little wet.

“You’re mine, too”, he says, and the feeling in Edwin’s chest grows even fuller, even warmer, even more overwhelming. He never wants it to fade.

(It doesn’t.)

I LET YOU WIN AT CLUE LAST TIME, Charles spells when they set up the board once more a week later, and almost doubles over laughing when Edwin starts sputtering in pure outrage.

It’s the longest they have ever gone without a case in the short history of their detective agency, and the candlelight is making Charles’ skin shine like polished metal when he slides the planchette to the last letter of his question.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVOURITE COLOUR?

There isn’t much to say, since there isn’t much going on, so Charles asking a question so inane makes sense, in some sort of way. Edwin finds he doesn’t mind it like he usually would, idle chitchat not to his taste unless Charles is the one making it.

Blue, Edwin wants to answer, out of habit more than anything, but then he stops himself, thinks. This is Charles after all, his best friend in the world, in his life and afterlife, and if anyone deserves an honest answer, it’s him. Even if the question is something so utterly inconsequential.

“Red”, he finally says, without quite knowing why. “It’s red, oh noble spirit.”

I CAN’T REMEMBER MY PARENTS’ FACES, Edwin spells out and every letter feels like the stab of a needle, the slice of a blade. And yet, it should be harder to admit to something so monstrous; and yet, it cannot be, because Charles’ gaze stays warm and understanding, just like Edwin knew it would.

“It’s been a long time”, Charles tells him, “And a lot has happened in between. I’m sure they’d understand, oh my spiritual guide.”

It takes a moment, because Edwin wants to give this idea a chance, because Charles is looking at him with so much kindness, but in the end, there is only one answer Edwin can give. He might have forgotten his parents’ faces, but not their character, not yet.

I DO NOT THINK SO.

A beat, far shorter than it should be, then Charles breaks the unspoken rules of their game and puts a hand over Edwin’s where it rests on the planchette, and holds it tight.

“Then they deserve to be forgotten”, he says, and sounds like he means it.

Edwin wishes he could say the same.

LET ME PUT SOME EYELINER ON YOU.

Charles waggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly, and for a moment, Edwin considers saying yes, just to see the surprise in Charles’ eyes. But it’s the third time he has asked the question, so he will ask again, and the longer Edwin resists, the greater the shock will be.

“Under absolutely no circumstances. Don’t even try it.”

AWW.

“Very well put, noble spirit. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

DO YOU WANT TO GO ON A TRIP?, Edwin writes and watches Charles’ eyes light up, just like he knew they would. They haven’t done it often yet, usually quite busy with their cases, but they have just survived the Great Debacle of the Double-decker Buses, mainly unscathed even, and Edwin believes they deserve a little break.

“Oh, that would be brills, oh spiritual guide of mine”, Charles tells him, then adds, “Where do you want to go?”

There are a hundred suggestions burning on Edwin’s lips, because he never got to travel when he was still alive, only heard about faraway places through his mother’s library, but they all stay unspoken, at least for now.

YOU CHOOSE.

And Charles smiles at him, and Edwin knows it was the right thing to say immediately.

“That’s almost too much responsibility”, Charles answers, and he sounds a bit like no one trusted him with something like this before; Edwin hopes more than anything that it isn’t true. “I’ll come up with something. Something really good. I promise.”

(They go to Athens, and see the Acropolis and the Parthenon and afterwards, Delphi, and Edwin knows that, even if Charles enjoys it, he’s picked it for Edwin’s sake. Next time, he promises himself, he’ll choose, and they’ll go somewhere Charles will have the time of his afterlife.)

Charles seems to consider the words far longer than he usually would; maybe it should be worrying, but there is nothing about Charles that could worry Edwin, not really.

WHAT DO YOU MISS ABOUT BEING ALIVE?, he finally writes, and there is some fragility in the question that Edwin doesn’t understand and can feel anyway, like an echo of a thought he has had himself.

And he looks at Charles, looks at the space they have made for themselves, thinks of their cases and the souls they have helped, and comes up empty.

“To be perfectly truthful, nothing at all”, he answers, and there is something happy in the smile he gets from Charles in return, something sad as well.

It’s still morning, which makes the candles superfluous, but Edwin lights them anyway, puts them on their assigned spaces on the table cloth they got years ago; something about a séance without them just feels wrong to him.

“Do you want to write today?”, Charles asks from where he is already sitting, looking up at Edwin with eyes that Edwin could draw from memory and yet would never be able to get quite right.

“Yes, why not?”, he answers, like he hasn’t been buzzing with the need for it since the sun has risen. Not because there is something in particular he wants to say, but just because he wants Charles to listen, wants Charles’ gaze on his fingers as he moves the planchette, wants Charles’ attention on him.

It’s a desire that occurs often, at the same time one that Edwin doesn’t inspect too closely.

He sits down once the candles are lit, and it feels a little bit like coming home, because Charles smiles at him, focussed on nothing but Edwin and what he wants to say, even if what Edwin wants to say is nothing at all.

Do you have a favourite flower?, he wants to ask for a moment, then wants to spell, Your handwriting might be some of the worst I’ve ever seen. I enjoyed the last song you showed me. We should go on a trip sometime.

In the end, he writes none of it.

Because Charles looks up at him and there is so much tenderness in his gaze, and Edwin’s heart flows over with the love he has for him.

I LIKE YOU SO MUCH.

And as he reads it, letter for letter, Charles’ face lights up with the same emotion; Edwin knows his answer before he has a chance to give it, has known it all along.

“I like you just as much. Oh, best of all spiritual guides.”

I REALLY WANNA PUT SOME EYELINER ON YOU, Charles writes and Edwin has to do his very best not to smile.

“Absolutely not, noble spirit. I don’t know why you keep asking.”

U JUST WANNA SEE THE BOOK OF KELLS AGAIN, Charles spells and he’s grinning so smugly Edwin wants to groan.

“Absolutely not, I have no idea what you are talking about. Also, please be so kind as to use proper spelling”, Edwin tells him, resisting the urge to fix his bow tie, or smooth down his lapels, before tacking on, “Oh, noble spirit, who I know is familiar with the orthography of the word you.”

It makes Charles laugh, his warm, dark eyes crinkling at the edges, but Edwin ignores that, since Ouija boards do not transmit sound after all.

