#it was just a dream nobody actually died

[faintlyof]

drifted off and had the most interesting dream...

not new, but a newer one

i almost made it to the ending just now...or at least where it seems like it should end, i don't know, maybe there's more...

i wish i could remember the premise and not just the endingest part

me and a partner were...protecting grandma and grandpa, but we were also...doing this we needed to hide from them? you know like when shit hits the fan, they pretend everythings going fine? liek when talking on the phone or something? i don't remember like anything, but there was cool risky stuff and i remember kicking something?

but there was like...a big i dont know almost mass extinction event happening? the outside world was grim and people were pulling party cracker like instant explosion things to escape. like instantly vaporized with minimum bloodshed

whatever we had been trying to do, we couldn't so we and the granparents decided we should also just end things on our terms. we decided to go out dancing (like cheek to cheek, waltzing or something), so we danced

but before we could die (i dont remember how that was supposed to happen but it was supposed to be painless), a random nurse who appeared said gramma wouldnt be able to because she had big black abscesses in her legs and wouldnt be able to keep dancing (??? my brain just tossing out whatever, i guess)

and grandpa also wasnt doing well, he couldnt breathe (i think i was waking up here, because it got really chaotic really fast and continuity was totally lost)

so we quickly said our goodbyes and comforted him while he slowly slumped over, saying thank you. so we moved on to getting grandma to the bed, awkwardly pushing her wheelchair down the hall. we managed to get her on the bed and she eventually passed as well.

my partner (i dont think we were romantically involved, but we were acting sort of like spies?? so?? what relationship???) and i decided to end it quickly by

and then i woke up. ツ

like come on i was so close to knowing the ending.

i think this is maybe the second time ive seen this one.

not all of my dreams become recurring dreams, but this one might.

its not a happy dream, but they never are, i guess.

i want to know what happens next. if it was some kind of mass extinction event, why were we prolonging it and what were my partner and i doing the whole time? who was that random nurse who popped it at the end, did we know her from earlier? what was the dancing plan?? how would that have worked??

i tried to fall back into the dream, but i couldn't ><

anyways, yeah im going to bed it's 3:45 am now

[skenpiel]

had a dream i died a horrible and mysterious death but was isekaid as a little bunny furry thing with a cape living in some peaceful hobbit-like fantasy hamlet where i had a goat and also my name was witherworth for some reason. it was awesome

[nexus-nebulae]

it's kinda funny how similar to my grandpa i am considering my birthday was three days after his

[vvraithqueen]

i also don't mean to talk much about the show here since s2 just.... changed for the worse a bunch of things narrative-wise, but i also need to say i dislike how inej is portrayed in regards to violence and killing when she has a whole journey about reconciling her religion and morals with what her reality demands of her that just wasn't explored properly at all

[spitefularoandbi]

Thinking about that one time a friend of mine was mad that I wasn't more of her friend and I remember sitting at a table in a beer garden as she yelled at me for this and not understanding what I had been doing wrong considering she and I hung out all the time and the problem was I didn't seem like I wanted to spend time with her.

[tongue-like-a-razor]

Hotter Than Texas | Part I

(unofficially: Brother's Worst Enemy)

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x F!Reader

Alrighty y'all, this is for everyone who has so patiently waited for me to make this a thing XD Not sure if I could squeeze a whole series out of this one but we shall see. Maybe at least a part 2. Enjoy!

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw is tasked with transporting a not-so-delicate package in the form of Jake Seresin's baby sister, who turns out to be Bradley's dream girl worst nightmare.

Aka it's a road trip, strap in.

CW: swearing, age gap (10 years)

The mission is simple. Collect Seresin Junior from the train station near the main gate of the base and deliver said cargo to the Seresin homestead in Eastern Texas on his way to Atlanta, Georgia for a long overdue visit with his grandparents. It isn’t rocket science. It sure as hell doesn’t hold a candle to the canyon run he pulled off just the other month. And yet, Bradley’s drumming his fingers anxiously on the hood of his Bronco as he leans into its frame, waiting on the trolley from downtown San Diego.

While Jake and Bradley have recently made peace after their longstanding cold war, Bradley isn’t exactly thrilled to meet another one of his kind. Besides, he isn’t one for small talk, and the prospect of spending the next two days with a complete stranger is downright daunting. He prefers music to conversation and he’s hoping that his road trip companion won’t be offended when he turns up the radio and forgets there’s anybody else in the car.

When Hangman had asked for the favor, he assured Bradley that he was his last choice – which wasn’t exactly a compliment, but Bradley appreciated the gesture, nonetheless. By the end of the term, there was nobody from their squadron left on base except Bradley, and he would be heading east anyway, might as well provide shuttle service while he’s at it.

As the trolley whistles into the station, Bradley pushes off his car and straightens his back, watching the tinted windows as they zip by, a blur at first and then gradually separating as the trolley comes to a stop.

Bradley leaves his car to walk around the fence, not quite sure how he’s going to be greeting a person he’s never before seen, but it’s not like he’s going to fashion a sign for the occasion. He sticks his hands into his pockets, the breeze picking up his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt like a parachute before it starts whipping around his torso in the wind tunnel on the platform.

He glances around at the commuters stepping off the trolley, trying to pick out the blondes that might resemble his colleague, when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns his head, just as you say, “Rooster, right?”

He blinks at you, slightly disoriented. You look nothing like Hangman, thank fuck, because Bradley can’t take his eyes off you and, as inappropriate as this reaction is, it would make it that much worse if you did. He gives you a sideways grin. “What gave me away?” he says.

“My brother told me to find the dorkiest guy at the station,” you respond, grinning at him.

Bradley chuckles. “So, you’re walking to Texas, then,” he says, stepping around you.

You laugh, struggling to redirect the wheels of your suitcase.

Bradley bends down to grab the handle. “I can take that,” he says, tucking away the retractable bar and lifting it off the ground by the strap.