JUST ADMIT IT AND I’LL TAKE YOU TO DUBLIN, Charles spells out, and the problem, the real problem here, is that Edwin knows Charles means it and they will be through the mirror and at Trinity College within the minute.

The other real problem is that Charles is right, and that he knows it.

“Fine”, he concedes, hissing the word out like it has offended him personally, and then, because Charles’ grin is only widening, adds, “but we’ll also have to pay the Oscar Wilde statue a visit.”

The tip of Charles’ tongue peaks out between his lips as he drags the planchette across the board, quicker than he usually would, like there is a timeline he has to adhere to. It’s distracting in a way Edwin cannot quite pinpoint; it’s not like he hasn’t seen Charles’ tongue before, stuck out behind the back of infuriating witnesses, trying to catch raindrops that just phased through them, or, one memorable time, trying and failing to lick an ice cream cone.

And yet, Edwin cannot keep his eyes off it now, which makes it quite difficult to keep up with what it is Charles is spelling.

DO YOU WANNA GO TO A CONCERT TONIGHT, it reads in the end, after Edwin has patched up the gaps in between letters, and he already wants to shake his head, because good heavens, does he not want to, but Charles is still spelling.

THERE’S A SPECIAL’S CONCERT AND IT’S THEIR LAST TOUR AND I DON’T WANT TO GO ALONE

And he looks up at Edwin and his eyes are so wide and pleading, and Edwin knows he might be signing up for the worst night of a long time, but his head nods his approval before he has been able to form half a thought.

The smile that blooms on Charles’ lips within a split-second is worth all of it.

BRILLS, MATE. IT STARTS AT 8.

(It isn’t the worst night by any stretch of the imagination, not because Edwin ends up enjoying the music or the lights or the crowd, but because he watches Charles dance like he’s forgotten everything around them, because he listens to him belt out lyrics at the top of his lungs although no one but Edwin will hear him, because Charles is having the time of his afterlife and the thought that Edwin almost wasn’t there to witness it, is almost painful.)

LETS GO TO CORK, Edwin writes and Charles looks at him, confused.

“Cork? Why Cork? We’ve just been to Ireland.”

THERE IS A JAZZ FESTIVAL.

“But you’ll hate that. You don’t like concerts, do you?” Charles’ left eyebrow is raised, but he looks excited, and oh, Edwin definitely has made the right choice.

BUT YOU DO. LETS GO.

A pause, their fingers almost but not quite touching on the planchette, and then Charles ducks his head, smiles up at Edwin from beneath his lashes, and it does something to Edwin’s heart he refuses to think about.

“Yeah, okay.” Another pause, shorter this time. “Thank you. Oh, most generous of all spiritual guides.”

There is no Ouija board in Port Townsend, but once Crystal has gone to sleep, Edwin makes Charles go fetch it from their home. This, at least, Charles finds without difficulty.

For once, there is no discussion who will play the ghost, Edwin just picks up the planchette as soon as they have lit the single candle they could find, places it in the middle of the board and waits for Charles’ fingers to join his. They look right there, just barely touching.

“What wisdom do you want to impart on me tonight, my spiritual guide?”, Charles asks, a hint of a smile on his lips although he must know that it feels less like a game to Edwin right now, more like a confession. Edwin would do anything for him.

I’M AFRAID, he starts spelling and his hands are shaking, and Edwin doesn’t waste any energy on hoping Charles won’t notice; he will, of course, THAT YOU WILL END UP LIKING CRYSTAL MORE THAN ME.

There is a pause, and Edwin cannot look up at Charles and see his expression. He won’t find pity there, he knows Charles too well to fear that, but he isn’t sure what else to expect.

The planchette jerks under his fingertips, and then suddenly, there are arms around his shoulders, pulling Edwin closer until the only thing that stops the motion is the table digging into his stomach. Charles is solid against him in a way very few other things are, his head fitting into the crook between Edwin’s shoulder and neck in a way that seems to complete him, and Edwin wishes with something bordering on desperation that he could let out breath deep enough to carry all the tension dissipating from his spectral body.

“That’s never going to happen”, Charles mutters into the fabric of his suit, almost against his skin, and Edwin finally manages to raise his arms and hug Charles back. “There’s no one in the world I could like more than you. Believe me. Not a single person.”

They’re back in London – finally – and yet it doesn’t feel as triumphant as Edwin had hoped it would. Niko’s loss is a wound that Edwin cannot stop prodding, although it hurts every time his thoughts brush up against it, and even if he has come to like Crystal quite a bit, there is still a part of Edwin that misses how it was before she was there, when it was just Charles and him.

And maybe Charles can sense it in him, maybe he feels the same; what Edwin knows is that the first evening, after Crystal has gone back to her hotel to have a long shower and whatever the minibar has to offer, Charles walks into their game closet and comes out of it holding a familiar, battered black-and-white box.

“Let me write this time?”, he asks, and Edwin nods; how could he do anything else?

They set up their little séance, the white tablecloth, the dried flowers, the dripping candles, and although he was the one to suggest it, Charles’ hands hesitate for a moment before settling down, fingertips barely touching the planchette.

He has beautiful hands, Edwin allows himself to notice this time, strong and yet elegant, and Edwin remembers how the left one felt, even through their gloves, when Charles had put it over his own, expecting to be sucked into oblivion any second.

ABOVE ALL, Charles writes, then pauses, like he has to collect his thoughts, and Edwin will give him this time, will give him all the time he needs, whenever he needs it. I AM GLAD YOU ARE HERE.

They look up at the same time, and Edwin’s tears are glistening in Charles’ eyes, and part of him wants to reach out and hug Charles and feel him solid and real against his chest, part of him wants to stay like this forever, looking at Charles and being looked at in return.

Edwin does a third thing.

ME 2, he writes, orthography be damned, and then grips Charles’s hands in his and vows he won’t let go until he has made him smile again.

HOW MANY LEGS DO YOU THINK A MILLIPEDE REALLY HAS, Charles asks weeks later.

They have exhausted all other kinds of questions, the sun almost rising between the skyline of London, and Edwin can’t help but chuckle. Charles quirks an eyebrow in response, an invitation, and he’s so pretty, so carefree and relaxed that Edwin wants to reach out and touch him, no matter in which way, in hopes of some of it rubbing off on him.