“Thanks,” you say, cringing slightly as Bradley lifts the luggage as though you’re embarrassed by its weight.

But after the countless exercise drills over the years, Bradley hardly notices that it’s heavy. In fact, he could probably carry it over his head. He eyes you inconspicuously as you fall in step with him, wondering if perhaps that might impress you – not that he wants to impress you.

“Actually, he said I couldn’t miss you because you’d be a head taller than everyone else, and probably wearing a very bright shirt.”

Bradley looks over at you with a grin. “Hopefully I didn’t disappoint?”

You eye his shirt flapping in the breeze. “I found you, didn’t I?”

Bradley lifts your suitcase into the trunk of his car and walks around to open your door for you.

You give him a suspicious look. “Thanks,” you say.

Bradley nods at you, offering a hand to help you in. Once you’re seated, he shuts the door behind you and exhales unsteadily the kind of sigh that often accompanies a guilty conscience. There’s no way he could possibly get entangled in a mess of this magnitude. And a colossal mess it would become if he were to develop any sort of soft spot for his recent enemy’s baby sister. Bradley, being a sensible, mature adult, understands this unequivocally. But, when he rounds the car and climbs into the driver’s seat next to you, the notion that he’s not allowed under any circumstances to find you attractive flies right out his rolled down window.

This is because you’re already tuning the radio like you own the place and because you smell like a goddess. Bradley has no clue whether it’s your hair or your perfume or your goddamn essence that’s permeated his upholstery in under ten seconds, but whatever it is, he certainly wouldn’t mind smelling it on his sheets in the morning.

Fuck. He’s fucking fucked.

“This alright?” you ask casually, as if you didn’t just hijack a stranger’s radio.

He cringes at the stereo; he’ll have to work on your taste in music. “Got your seatbelt on?” he asks as he pulls out.

You turn around in your seat and pull on the seatbelt.

Bradley promptly hits the breaks and you lurch forward slightly, the seatbelt in your hand getting stuck on its way out. He looks over at you with an air of seriousness despite the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The seatbelt should be the first thing you do when you enter a vehicle.” Not fiddle with the radio, he adds silently.

You raise your eyebrows at him in amusement. “Okay, dad.”

Bradley nearly shudders at your response. He’s probably a good ten years older than you, so, really, while dad might be stretching it, you’re not too far off. “Keep up that attitude and you’ll be listening to Metallica the whole way home.”

You smirk at him. “I like Metallica, so joke’s on you, bud.”

Bradley starts driving again. “If you like Metallica, then why are we listening to this trash?”

Your jaw drops and you reach for the volume dial to turn up the song. “How dare you?”

Bradley rolls his eyes. Something tells him he’s in for a wild ride.

…

About two hours later, Bradley pulls into a small gas station just past the border into Arizona.

“Want something to eat?” he asks, leaning across the console to pop his glove compartment and pull out his wallet. “Or drink?”

You purse your lips. “I could go for a coffee.”

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“With a pinch of salt.”

Bradley gapes at you. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

You snort. “I’m not joking. You should try it! Cuts the bitterness in half, my friend.”

Bradley cringes. “The bitterness is why I drink it.”

You shake your head and declare wisely, “You’ll see.”

“That you’re a nutcase?” Bradley mutters under his breath as he exits the car. He jogs over to the convenience store, determinedly blocking out the seductive quality of your persuasive tone. You could probably convince him to drink a pint of his own urine if you set your mind to it.

Bradley drums impatiently on the counter, waiting for the clerk to finish restocking one of the shelves with chips. While he’s waiting, he glances out to check on you as if you’re a child under his charge. You’ve stepped out of the Bronco to stretch your legs and Bradley doesn’t like the way the two guys in the convertible in behind are eyeing you.

Bradley cranes his neck to check on the clerk’s progress and lets out a stifled sigh. When he looks back outside, he sees that one of the men has approached you and, well, Bradley isn’t about to wait to see what happens next. He drops a bill on the counter and calls out, “Keep the change,” to the clerk before practically slamming his way through the doors with the coffees in his hands.

Why it bothers him that some random dude might want your number is not of consequence. What matters is that Bradley gets rid of this asswipe before you start enjoying his company.

He strides confidently past the man chatting you up and stops right in between you and him, handing you a coffee.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he cautions moodily, not entirely sure how to go about handling a situation in which, objectively speaking, he has no real authority.

You meet his gaze with a small smile. “You don’t say,” you respond with all the sultriness of a blazing, desert sun.

Bradley’s gaze remains unwaveringly on you as he unhooks a pair of Ray-Bans from the neck of his muscle shirt and slides them over his eyes. “Ready to go?” he asks in a level tone, hoping he can avoid what is bound to be an unpleasant interaction with the man still standing behind him.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” the man speaks up. “Didn’t realize you were with someone, honey.”

Bradley keeps his eyes on yours for several moments longer, trying his best not to show the irritation he feels at the way this rando just called you ‘honey’. Reluctantly, he turns to face him, wondering what in the world he could say that wouldn’t make him sound jealous as fuck.

But before Bradley could speak, you slide casually into his side, leaning on him like it’s the most natural thing. “That’s just fine,” you say to the man. “No harm, no foul.”

Bradley looks down at your head as it nestles into his shoulder and then lifts his arm to let you move in closer. Trying to play it cool, he skims the tips of his fingers across your lower back, which is warm and feels like the perfect place to rest his hand.

Convertible guy promptly departs, and Bradley is left standing in an embrace with the one person on the entire planet for whom he should never catch feelings, at a derelict gas station on the outskirts of arid Yuma, Arizona, and the heat is really starting to get to him. Slowly, you start to peel yourself away and Bradley, sensing your withdrawal, drops his hand and recoils from you like you’ve burnt him.

Did it feel nice pretending you were his girl? Sure did. Is he going to erase it from his memory and never let himself so much as shake your hand again? Absolutely.