“Do you really want to know, oh noble spirit? Because I can find the appropriate books to answer your question”, he asks, but allows his fingers to slide just a little closer to Charles’ on the planchette until they are touching in the most insignificant, the most important way.

YEAH, GO ON.

And it hurts to break the contact once more, but it’s worth it to read Charles page upon page of The Complete Encyclopedia of Common Insects on their sofa, Charles’ feet resting in Edwin’s lap and Edwin’s fingers slowly moving to circle Charles’ ankle; not a shackle, but an anklet, a piece of jewellery.

DO YOU KNOW ANY POEMS? Edwin asks, because he’s spent the day buried in volumes of Byron’s prose, and Charles looks like he might start laughing; Edwin isn’t sure why.

“Sure do, oh greatest of spiritual guides”, he replies, and it definitely isn’t the answer Edwin expected.

WHICH IS YOUR FAVOURITE?

“Whichever it is you’re reading to me at the moment”, Charles answers easily, and Edwin isn’t sure how he ever could not have fallen in love with him.

LET ME PUT SOME EYELINER ON YOU, Charles spells out, familiar words and an even more familiar grin on his lips.

“This is the fourteenth time you asked me that, noble spirit”, Edwin points out, and cannot help but smile back. They were so busy on back-to-back cases that it feels like he hasn’t had time to look at Charles properly in far too long. He’s beautiful like this, bathed in candle light and the silence of their agency, and Edwin aches with it in the most pleasant of ways.

YOU COUNTED?

“Of course.”

A pause that lasts maybe a second too long; Charles’ fingertips are pressed against his, and Edwin cannot feel, and feels them still.

I DID TOO.

YOU WERE QUITE BRILLIANT TODAY, Edwin spells out, because it’s true; Charles’ quick thinking had saved them all that day, battering the right one of three vessels on pure instinct alone.

“Ah, shush”, Charles says, but he is ducking his head, smiling; Edwin loves him so much it feels like a physical weight in his chest, grounding him in the best way. “Couldn’t have done it without you guys.”

THEN WE WERE QUITE BRILLIANT TODAY, Edwin tries again, in case it will be easier for Charles to take the compliment this way. He tries for a smile as well, and Charles’ eyes go soft at that; their fingers are touching, but it almost feels like Charles is trying to press closer still.

“That we were, oh sweetest of all spiritual guides”, Charles concedes, and for a split-second, the brightness of his smile is enough to let Edwin forget about anything else, but only that.

Sweetest?

MY FAVOURITE POEM USED TO BE FIRST MEMORY BY LOUISE GLÜCK, Charles writes, apropos of nothing, on a calm summer night when Crystal has long since gone back to her apartment and the only thing they have to do is tell silly stories, taking turns with the Ouija board.

“Your favourite…?”, Edwin starts, but it’s true, he has asked about it before. He stops for a moment, Charles watching him, and rifles through his memories to find the poem in question, before stopping dead in his tracks.

It makes sense, too much of it.

“Oh, Charles…”

Without thinking, he puts his hand over Charles’ on the planchette, even if only for a moment, because Charles is writing more.

IT’S NOT ANYMORE.

And Charles gives him a smile, and it’s not broken and not brittle, and so Edwin chooses to believe him, and smiles back.

“Give me a minute to get some books”, Edwin says, and gets up before Charles has the opportunity to answer, “We will find you a new one.”

Edwin waits until Charles has sat down and put his fingers where they belong, then writes, WHAT WERE YOU TWO TALKING ABOUT?

It sounds jealous, but that is not what makes Edwin ask the question, it’s genuine curiosity. He had been setting up the Ouija board when Crystal had returned to the agency, having forgotten her keys, and Charles and her had been talking for a few minutes while Edwin had spread the table cloth, fixed the flowers, lit the candles and the incense.

“Oh, nothing really”, Charles starts, half chuckling as he pushes a hand through his hair. It musses up his curls and Edwin desperately wants to reach out to fix them. “She asked about the séance, and I tried to explain it, but I don’t think she got it.”

HOW SO?

“Oh, she told me to “just start communicating like adults” or something like that”, he answers, and there is something bashful about it that Edwin doesn’t associate with him at all, something that looks sweet on him and yet feels strange. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it. She just doesn’t understand it.”

LET ME PUT SOME EYELINER ON YOU.

The same request, the same grin on Charles’ pink lips; it’s the sixteenth time he has asked Edwin this, and he wants to refuse out of habit, but he’s been wanting to see that surprise on Charles’s face for so long and maybe Edwin is just tired of waiting.

“Alright, oh noblest of spirits”, Edwin tells him, and the astonishment on Charles’ face was worth the wait and then some.

I’M GLAD I TOLD YOU, Edwin spells and this should be harder to say, should be something he doesn’t want to remind Charles of, but it isn’t. BACK IN HELL.

And he’s right to say it, because Charles’ eyes soften, and he smiles, and Edwin loves him so much he almost tells him again.

“Me too”, Charles answers, and it makes Edwin shiver; Charles moves his left index finger so it is resting on top of Edwin’s. “I’m honoured, even.”

Charles seems to hesitate for a moment, before he starts to move their hands, touching and yet not intertwined like Edwin imagines them being sometimes late at night, when they are wrapped up in companionable silence on their sofa, also touching, but never quite in the way he wants them to.

I THINK I HAVE A NEW FAVOURITE, he spells. POEM, I MEAN.

“Oh?”, Edwin asks, and for some reason it feels like his pulse should quicken, like this should be a confession and not just a statement of facts. Something about Charles’ eyes when he looks up at him again from the planchette, something about the quirk of his lips. “Which one is it?”

THE 2ND ONE YOU READ LAST NIGHT.

The problem is that Edwin has read so many poems over the last months, all to Charles, all on their sofa, almost all with Charles’ feet in his lap, Edwin’s fingers resting on or around his ankle.

So he says, “Oh. I am glad you enjoyed it.”

And vows to look it up afterwards, especially when the look, that strange, intense look doesn’t leave Charles’ face for the rest of the game.

“Can I tell you something?”, Charles asks him, rocking back on his heels, and Edwin is struck again by how much of Charles is just motion, even if it must be the hundredth time he’s noticed it. And how fitting it is, too, since Edwin life had never felt like it was moving, yet in his death, the Universe never seems to have stopped spinning: Charles is the centre of it.

“Of course”, he says easily, and Charles gives him a quick smile that Edwin will treasure like every other one he has ever gotten.

“Like this?”, Charles adds, and puts down the Ouija board in front of Edwin, which he must have been hiding behind his back. It’s a surprise; usually it’s Edwin who uses the barrier the board offers much more than Charles does, and nothing has happened in the last few days that Edwin could imagine rattling Charles so much he feels the need of it.

Yet, he nods immediately, and there is another smile, a little brighter this time.

They set up the candles and the incense and everything else, even if it is Edwin, who is doing most of the work, because Charles seems to be distracted, having to flick the lighter several times to produce a flame. Edwin would be worried, but Charles doesn’t seem scared, doesn’t seem to be hurt, just seems… distracted.

He sits down as soon as Edwin puts the planchette on the board, his fingers finding it like they have been itching for it.

“You ready?”, he wants to know, and Edwin has to stop himself from asking what is happening, instead just sits and nods, placing his fingers delicately next to Charles’, making sure they touch just so.

“What do want to tell me, noble spirit?”, he starts, and hasn’t even finished the words before the planchette is moving; Charles is looking at it intently, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his plush lips, and Edwin would be mesmerised by it, if he didn’t have to know what Charles wants to tell him so desperately.

I REALLY WANT TO FALL IN LOVE WITH YOU.

Edwin doesn’t have to breathe and yet the words suck the air right of the room; he doesn’t have to drink and yet his lips and throat are dry; he doesn’t have a heart that beats and yet it stops.

There are no thoughts left in his mind, but when he looks up from where their fingers are touching, Charles is already looking at him, eyes wide and earnest and almost pleading; he’s not scared, he’s not hurt, he’s… excited. This is Charles before an adventure, Charles packing his backpack and ready to leave, only waiting for Edwin to stop fussing, Charles like he always is, in motion, in flux, in the centre of Edwin’s universe.

Are you certain?, Edwin should ask, but he won’t insult him like this; Charles would never say something so momentous if he hadn’t put the thought into it before.

“Okay”, he says instead, and still feels breathless, feels starved for any additional kind of love Charles might give him that he hasn’t been allowed to taste before. “Brills. How do we- how do you want to start?”

A smile blooms on Charles’ face that rivals the sun, the stars, the candles illuminating the single most important being in Edwin’s life, and he shrugs. Their fingers press together a little more, although Edwin isn’t certain who of them moved them.

I DON’T KNOW, Charles writes, and Edwin isn’t certain what his heart is doing within his chest, only knows that it is bright and warm and overwhelming, that it is the closest he’s ever gotten to Heaven. I THINK I’VE ALREADY STARTED WITHOUT YOU.

And if possible, his smile gets brighter still, happier, and Edwin’s heart is pressing against his ribs, trying to escape them so Edwin can lay it at Charles’ feet and ask him to take care of it.

“Alright”, he says, and doesn’t know how he is still speaking, how he is having a single thought. “Then, what do we do?”

Charles hesitates for a moment, and Edwin needs the reprieve, because he would have been happy with loving Charles from the little bit of distance between them, would have taken every word and every touch and every glance and treasured them without ever asking for more. And yet, here is Charles, the sun behind his eyes, saying that he has already started loving Edwin back. That he wants to do so even more.

The planchette moves, and it’s the only thing that breaks Edwin out of his reverie, because whatever Charles wants to say, he needs to listen to.

KISS?

And maybe Edwin doesn’t have to listen after all, because the word buries itself into his very soul, digging itself so deep into his mind he’ll never think of anything else again, because -

He is nodding before he can comprehend the motion, and for a moment, Charles just looks at him, happy and still excited and maybe, just maybe, a little loving, and it’s all the warning Edwin gets.

There are lips on his, and they are soft and warm, and Edwin doesn’t even have the mind to consider the feeling of them, because Charles is kissing him and Charles is kissing him and Charles is kissing him.

A hand cradles Edwin’s cheek and tilts his head just so, and then Charles kisses him differently, his tongue teasing at Edwin’s lips until he parts them, and it’s bliss, it’s Heaven, it’s everything Edwin never thought he would deserve.

Edwin does his best to kiss back, and Charles sucks in a breath they do not need, before he kisses him with even more fervour, making a sound at the back of his throat that Edwin drinks down like it is ambrosia.

It lasts forever and it lasts no time at all, and when they part, Charles leans his forehead against Edwin’s, so that they would be sharing air between them, would share their very breaths.

“Definitely started without you”, Charles whispered into that hallowed space between their lips, and there is laughter in his voice, there are tears.

“I did, too”, Edwin replies, and knows that he sounds just the same.

Their hands, still resting on the planchette, are intertwined, and without looking down, Edwin knows they’ll stay that way forever, now.

______

Here's the two poems mentioned: First Memory by Louise Glück Like Air by Laura Hershey (and yes, Charles meant this to be a love confession, but unfortunately not even Edwin's brain is big enough to retain all poems he has ever read.)

[netherfeildren]

The Cassandra Complex : Interlude : Tartarus

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Content Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence; Torture; Murder; Blood and gore; Self harm; Suicidal ideations; Depression; Unreliable narrator; Alcohol and drug use; Overall very dark themes

A/N: The chapter is what the tags warn. Please, heed them carefully.  Short because it's only an interlude, but the next chapter is almost done!

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 3.5K

Read on AO3

INTERLUDE : TARTARUS

Can you eat winter? […] Can you live six months inside a frozen pear? […] Can you punctuate yourself in silence?

Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry

You are captured at the start of the cold season. 

The first man you ever killed had been old. Weathered and beaten down by the galaxy and life, and forgotten or absconded to a decrepit and abandoned planet. Once thriving and rich, it had been bled dry and starved by the Empire, and now remained to stand only as a reminder to others as what not to be, a warning of how you’d end up if you did not submit. 

Your master had hunted him for months, a mania about the search that was mouth slicked ravenous and vicious. Something sick about the way he’d obsessed about the man, murmuring his name over and over again at all hours until you were sure you knew the vowels and consonants of it better than your own. You’d never discovered the root of the obsession, the reason for the killing, and when you’d finally found him, he was not at all what you’d expected; brittle boned, white of hair, skin soft and folded over so that it sagged and drooped around his frame, seeming to hang around him out of mere sheer habit. 