Read Part 2

Tag List

I’ll be tagging the rest in the comments probably tomorrow!

@joaquinwhorres

@katiemcrae

@sehnsuchts-trunken

@toomuchfluffs

@wintercap89

@lonelywitchv2

@callsign-jupiter

@rosiahills22

@olliepig

@coffeeaddictedmay

@boringusername3

@ratedtvpg

@mak-32

@annedub

@jules-1999

@black--lightning

@j-velvet

@xoxabs88xox

@cyanide-cryptid

@callsignvenus

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@callsign-sunshine

@shanimallina87

@birdy-bat-writes

@wkndwlff

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@daniibzz

@avis15

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@ijustwantedplums

@hal3ynicol3

@avengersfan25

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@lovingperfectionsblog

@bblpbb

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@adaydreamaway08

@mattyskies

@desert-fern

@catsandbooksandstuff

@Topguncultleader

@avengers-fixation

[orbdog]

i used to like dream but not now after the grooming situation

actually begging you to fact check literally everything you read. its once again another false allegation. we have this thread every week.

the people who make this false allegations also are doing it to take advantage of your lack of an ability or desire to fact check. you are being actively taken advantage of.

[homunculus-argument]

My father was, altogether, mainly the absence of a person. The illusion of a second parent, someone who took up a seat, without there really being anyone there. When we were left at home with dad, it didn't mean that dad would be keeping an eye on us, it meant that us kids were alone in the house while he was there, or then that we'd have to be keeping an eye on him. My mother was one of those women who had a whole wholesome nuclear family in theory, but not in practice. She was a single mother with a man in the house. And she didn't get dick for the privilege of keeping him around. They slept in separate beds.

He never did anything, most of the time I realise in hindsight that a normal father would have done something in a situation where he was there and did nothing. It wasn't traumatic or anything, all he ever did was just physically be there, his biggest influence was ensuring that nobody else could be in his place. We didn't really have a father but couldn't dream of having a stepfather who'd actually care about being there. Mom was a married single mother raising two kids alone. He was just there. Making promises to do something and then not doing it, until nobody expected anything of him anymore.

My father died when I was 17. I wasn't particularly shocked or upset. Mainly I felt mildly surprised to how indifferent I felt about it. The man-shaped empty space in my life was just suddenly not shaped like a person anymore.

[winterinhimring]

I AM NOT OKAY ABOUT BOROMIR

He lives his entire life in a country that's facing off against the forces of evil incarnate. The borders are shrinking yearly. Their people are dying faster than they are born. He is the son of the Steward; he must be aware of all of this from his teens.

He grows up. He grows into a general. Now every loss is on him. Every father who won't come back to his sons. Every husband who won't come back to his wife. Every son who won't come back to his parents. Every inch of ground lost. He knows it's inevitable. He knows this is an unwinnable war. It's still his orders, his men, his country. He's failing them. Nobody could succeed, but it is him that fails all the same.

He gets sent off on a quest that roughly amounts to a modern British soldier being told (in a dream) 'go find Camelot, talk to the brownies, and get Arthur to come back here with Excalibur and save the day'. He goes, because those are his orders, and he's a good soldier.

He gets yanked into the weirdest spec-ops mission in history. They are trying to destroy an atomic bomb engineered by Satan. Half the participants are the aforementioned brownies, who are waist high and have manifestly never been in so much as a skirmish in their lives. (He tries to teach them how to use a sword, in the hopes that they won't die if there is an actual fight.) One is a wizard, two are somewhat more mundane myths, and one is a weird scruffy wilderness man that people keep telling Boromir to swear allegiance to. He goes along with it because he doesn't really have orders in this situation, but when he suggested using the atomic bomb, the wizard got very angry and swore a lot in a language he didn't understand and made the sky turn black, and everyone else seemed to view this as conclusive.

(The atomic bomb could save his country if they were allowed to use it, he's pretty sure. He tries not to think about that.)

For some reason, the wizard and company are determined not to go back to the nearest fortified city and regroup. They are determined to go straight to the heart of the enemy's realm. In the course of this determination, they get chased by crows, they climb a mountain which might be sentient and trying to kill them or might just be having a snowstorm because of an evil wizard, and they get buried in snow. The hobbits almost die.

Wizard and company still refuse to return to the fortified city and regroup. They go into a mythical city where there are supposed to be friends, and they find halls full of bodies. (This is more familiar territory than he wishes it was.) They get attacked by a giant lake squid. People keep throwing hobbits at him. (Seriously, Boromir gets so many hobbits chucked at him over the course of this movie.)

They get trapped inside the fallen mythical city. They've almost made it through when one of Actual Satan's massive fire-demons starts chasing them. (Keep in mind that the Balrogs were last heard of at the end of the First Age, and Boromir is a soldier, not a scholar. From a modern perspective, this is something like having a dragon the size of an airplane show up and attack your military platoon.) The wizard dies fighting the fire-demon. He pulls the hobbits out, keeps the dwarf from running back inside (to do what, Boromir doesn't know, but Gimli probably doesn't know either; Boromir has seen men get like that before when someone dies in front of them), and accepts the orders from the weird scruffy wilderness man because he seems to at least have an idea of where to go.

He follows the wilderness man right into another myth. He meets a woman who reads his mind and tells him that there's hope for his country to survive. (Boromir has not had hope since he realised that Gondor's borders were shrinking year by year and their army dwindling and their allies weren't coming to aid them. This probably happened roughly when he was sixteen. He is forty. Hope, even the idea of it, hurts so much more than despair ever did.)

When they are on the verge of leaving even the vestiges of friendly territory behind, he finally asks for the chance to use the enemy's weapon. He is shut down. He tries to take it by force (the only thing crueller than being given hope is having it taken away)...he does and says things he never thought he'd say or do.