You’d swept into his mind, pilfered and pillaged and violated it; his past, his whole life, his family, cradled in the blink of your eye. You’d pulled his joints from their sockets, his fingernails from their beds, and his eyes from their cavities. You’d taken him apart piece by little piece, a slow going saturation of pain until little remained of the creature. Until the final piece you’d pulled from him was his breath, his very life, swallowed and settled heavy into your own soul. 

You had been very young when you’d killed him, a girl of only seven years old. 

You’d once heard that stars are made of a different matter than the four worldly elements – a quintessence – that also happens to be what the human psyche is made of. Which is why man’s spirit corresponds to the stars. You’d swallowed so many souls thinking they might be stars during that time. Perhaps, in an attempt to take some light within you, infuse yourself in the goodness of another’s quintessence. Young and naive and untried. You’d learned eventually how wrong you were. The damage you’d unknowingly wrought upon yourself. And when you remember it all now, the unending reaping, you think: I was young once, and you wish you could cling to that child, beg her to forgive you, beg her to run earlier. 

Perhaps, that had been the beginning of the end, and everything after that had been nothing more than one eternally futile battle towards inevitable failure.

-

For some idiotic reason, you return to Corellia after you part ways with him. Idiotic or desperate, who can really tell, but without a doubt, bitter and angry and devastated. Filled with a keen missing and a fury and an outrage that he’d left you, that you’d allowed yourself to be left. That you’d pushed him away. That really, the destruction of everything was your fault. The day it had suddenly hit you that you’d destroyed everything for nothing, that you’d destroyed the two of you for no real reason at all except for petty and inconsequential fear, had been a monumental sort of devastation. You’d not been able to make it out of your dingy rented bed for days afterwards. And so you’d chosen to believe that this was the end of destiny, rather than the beginning of what had always been fated to you. For choosing to believe that you’d destroyed it yourself was better than the truth, that he had never really been meant to be yours in the first place. And if it were anything else, you’d finish it, destroy it to completion. It if was something less, you’d smash it like a rock, tear it as if it were a piece of parchment, but it is not, for it is your heart, your very heart, your memory.

The only thing left. 

While you’d been with him you’d thought that you were healing, that you were healed. That you’d been made whole in his image. That after everything, after so much darkness, one single silver flame to illuminate the night would shine a light on your newfound completeness. But you’d realized, later, when it was too late, how wrong you’d been to think so. Love does not mend the torn seams back into rightness – it fractures the whole thing wide open, splits you down the middle.

And you’re so full of the most poisoned sort of regrets, a living, breathing, fire filled thing that seemed to exhume you from your own misery and would not let you exist peacefully in the deathlessness you’d have chosen for yourself. But it was impossible to go backwards now. Like any unloved thing, you’d not been sure if you really existed until he’d put his hands on you, and now, to have been forced to return to that half life, to be forced to exist in the purgatory of his aftermath – it was fury inducing, rage awakening. 

All my hurts hurt worse now, and there is no escape and no reprieve, and it always feels as if the sky seems to peer down on me in a strange and pitiful way. How did that feel? It asks. I’m sorry I caused harm, I reply. 

Time no longer exists, and so all you know is that it’s been an unknowable amount of nothing since you’d last seen him. 

You ache all the time, try and forget, can’t help but remember

You’d always known exactly how it would play out. Step by step the course your life would take – the Force guided you, and yet, you were still lost. You were still confused. You’d known that he would leave, you’d always known. Just as you’d known you would be the reason he left. You’d waited for it, and yet, when the moment arrived for him to go, you were shocked. And hurt. You were hurt that he would leave you even though you had pushed him away, even though you had always expected it to happen, even though you were the perpetrator of your own abandoning and had always known that you would be. 

And so, perhaps, you’d continued to return to Corellia despite knowing it was dangerous for you there, that there were whispers of a dark creature scurrying along the planet’s underbelly, that they’d seen your face all that time ago and rumors still abounded. But it had been the last place you’d found each other, and so some idealistic, stupidly desperate part of you thought that, perhaps, fate would look upon you kindly once again. That dark red thread of fate woven into action one more time, ringing taut with purpose and destiny. 

Perhaps, you return looking for a fight or a beating or some form of punishment, certain that you’d find it in that cesspool of vice and crime and corruption. In that place that knows what sort of creature you pretend not to be. 

Eventually, however, you get more than you’d bargained for. Or maybe, precisely what you’d wanted.

You’re betrayed by a slippery little Twi’lek. One who’d pretended at being interested in some easy, fun drinking and debauchery. One who you were not aware had awaited the return of a prize such as you for a long, long time. One who’d held the image of your face and your power in the cradle of her mind, ravenous for the moment when she’d finally be afforded a taste and a pay out.

 If you could not lose yourself in anything else, him, or even something worse – the dark called to you again so often now, it frightened you – then you’d lose yourself in a bottle, a game of Sabacc, even, on occasion, or when things were particularly dire, a little bit of Spice, just to take the edge off. To make you forget. The smell of the past is everywhere, the smell of too many illusions, too many truths, and you try and resist all the time, you feel yourself actively resisting. But you lie in the awareness of it so often, in the miserable hold of rented beds where no comfort and no warmth is ever to be found on so many nights, that at any moment something terrible could happen. It’s not gone, that coldness inside of you. It’s not gone, the dark side, and it calls to you louder now that he is absent. 

You consider yourself in new and strange lights now. A miasma of girl and power and tragedy and myth, always, always the myth of you. You are aware of yourself, of that myth, in so many lights. 

Violence has changed me; my body has grown cold. Now there is only mind, cautious and dim, with the sense it is being twisted. I have never loved being alive, and it is difficult to remember that I should. 

Din has changed me; my heart is half stone, half devoured. The sun has gone away, tucked inside of him, and I am always cold now, and even though I can't see it anymore, him, it’s comforting to know he’s still out there, somewhere. That the sun still exists. 

And so, in need of credits, the Twi’lek finds it easier to sell you off to the highest bidder when she first captures you – that being a league of fanatics who had, at the height of the Empire, venerated the Sith as lords – Gods even – who bent the knee to the dark side in hopes of a power greater than they even really knew the truth of. 