He tries to hurt someone he's sworn to protect.

He's sorry. He's so terribly sorry, but the damage is done. Frodo has run from him like he's an orc.

There are actual orcs. Everywhere. He doesn't know where they came from but he finds Merry and Pippin. He fights to protect them. For a while, it seems like he will be enough, for this at least. (All his life, he has not been enough. Not enough to protect Gondor. Not enough to persuade Aragorn that it is worth protecting. Not enough to resist the temptation of the Ring.)

Once again, he isn't enough. He loses.

He watches them be dragged away, shouting for him as he kneels, helpless, struggling for breath against the arrows piercing his chest.

And then. And then, for the first time in who knows how long (perhaps for the first time ever) someone takes the weight off of Boromir's shoulders. Aragorn arrives. Aragorn fights to protect him, and promises to defend Gondor in his place. He promises, I will not let our people fall.

For the first time since he first realised what was happening to his country, Boromir has real hope. Perhaps Aragorn can do what he couldn't. Perhaps Boromir never needed to win the war. He held out until Aragorn came, made sure that the promised king of legend had a country to return to, and perhaps...perhaps that was enough.

Maybe Gondor will survive this. Boromir won't, but that's alright, if his people (his brother) do.

He swears his allegiance to Aragorn now, taking back his words at the Council, with the last of his breath.

Then he dies.

[goldsbitch]

Past lives

Charles Leclerc is opening an ice-cream shop...And nobody knows why.

romantic, soulmate au, one shot, short

"Past lives couldn't ever hold me down Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found I've got the strangest feeling This isn't our first time around" - Past Lives, Børns

It's the little things that resonate for no apparent reason.

The fact he would always lean towards a perfume with bergamot undertones - because in his past life, the love of his love was obsessed with bergamot tea.

The fact she would have the windows open at any possible occasion - because in her past, she and the love of her life lived in a small house at the top of a windy hill.

The fact he hated alcohol, because in one their lifetimes, the love of his life drowned her sorrows a little too often and lost herself in it.

The fact she could not watch war time movies, because in one of their past lives he died tragically, and a little too early for them to build a proper life together.

They did not get to meet in each life. But when they did, it was one for the history books. Not the ones about grandiose, history changing events, but the little sweet ones, usually to be found at the back of the antique bookstores. The mundane miracles that are hard to describe to the unlucky ones, who do not get to experience them. Some of them end up with a happy end, some of them with the biggest life lessons human soul can swallow.

It's the strange feeling of "I belong here" or "I think this will taste good". Why? Because you had seen it in the past, because you had been there in a different life time.

Fate plays a funny little game. Has one and their soulmate born just in time for them to be able to find each other, but likes to put obstacles in between. Distance, social barriers, conflicting dreams.

This kind of love leaves traces around the history. Songs, poems, buildings and initials carved into stones and benches. Wedding rings passed on in families and eventually sold once everyone has forgotten. Portraits of unknown faces and photos found at the bottom of old wardrobes. The ancient piping in an old house that still works because he built it for her to live in.

The soul keeps a memory, unreachable to the simple mind of the body, as it travelled from one lifetime to another.

That's how she found herself staring at a random, actually not that important, painting hung in a gallery exhibition dedicated to landscapes from the romantic era. She wasn't exactly a galleries type of person, but a girls trip to Paris had to include something more than parties and shopping. She stood there for good five minutes, totally mesmerised by a painting that did not particularly stood out from the rest. Little did she know that the silhouette standing in the field was one of her past self and that the painting had been done by her soulmate in one of their luckier past lives. It was like she could smell the summer weeds growing, hear the ground under her feet and understood what the author wanted to capture. And he was successful enough to capture the attention of his love throughout centuries once again. As her friends dragged her away to end their artsy part of their trip, she made sure to mark the name of the artist.

For some inexplicable reason, Charles Leclerc, in this life a racing driver, was opening an ice cream shop in in Milan. It probably would have made more sense to everyone, himself included, if he'd known that in one of their luckier past lives, he and his soulmate met in a small café in that city, few decades before that. He would come in one day, order an ice-cream and then did not stop coming until he managed to charm her.

[the-modern-typewriter]

The Blue Key

On her first night in her new home, after a lavish dessert of strawberry cheesecake and cream, her new husband handed her a clinking set of keys across the dining room table.

“You can go anywhere in the house,” her husband told her, “except the basement.”

He showed her the key to the basement. It was midnight blue.

“Why? Is the basement where you keep the bodies?” she asked, with half a smile.

He didn’t smile back. “Do you promise me?”

She studied him carefully, feeling the weight of the basement key in her hand.

There were many keys to the house - hefty ornate keys for their front and back doors, a pretty gold one for their bedroom, a dozen little silver and brass ones for any other lock in the house that she might come across. Windows and cabinets and the like.

The basement key was almost insubstantial against her palm. Negligible. The sort of key that was easily lost, that looked like it might belong to a doll house more than a proper estate.

She couldn’t read his expression.

“You can’t tell me what’s in there?”

“I will know if you open the door,” he said, “and everything that we are will end.”

She laughed again, uncertainly, because the words were surely absurd and certainly not like him. He could have simply told her it was dangerous and so best avoided, or not given her the key to the basement in the first place. She doubted she would have given it all that much thought among all the other rooms.

Yet, his words instead piqued curiosity.

Once again, he did not smile. He stared at her solemnly, with a hint of something haunted that she had only caught flickers of during their courtship.

The laughter died in her throat.

He had been like something from a fairy tale from the moment they met; Prince Charming to pluck her out of the ashes of her drab life, even if she knew he had been married before. Everyone knew. Just as none of them had expected him to pick her. She had no experience in the running of manor houses, and no especially outstanding beauty nor fortune of her own to make up for that fault. In short, she was nothing like his first wife.

But, she had made him laugh, and she had liked him. God, how she had liked him – and liked him still – with such blushing ferocity that it almost made her dizzy.

Her new home was enormous, and beautiful, and filled with the kind of impossible luxuries that she had never even dared to dream of having. It was filled with him. She was nothing, and nobody, and he had given her the keys to be something and somebody else. Someone better. What was one small forbidden key against all that?

She knew the preciousness of privacy. Sometimes a secret could be the only thing that was really yours.

“Okay.” She bit her lip, and started to unhook the key from the ring. “Would you like it back, then? Just to be sure.”

He recoiled as if she’d drawn a knife on him and shook his head.

“Keep it,” he rasped. “Keep it safe. Keep it locked. Let it be forgotten.”

But from that moment on, though, she never really forgot about the blue key for a moment.

***

The library was probably her favourite room in her new home. It was astonishing to be able to have an actual personal library, stocked from soft-carpet and gleaming hardwood floor to cavernous ceiling with walls upon walls of books of every kind. The orphanage had maybe three books, worn and ancient, each crumbling a little more with every reading.

There were lots of stories in her husband’s books about girls with keys, girls with curiosity, heroes with something they were not supposed to look at under the pain of death or something worse.

Psyche with Eros, who was told without explanation not to look upon her perfect and mysterious host, for there could be no love without trust.

Orpheus, forbidden to glance back at his love, lest he lose her for good.

Pandora, with her strange once unopened box of evils and hope, told it was hers.

Eve, with her curiosity, with her knowledge, lured into plucking that shining forbidden fruit.

Bluebeard too, of course, with his many murdered wives, all told not to seek out their bloody predecessors behind his secret door, because – why?

Because it was a game of female obedience? Because it gave a predator an excuse to do what he did best, when he knew from the first instance that his victims would have to know? He chose them, after all. And why did they look, those wives, against all warning?

Because the uncertainty was unbearable? Because it was their home too? Because they loved the man they married and wanted to know everything there was to know of him? Maybe they wanted to save him. It was never cruelty.

The two of them were happy, her husband and her, as blissful as newlyweds were want to be.

In the evenings they would cuddle before the roaring fires, night caressing the windows, and he would read aloud from his favourite passages or play music. In the days he would work, or leave on some business or other, and she would wander the labyrinthian corridors alone and explore the many treasures tucked away behind his many locked doors.

The library could have lasted her years, but she found a room with a ceiling made of magnifying glass by which to observe the stars, a swimming pool built into the rock beneath the entrance hall, a lush garden bursting with colour that she could tend to in the sunshine.

There were servants to take care of the day-to-day running of the building, and so he did not seem to desire any particular purpose of her except to be his wife. Except for her to live in his home, in their home, and enjoy his easy company and the gifts he gave her. She found ways to keep busy. To contribute.

Thus, it took her many months to walk down towards the basement, to first look upon the door that she was not allowed to open. Spring had turned to the first icy breaths of winter.

The door was painted the same midnight blue as the key, and immaculate in condition. The lock was tiny. A dark slither, a crack, in something otherwise quite lovely.

She pressed her hand against the door and the wood was warm compared to the cool, slightly stale, underground air that filled her chest.

She dropped a hand into her pocket, fingers closing unerringly around the blue key. She tried not to touch it, not to think about it, but she had come to know it instantly by shape and feel alone. It was simply so odd to have a key so small. She had half expected the door would be in miniature too.

How could he possibly know, if she opened it? In some tales it was magic. The key would betray her. He would know by seeing it. But her husband did not want to look upon the key, he had never even mentioned it once after their first dinner.

What then was in the basement? Something so terrible that she could no longer love him? Or perhaps it was empty. Perhaps it was structurally unsound. Perhaps it was simply a test on if she would allow him that one thing that was his and his only.

She leaned down, and pressed her eye to the keyhole with a hammering heart. She didn’t know what she expected to see inside, exactly – a skeleton, or some ghoul staring back at her, or some hidden vault even. There was only darkness. Nothing to see. She straightened again, unsure if the painful feeling in her lungs was breathless relief or airless disappointment.

She walked back up the stairs.

She turned over the pages of stories in the library, and turned the key over and over in her palm, and wondered which of those many tales she was in.

***

“I think,” she said one night, as they lay in bed. “That it bothers me more that you will not tell me, than anything that could possibly be in the basement.”

He stiffened on the mattress next to her.

“Is there something I could do,” she rolled onto her side to face him, “so that you would know you could trust me with the truth?”

His expression was half-hidden in the dim light, his body made unfamiliar by slashes of moonshine slicing through the curtains. His blue eyes were open, staring up, away from her.

“You promised me that you would not dwell on the door.”

“No.” She reached out, tracing her fingers gently along the curve of his jaw, coaxing him to meet her searching gaze. “I promised I wouldn’t open it. There’s a difference.”

He snorted, but tipped his head towards her hand, planting a kiss to her knuckles.

“Can you at least narrow down the possibilities?” She pressed into the silence, because kisses were sweet but they were not an answer. “Is it something I shouldn’t see? That you don’t want me to see? Something that – I don’t know – can’t be let out? Are you the secret guardian of a nightmare world?” She attempted another smile, but it wobbled shaky. “Just give me something, and I’ll leave it alone. I just want to know. I need to know. Whatever it is – whatever it could possibly be – you don’t have to carry it alone. We’re supposed to be a team. That’s what marriage is.”

“Is my word not enough for you?” He sounded tired. “Is everything I have given you not enough?”

She scrunched up her nose at him. “You’d be happily blind, if it were you?”

“Ignorance can be bliss.”

“If you wanted me ignorant, why tell me about the key in the first place? You know me.”

They’d met on account of her curiosity, of her straying to places that she wasn’t supposed to be. He’d been visiting the library of one of the great colleges, reserved for great men like him, and she’d snuck in aching for a glimpse of the world.

Her husband said nothing.