Drugged and cuffed after you’d been too stupid or uncaring to even try and defend yourself, you let them take you. You let them take you. You remember that first night in the hole in the ground you’d sentenced yourself to, before she’d left you to your fate with your captors, arm broken, bone jutting grotesquely from your skin, she’d looked down at you from her great height as you lay limp and ready for more breaking on the dirty ground of the cell deep in that Tartarean pit, brow split open and drooling crimson, glassy eyes wide and unseeing, filled only with the memories of gleaming metal, she’d called you a monster with the greatest of contempt and hatred in her eyes. And you’d laughed and laughed and laughed at the reality of you now, sanity gone away, only a little bit, only a little bit; after all, there had always been more madness than goodness anyways. 

And you’d wanted to cry: I am not a monster! I am not a monster! But you knew she would not believe you. 

This is only what you deserve, creature. Spit from her mouth like venom. You think of the Thalassian crone, all that time ago, or only yesterday: How does it feel to be nothing? She was kinder to you than you know this will be, and for a brief moment you pretend to miss her, fantasize with the idea of him coming to save you once again. 

You’d wanted to lie and say that you were not a monster any longer, that you’d changed, that you were better, different, but that would have been a lie, for at your core you knew there would always live within you something of a slightly monstrous countenance, no matter what you did or made of yourself. And what you wanted to say, even more than that, was that perhaps a monster was not such a terrible thing to be. Perhaps, if you’d ever been given the chance, you could have served as a shelter and a warning, all at once, for a family you’d never been allowed to have. Perhaps, if you’d ever been given the opportunity to have been that, nothing much else would have really mattered. 

You want to tell her his name. To let it serve as proof of the only goodness that has ever lived inside of you. But you do not. And you let them keep you for far too long, lying in that dark, damp hell, letting them hurt you. 

She returns often, the pretty, purple Twi’lek with the sharp teeth. She takes Din’s earrings from you, that first day, and if you’d still had tongue and teeth and voice to thank her for the chance to look upon them, you would have. 

They pull your skin from your bones and your bones from your skin, over and over again, and you try and lie that you don’t know what you did to deserve this, but you do. You do know. You remember the old man, the very first one, you think of all the countless others after him, the flash of shrieking beskar. You remember every single crime and sin and face and scream. Every scream, but loudest of all, your own. 

You exist only in thousands of agonies. 

And they’re creative in their torture and punishment, caring in the imagination of it. They burn the flesh from your bones only so that the Force can heal you back to strength. Slowly, excruciatingly, keeping you drugged and chained, diminishing your connection to yourself. Beaten and flogged and savaged over and over again. You think, or you tell yourself, that you feel little of it, or none at all. 

More than anything, you feel so acutely how little it all matters. 

Why have you done this to yourself? You’re sure you should ask. I don’t know. What is this all about? Be honest. Anger. Are you angry? Yes. You already knew this. 

Perhaps, your mind has finally broken and fragmented in a real and irrevocable way. Perhaps, this is finally destiny finding itself. 

You lie in the dark and let it hold you as it did when you were a child, alone and enslaved. You watch the water snake through the cracks of the stone walls, and you are so small, and suddenly, there’s a hole in your cheek and you heal and heal and tear apart again; taste the outside air with your newly grown tongue, and the blood that pools in your mouth reminds you that you’re still alive and made of nothing but regret. 

You hold one single comfort like a newly blooming flower in your mind, the only thing that remains: We were together once. I forget the rest, before, now, it no longer matters. We were together once. 

For an interminable age, you allow yourself to be poked and prodded, cut and flayed, experimented on – the silly notion these cultists hold that perhaps they could harness your power for themselves, bottle it.   Hurt, you allow yourself to be hurt for too long. They never break you beyond repair, but they get very close, many times, and sometimes, you hope it’ll be too much, it needs to be too much just once, and then it could, perhaps, all end. 

Your bones ache and wounds open where the too sharp edges of you abrade against the too hard stone, and you relish in the healing and reopening, relish in the suffering. You remind yourself that you chose this, that you continue to actively choose this, that all your choices are yours now, even the losses, and you caress that secret piece of you in the furthest, darkest recess of your mind, your lifeline, and it feels so good to finally be in control of the things that hurt you. Even if it is a false sense of control, even if it’s all only a reality of your mind's own making. 

And sometimes, when the delirium has sunk its fangs in you entirely, and you almost don’t know who you are, you think: surely he’ll come to get me. He doesn’t know you’re here. Surely I didn’t fall in love with him just for this. He doesn’t know you’re here. If he knew, he’d come, he would, he would.

Two years is a very long time to be away from a thing you need so much.

I no longer care what sound it makes when I am silenced. 

Two years is a very long time to forget.

If I die, it is not this life I will miss, it is him I will miss. 

But an even longer time to remember. 

How to forget? How to forget? How to forget?

Eventually, you lose yourself, and the brightness of torture becomes the brightness of night, and you’re gone within it.

You consider yourself: the myth, the archetype, the soul, me, me, the Cassandra, the Cassandra.

[Scream] [Scream] [Scream] [Scream] 

Din.

You cling to him through the night, through the brightness, through the nothing. You dream of his hands and his hair and the vividness of him. You dream of that pure, golden heart. You dream of beskar and space and being loved.

You dream of being loved. 

You do not choose the way you live. You do not live; you are not allowed to die. 

You don’t know how long you allow yourself to be held within this womb of punishment, but you know that it is a very long time. 

And then one day, unbidden and unexpected: one moment, you’re hungry, a strange and cold and gnawing hunger like something you’ve never felt before. A hunger of the soul. Your mind, so hazy that sometimes you don’t know if you remember your own name, that at certain instances the only image you can recall is the gleam of beskar – you smell vetiver and sweat and blaster smoke and the leather oil of his gloves. You hear his voice. The feeling of his hand in yours the second before you wake, and for a single moment before your eyes open, you’re somewhere else besides this damp Tartarus you’ve condemned yourself to, somewhere green and alive with him. 

The third time you meet: You blink, and it’s all darkness and steel bars, and then, a dim light far in the distance? No. A blade of silver beskar. 

He’s here. Near. 

She had said to you once, your now made sweet Twi’lek: You’re going to die here. Surely, not soon. But one day, we’ll pull your life from you. Once we’ve pulled everything else, taken all we can, we’ll take your life too. And then you’ll be nothing, erased from memory, erased from myth. Nothing at all forever.

You’d taken her words with consideration. You felt strongly that you could not die any longer in any way that truly mattered. If nothing more, than for the memory of him, the memory of that togetherness could never be taken from you, it would always exist and could never be killed, and so what more mattered after that? Nothing really. They could take your life, your power, but they could not take Din, they could not take the myth of what the two of you had created together. 

And always the myth, always the myth. You understand now, after an age in something worse than darkness, that you are yourself the creation of myth, and myth is indestructible. 

She is made sweet and venerating in the end, and she dies so beautifully, your Twi’lek, and in the singular instant before you pull her heart from her chest, you recall her words from before, how like the Thalassian she’d seemed, nothing at all forever, and you tell her the second truth you’ve now come to understand more surely than anything else: “Only a Sith deals in absolutes, and I am no longer a Sith.”

You free yourself from the cruel and unforgiving hands of the dark for the second time in your life. 

You’d thought once that you’d never again let yourself be captured, never again enslaved, and to have let yourself end up here like this of your own volition, your own wanton stupidity and miserable desire for punishment, this is the lowest a creature has fallen in a millenia, surely, and he’s on the same planet as you now, and you’re filled with the sudden blinding terror that he’d somehow know you’re here. That he’d find you. And that he should see you like this, brought so low and so broken, it would be worse than anything, any pain or suffering or torture you could have ever endured. 

And so you call to that dormant tether you’d held this entire time, to the Force, to yourself, and you kill your captors. All of them. In one fell swoop. Without much of even a single thought on your part. And you thank her, when you pull his stolen, blood splattered earrings from her ears, for teaching you so much, for reminding you that power without conscience is a terrible thing, and that you know this better than anyone. And you walk out into the cold and dark night, silent and obscure as a shadow can be, even more so, if possible, prepared to make your unnoticed escape from him.

But of course, he finds you anyway.

Chapter IX

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[aotopmha]

One thing that really hasn't changed about the Sonic fandom in the years I've been away from it is the very specific obsession with the most miniscule details.

It used to be the green eyes, now it's Amy being slightly less of a token obsessive love interest or there being a sniff of a continuity/references to previous games in the story.

(I mean, it also used to be voice acting and model wars, and those are actually still alive, so the more things change, the more things also stay the same.)

But that's literally all Amy was by Sonic 06, down to one of her abilities being able to turn invisible to stalk Sonic better and it's so crazy to me how people actually defend that as "having more personality" these days when all Frontiers and Generations did was tone it down just a little bit (which is actually in line with her arc in the original Sonic Adventure).

I think Heroes might've actually been the worst of it, but I think Amy definitely deserves to have more to her character than just her crush on Sonic.

The only bit of that criticism I think is understandable here is her "losing her spunky attitude", but I don't see it with the minor changes with her in Generations in particular. And Frontiers is kind of a more somber story to begin with.

These small changes are always framed as this egregious misstep when it's really something like the character having a mildly less extreme reaction or a reference to a different relevant element to what people want.

The Time Stones are pretty relevent to bring up in a game about time travel considering getting all of them was what lead to the bad/good future at the end of CD, for example.

And Sonic and Tails vaguely alluding instead of referencing locations really doesn't make a difference to me. This is just basic continuity stuff every story does to me.

I think a few ended up strange, like the silly implications of how dialog worked out in that scene with Sonic and Knuckles, but it's just strange instead of deeply offensive to me.

And the outrage I've seen about these details is just so funny to me.

Especially since Generations itself is a nostalgia game to begin with and is the time to make references.

(All of this said, apparently the jp version is pretty much the same outside of some of the added Modern Sonic dialog, so ultimately it's inconsequential as far as true substance goes?

Generations has a really simple story to begin with, so these don't do much to ruin anything, either.

I do understand the game preservation aspect of these changes, though. They definitely should've kept the old cutscenes as a toggle or option to still look at; remasters should include the game in its original form for the sake of preservation.)

As far as criticism of that aspect goes, to bring a different example, I think I really liked the cutscene with Sonic in the Shadow portion of Generations because it clearly was in good fun with the characters taking a jab at each other about those events that happened, in other words, true continuity.

A bunch of moments in Frontiers really felt like stilted "remember this" moments, rather than just a story with these characters and I think this is what some truly take issue with, rather than "the references" themselves.

People just want a fully new story with these characters.

I think this is also why Shadow's portion has a more positive response. It's just continuing his story.

And in my case, actually retroactively somehow making me care about his character after Sonic Adventure 2.

I think the main thing is that I just did not buy any of the turns his story took after Adventure 2.

The clone stuff in Heroes was alright enough, but not enough for me to think he was fine to be brought back.

And Shadow (05) was just a mess with a character conclusion I found zero satisfaction in because just "forgetting" everything you clearly cared for is just as bad as obsessing over it.

Looking into the Shadow The Hedgehog game just to refresh my memory has been a wild journey because while the forced, immature elements are mostly the localisation as I've always known, the story still is the same mess otherwise.

And Shadow Generations somehow, miraculously put all of that insanity together into a simple, but heartfelt package that somehow didn't end up too tryhard and made sense emotionally.

You have to work through trauma to truly move on from it. You can't just say you move on and have it be the end of it, just not how it works in my eyes, unless you want the characters to feel completely alien, which I think Shadow is intended to be the complete opposite of.

I think the fact that Maria remembered stuff from her time on Earth is an issue for some people (and an apparent inconsistency with the animation), but I think there are advantages to both: if she doesn't remember/know anything about Earth, it's a big additional tragedy added to her character of never being able to see a world she grew to love through all she learned about it.

If she does remember good times on Earth, it, in turn, makes more sense why she would love it so much and want everyone on it to be happy. If she has seen the beauty of it and wishes to go back and never can, it is a tragedy all the same.

In my eyes, neither of these really take away or add to her character nor Shadow's because their bond exists regardless of whether she knew what Earth was like for herself or not.

This game actually also made me care about Maria as a character, in fact, I'd posit she became a character because even Shadow's own game didn't really go into what her illness felt like or what her general life was like on the ARK or how she felt about everyone around her.

But to loop back to my point of people liking it, it's just really nice to have a complete, substantial story again.