“When you first gave me the key…” She swallowed. “You looked scared.” Her fingers, which had often brushed his in the library stacks once upon a time, grazed his pulse. It was racing. “I would fight monsters for you. Even if you’re the monster.”

As the silence stretched, she thought he might say nothing again, until the silence had grown so large that they might never reach each other across the abyss of it.

“I love you,” he said. His voice cracked. He caught her hand, entwining their fingers together, and squeezed. “Goodnight.”

The seconds ticked by into minutes, into she didn’t know how long.

“Is it a curse?” she whispered, into the dark. “If you’re not allowed or able to tell me, squeeze my hand twice.”

“Oh my god.” His voice was muffled, then, as he pulled a pillow over his face and wrenched free of her. “It’s two in the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”

***

She watched the door diligently for about a month. She didn’t think her husband had some poor creature locked up in the basement, but if he did then one would assume that either he would have to visit, or have the servants visit, in order to provide his victim some form of sustenance.

Nobody visited the basement door except her. There could not be anything living on the other side.

At least, not unless there was some other second secret door and tunnel system, hidden somewhere on the grounds. She didn’t see anyone vanish to one of those either, though. Would she, if it wasn’t on the grounds? How large a conspiracy could a little blue key possibly hold?

Would it count as ‘opening the door’ if she made a hole in the wall next to the door? 

She remembered her husband, in the college library the first time they met, spying the collection of ghost stories she’d been straining to reach. He’d grabbed it off the top shelf for her, easily, a glimmer of amusement curling his lips.

“I never really got these stories,” he’d mused. “If it were me, I would simply not have gone into the haunted house in the first place. Or, one look at a ghost and – no, no thank you. Goodbye! Have a nice life.”

She’d gaped at him.

He’d shrugged at her, and handed her the book. “But I can see that you’re a braver soul than me,” he said. “Sneaking into a place like this uninvited.”

She’d accepted the volume, clutching it protectively to her chest.

“Well,” she’d managed. “People like you are already invited everywhere, aren’t they? So you don’t have to be brave.”

He’d startled into a laugh.

She’d wondered if he would expose her to security, wondered if she should have denied it, wondered how he’d seen through her so swiftly and –

“Don’t worry.” He’d already been turning away, with a last lingering glance at her. “I can keep a secret.”

She’d only learned later who he was, and that it had been a month since his wife had died.

How, exactly, had his first wife died? The papers had said ‘tragic accident’, but there had been no witnesses. He didn’t talk about it, or about her.

No. She was being ridiculous. Maybe she had only imagined the flicker of terror on her husband’s face, the way he had flinched from the key, the rough urgency in his voice. Whatever it was, whatever it could possibly be, was not worth sacrificing what they had. There were other rooms; a dozen of them!

She buried the damn key in the garden. Out of sight, out of mind. Better that than completely losing her mind over something that probably had a completely rational explanation. Love was a leap of faith. 

She woke up the next morning to find the blue key back on the key ring, still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt.

***

Her least favourite stories in the library were the ones about fate.

Maybe some people found such notions encouraging, comforting even in their reassurance that all of the suffering in the world was for a reason and that people could have some incredible purpose laid out for them. She’d always found the idea to be like quicksand beneath her feet, sucking her down down down trapped.

For, if it was fate, there could be no real escape. No chance. No hope.

She kept returning to the story of Bluebeard, tracing variations and retelling with the blue teeth of her blue key.

Maybe, if she was Bluebeard’s final wife, she would open the door and ultimately inherit a grand fortune, and recover from the trauma of falling in love with someone who wasn’t what they said they were.

What if she was only the second wife though, or the metaphorical third? What if her fate was to be some dead thing written only to add background colour to someone else’s happy ending?

It was all well and good of her husband to claim he would never go into a haunted house, but such declarations only really worked if one knew they were in a horror story instead of something else.

“Do you think, maybe,” she asked her husband as winter turned back to spring, “that we could go away somewhere?”

They strolled through the gardens, his arm wrapped protectively around her frail shoulders. Ever since the key incident she had found it difficult to sleep, to eat, to not find herself worrying about the door like worrying a hangnail until she tore off bloodied scraps of her own skin.   

The house, which had once seemed so large to her, had turned into something suffocating. She had no friends in the area, and however far she went along the grounds in the lonely hours of her husband’s working, the door would always be there for her and the key would always be in her pocket. The questions, the creeping doubts, would buzz in her brain like flies swarming a corpse.

“Go away?” He seemed surprised. “Is there something else that you need?”

She had tried simply hiding the key, then stayed up all night staring at the key ring laying on her bedside to try and catch the culprit who’d dug it up from beneath the roses.  One of the servants must have brought the damn thing back, right? Perhaps, the housekeeper? She got the impression that the severe woman had never really approved of her, never liked her. She was not as impressive and perfect a candidate as his first wife had been.

She had seen nothing, but when she fell finally into an exhausted slumber, the key had been waiting for her.

“I just thought it might be nice for us both to get away for a while,” she said. “A holiday. You’ve been so busy with your work.”

She had tried burning the key. It did not burn.

“There is a lot to do,” he said. “This is a large estate. It takes – management, a lot of care.”

“Perhaps I could help you?”

“It is not your burden, darling.”

“But it’s yours? A burden?”

The key, whatever it was, had to be of some supernatural origin. Of that she was increasingly certain. Well, the ghosts were in the house, so to speak, and he wasn’t leaving! He wouldn’t look at her, his attention fastened on the first snowdrops shoving their heads from beneath the hard earth.

“Tell me,” she said. “Or come away with me, please.”

He glanced at her, then.

She reached into her pocket and held up the blue key.

He turned away, quickening his pace as if he couldn’t wait to get away from it too.

“Where,” he said the next morning, “would you like to go, love?”

At the sea side, she tossed the key into the water when he wasn’t looking. If it was the servants, if there was any chance that something in the house was messing with her, with them, then even its evil reach could surely not reach beyond the borders of the property?

It was better for a while, after that. They were both lighter on holiday, away from his family home, with all of its history and responsibility.

The house on their return, waiting for them as it always was and would be, felt new and full of possibility again. They kept laughing over their first dinner back and fell asleep still high on love and freedom and everything they were supposed to be.

The next morning, impossibly, the blue key was on the key ring again.

She started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” her husband said. The colour had leached, stricken, from his handsome face. He looked older. Exhausted, too. His eyes were dark. “I wish—” He fell silent. He reached out to her, and she recoiled. “I’m sorry.”

“You wish what?” It came out whip sharp.

He said nothing. 

She shook her head, the laugh on her breath not really a laugh at all. Of course, he would still not tell her.

“If you don’t tell me,” she said, “everything that we are will end. You understand that, don’t you?” She fumbled the key off the ring and hurled it onto the sheets between them. It sat there, so disgustingly innocuous looking, a glint of blue among the white. “This isn’t fair. This is – sick. Take it back.”

“I know.” He folded his arms, less great man, more frightened child hugging himself. He stared down the key like an old enemy. “I know.”

“Or,” she said. A plea edged into her tone. “We could leave. For good. Let this house, let that door, be forgotten. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, less ‘no’ and more ‘I can’t’ and more ‘I’m sorry’.

She squared her shoulders, even as his slumped. “Tell me, at least, if I should go. You love me, right? If there was something rotten in that basement, you would want to protect me from it, wouldn’t you?”

“You can go,” he said. “If that’s what you want. That’s always been your choice.”

She stared at him.

He looked haunted, hunted, and he had known all along that the key would always end up back on the ring, hadn’t he? That was why he hadn’t simply taken it off when he first gave them to her. She would have thought he didn’t trust her if he’d never given her the keys to her own home at all too, wouldn’t she?

She debated leaving him. She debated walking out the house and – what?  

He looked so broken.

She sighed, the defiant fury sluicing off her shoulders too. She rounded the bed and craned up on her toes to kiss the lost furrow of his forehead.

“Just ignore it,” he said, clutching her hands. “Just ignore the door, and we can be happy.”

“Darling,” she said. “You don’t seem happy here.”

She kissed his lips, like packing up a suitcase, and snatched the blue key back up off the sheets.

Then she went down to the basement and opened the door.

[feyascorner]

Alternate timeline for TFBU where Astarion goes to the underdark with the other vampire spawns? He still leaves the group permanently after you kill Cazador without giving him the chance to choose to do it himself, but he never actually comes back.

He spends decades—maybe even a century in the underdark while you spend the rest of your days with that day haunting your dreams. You never pick up your lyre again, you eventually stop coming back to the house to your other companions at all, and you become a ghost of the city. While everyone moves on, you're just numbly existing in a time that only freezes for you.

But you still make sure to visit Astarion’s grave every few days. You don't know how you managed to find it, but you'd recognize the name carved into the headstone anywhere. And every day you leave flowers, and it’s the most you can do to cope with the unresolved feelings he’s left behind.

He spends years with the other spawn, mending his relationship with some of them but finds himself constantly thinking back on the day he left you. The day he nearly killed you. He's not sure how long it takes, but eventually, after so many years, he begins to understand. Living without Cazador’s dreadful presence makes him realize that perhaps power wasn't what he needed along—he only wanted to be free to live. This, of course, makes him realize how much in the wrong he was for reacting that way toward you, and he finally ventures back into the city.

But when he gets there, you're no longer there.

Too much time has passed. Too much of which he hadn't even noticed, because the sun doesn't rise in the underdark.

He finds his own grave where there’s a pile of dead flowers surrounding all parts of it. And despite how old it is, his tombstone is far cleaner than he remembers it, as if someone was taking care of it until recently. Carefully. Lovingly.

Then, he sees it. And he cannot deny how his stomach drops.

Your own headstone, on the opposite side of the graveyard.

Yours, is stuffed in the way corner, where nobody but the ones who actively search for it would ever notice its presence. It lies under a tree, and he doesn't have the heart to even read the years etched into stone, because he fears knowing how much time he wasted in just being able to understand you. To understand you'd done what you thought to be best for him.

He places a hand on the top of the stone. You feel cold now. No longer can he feel the warmth of your skin, see the gleam of your eyes, hold your soft hand against his face. No longer can he do what he came here to do, if you'd pity him enough to allow it. Instead, all he can do is stare at a stone with your name on it.

This is not you. You are not here anymore.

He rather wishes he'd just died the day of the ritual in Cazador’s plans. He would've died knowing how your warmth felt, but now—all he has is the memories of someone he threw away.

If there’s truly any merciful god left in this world, he's sure they'd kill him now.

[sundaycentric]

⌢  ⌢ yandere gojo x gn reader

␥ content — yandere, drabble, sfw, predator/prey ?, forced proximity, forced dependency, gojo is a bitch, gojo gets someone to (attempt to) hurt you, gojo treats you like a naive pet ... 760 words

Your feet ache. It feels like they are bleeding, and each time your heel hits the ground, you swear you can feel your skin tear and blister. Despite the pain, your desperation and adrenaline kept you running. You kept scurrying away, as your current agony was far, far more light compared to what awaited you if you stopped. Deep down, though, you knew you would suffer the same fate. All you were doing was delaying the inevitable: when he caught you.

Gojo never cared much for your pathetic attempts at escaping. You'd normally never get far, as he would always be able to you before you could truly begin running. Gojo would let you feel like you finally were about to do it, before shattering your dreams and taking you in his arms once more. He only laughed as you cried, and paid no mind to your weak hands hitting his chest. You were nothing compared to his strength, and no amount of fighting could get him away.