I don't need it, and I especially like my Sonic stories more cheesy and silly, but if you're going to do a serious story, do it this way.

Be straight to the point and sincere and add some silly elements to not go too far in the indulgently tedious hyper-drama direction.

Revisiting this crazy and wierd, but fun series has been a lot more fun than I ever thought it would be, even if I think this fandom is one I'll probably mostly keep my distance from.

All bigger ones have their issues, but the bad parts of the Sonic fandom are just not anything I even want remotely anything to do with or tolerate.

I'll watch some more of those massive video essays, though.

[transmutationisms]

been thinking it for a while but it is both an interesting and frightening thing to see more and more people in their 20s who are usually self-professed hard-leftist progressives get more and more into emotionally-driven, kneejerk 'takes' about how everything new to them is bad and evil and 'this generation' (usually people younger than them who they seem to base all their opinions on from some teens dumb tiktoks they see) is stupid and doomed and the world/'our culture' is constantly degenerating, etc. many of the people who think of themselves as radical leftists are coming out with more and more barely-formed, incoherent and emotionally-driven reactionary ideas, and respond to any criticism of these ideas with defensive appeals to disgust or a general sense of 'everyone just knows this is bad!', bypassing needing to think over their own ideas or articulate the reasons they hold them entirely in favor of reactive outrage.

it feels to me like were watching in real-time how many of us will progressively turn into reactionary liberals or right-wingers - something many of these people have observed in older people, in their parents, but believe will simply not happen to them on account of having good intentions and progressive views, which they think means they dont need to watch themselves for impulsive, reactionary thinking, and even that their kneejerk reaction to anything is automatically the correct one because they themselves are already inherently good. of course it starts with generally inconsequential takes, its not like saying 'the tiles are ugly' automatically makes you a right-winger, but i reckon the festering of such modes of thinking shows the cracks in the foundation of many peoples professed political and social beliefs.

point being, i think there certainly are discussions to be had about the ways architecture - both as a tool that serves a material need and a form of art - changes, and what we may be losing to capitalist priorities on that front, but if the only argument people are making are "its ugly and degenerates our once beautiful culture" and their defense to anyone addressing how that sounds ends at "well its still ugly!", im thinking that kind of reactionary opinion-forming is going to seep into other, more important matters sooner than they may think. sorry for the long ask!

yeah i mean i definitely don't think this is a new problem or a generational one, it's just liberal idealism, but yes this is exactly why this type of aesthetic discourse irritates me so much lol. like i've said this before in regards to clothing but aesthetic signifiers gain their meaning in a social context and conditionally. if your analysis is "it's ugly and therefore bad" you're not only attenuating an actual read of what's being signified and why, you're also just veering directly into the most boring ass "everything is worse now and change threatens me" conservatism. the idea that ugliness and beauty are not transhistorical or transcendental truths should ideally be like, a starting point to both questioning other socially mediated constructs and to then moving toward a theory of asethetics as products of social discourses and economic conditions but instead people just cannot ever fucking resist yelling about how much beige or concrete or whatever the fuck is "soulless" or "lacks artistry" agabshxhsg it's so fucking cornball. get over yourself

[ilikekidsshows]

Lately I've been seeing a lot of people attacking others for shipping a problematic ship in X and this somewhat bring back a bad memories when I was still active in ml tweet back then.

It was around Luka episode introduction, I think when I saw someone asked Thomas about Luka's age and he said Luka is Juleka's brother, older by 2 years. Make senses considering we never see him in Dupont and how he has part time job that time. But I also saw how people feel disgusted because Luka being Marinette love interest who's older than her makes him a potential groomer because of the imbalance power dynamic.

thing is, when I looked back at the reason why people become anti Lukanette and how current Adrienette dynamic is, it become... Very funny if not ironic? Like how they talked about power dynamic and imbalance in Lukanette and yet remain silent at how much imbalance the current Adrienette is. This also make me realize that you don't need to have an age gap in a ship to make an imbalance power dynamic or be the older one in a ship to groom the other, because power isn't always about who's older, but who has more information and knowledge. Maybe I'm jumping too far, idk, but aren't what Ladybug did in s4 basically groomed Cat Noir into obedience? By gaslight him, manipulating information, silent treatment and that judo throw.

---

I will say this: people online have turned the concept of grooming into both this big, scary boogeyman but also this thing that happens constantly with so much ease it could be accidental. Basically, there's this idea that we need to constantly be on the lookout for groomers because the world is crawling with them. There's a reason for this: online fan spaces are easy hunting grounds for groomers and the internet acting as an in-between makes the people involved ignore personal boundaries more easily because it all feels less real. So of course terminally online youths are scared of a threat that exists primarily in terminally online ingroups.

So, a lot of fanspaces treat age differences between characters as inherently suspicious. It doesn't matter if they're both adults or both kids, if there's an age difference, it's “grooming” to these people. Like, yeah, it's reasonable to wonder what someone in a very different life situation would want with someone who’s basically “dragging behind” from their perspective, but sometimes you just like a person and want to hang out with them and don’t necessarily want anything with them. Grooming, in this context, is a very specific thing that isn’t just about age. It’s a pattern of behavior where someone purposefully manipulates someone else to get them to fill a certain role for them, usually that of a romantic and/or sexual partner. Grooming is actions, not a situation.

Not all unequal power dynamics involve grooming, but I get what you mean. It feels like there should be a word to describe this kind of relationship, but there isn't anything specific. It's just “toxic relationship”, “one sided relationship” and “being used” when Marinette is explicitly shown benefiting and preferring when her partner doesn't ever show any personal feelings about anything. She prefers him joking and therefore keeping a distance between herself and his feelings. It’s the same way with Luka, whose family situation makes it look like he’s gone through parentification or at least suffers from abandonment issues, which would make Luka another case of a traumatized boyfriend whose trauma manifests in a way that Marinette can and does take advantage of.

The thing that makes Marinette not the groomer in either of these situations is that she didn't cause these boys to act this way; they conveniently came to her pre-traumatized/conditioned and she merely shamelessly took advantage. In the case of Cat Noir the matter is grayer, since his responses to her are reactions to her treatment of him as someone inconsequential, but him reacting to such treatment with submission instead of outrage was trained into him by Gabriel and Emilie.