That is until you slipped away this morning. Somehow, Gojo didn't know that you were running away. Miraculously, his attention was elsewhere, and you could tell it was something serious. At least, more serious than you, since he hadn't been pestering you as much. You took your chances, and you ran. You could actually make it this time.

You didn't doubt that Gojo noticed your absence within a few minutes of you being gone, so you had to waste no time. You quickly stumbled around the buildings, taking you to the outskirts where only forest and sparse houses remained. You had left no trace of your direction, as far as you could tell, so there was no way he'd be able to trace you down. You wouldn't run into him.

But you would run into other people. Your aching feet forced you to slow down slightly. You panted slightly, making sure to survey the surroundings around you. That's when you spot someone. It wasn't Gojo. They turned around and noticed you pretty quickly. You softly smiled: perhaps they'd help you. You stumbled closer to them, desperate for some sort of shelter to hide in temporarily.

They smiled back as you came closer. You opened your mouth to speak before falling silent. They had a knife and had brought it up to you. It rested on your shoulder, the blade staring at your neck. They tightly gripped onto your weak, exhausted body. You couldn't move: you were overpowered, tired, and in shock. The person spoke up, "Has nobody ever told you to not trust strangers? You shouldn't be wandering around this late, especially looking so vulnerable. Don't worry, I'll make this quick."

Their smile grew wider as the knife grew closer. The tip caressed your skin. You shut your eyes, knowing you couldn't do anything as it came closer. Closer. Closer. And then it stopped.

You paused for a moment before opening your eyes. There was a hand around the person's throat. The one behind quickly through them to the ground and scooped you up. He caressed your neck, where a small, shallow cut lay. You recognized his hands, his touch. Gojo had found you. Part of you wished you had just died by the stranger, while another part of you was actually happy to see him.

Gojo hugged you to his chest before looking at the person on the ground. Gojo's hands that were comforting you gently cupped your ears, blocking your hearing for a moment. He said to the person, "You weren't supposed to cut them, idiot. Leave before I change my mind about staying true to my end of the deal." His voice was slightly mocking. He watched with a smile as the person left, before redirecting his attention to you.

Gojo moved his hands to your cheeks as he stared at you. He kissed the tip of your forehead. His voice was soft, but in a faux, manipulative way, "You shouldn't have run away. Do you see how dangerous it is out there? You're lucky to be with me, where I won't hurt you, yeah? It's okay, I forgive you. It was my fault for leaving a dumb pet alone without a caretaker." You only cried. You didn't know if it was from the fear of being killed, the slightly sting on your neck, or the fact that you'd been caught. But he was right, wasn't he? He didn't hurt you. Gojo loved you.

"You ran away because I wasn't giving you enough attention," He said. It was less of a question and more of a statement, trying to convince you that that was the reason you ran. He smiled wider.

"Let's go home now."

[syrena-del-mar]

Navigating the Conflict in My Stand In: Surrender and Softening in Love

(Disclaimer: Ming/Joe is an incredibly toxic relationship; I fully realize and acknowledge that, but Poom makes a critical distinction in Joe's reasoning, and I think it's interesting to dissect. Also, this is fiction.)

It's been some time since I've written any meta, but I can't stop thinking about the video @poomphuripan shared of Poom making the distinction that Joe isn't giving in to Ming, but rather, his heart is melting for him.

It makes so much sense that Joe would melt at the littlest semblance of 'love.' He was so alone for so long. His parents have been dead for longer than he had them, he has no siblings, and his extended relatives don't care about him. I forget if it's mentioned in the show, but in the novel, Joe had a pretty big crush on Sol, and Sol rejected him quite brutally. Even without meaning to be, Joe is always alone at the end of the day.

Yes, Joe has friends, and yes, Joe made his own found family. But at the end of the day, Joe would return to an unlit, empty home. Everyone else would return to their wives or families, while Joe could only return to the pictures of his parents. Meanwhile, for all of Ming's bs and frightening behavior, he was the only one that made his dream come true.

For the first time, with Ming around, Joe would come home and be greeted by the warmth of another living, breathing person. Joe craved to have a human bond, and Ming was the one who was willing (albeit for his own interest) to give it to him. And he cooked for him. He took up space in his home! He remembered the very things Joe had told him he longed for. They had a lot of good times, a lot of good memories, and a pretty set routine that really integrated Ming into Joe's life. But then they fight, his blissful reality breaks, and Joe dies.

But Joe wakes up from what feels like a day's nap when, in actuality, two years have passed. And what does he find? Ming has cared for his apartment since his death and is unwilling to change anything just in case Joe returns. Ming continues to fulfill Joe's dream of returning to a warm home. So he turns on the lights, and he cooks the same dinner that they used to share for two years. And even in his rightful anger of wanting Ming to leave him alone, he's still seeing that. In the two years since his disappearance, someone still thought about him and hadn't fully grieved him. Ming's brother only confirms that.

Giving in would mean that Joe wanted to end the fight with Ming, when no feelings had changed. It'd be him emotionally surrendering himself, compromising his feelings of being just a double for Tong, and fully conceding himself when he still thought that Ming only saw him as a replacement. While Joe might have given Ming access to his body to pay his new mom's debts, he was still blocking Ming out as much as he could. But that's not why Joe forgives Ming; it's not for a superficial reason to stop the feud. There's a visible shift in how he perceives Ming, the guy who waited two years for him, who protected and filled his home with warmth, just in case he wasn't really gone. His motivation was rooted in the slivers of positive feelings he had for Ming, which allowed him to move past the anger that he held for him.

A quote that I've seen floating around the internet for years comes to mind. "And when nobody wakes you up in the morning and when nobody waits for you at night and when you do whatever you want. What do you call it? Freedom or loneliness?" Joe has had that freedom for the majority of his whole life. It's no longer freedom for him. But even his found family isn't fully aware of the loneliness that would wash over him when he would return to an empty home.

After all is said and done, he sees that only one person knows him intimately enough to understand and learn even the most mundane of his desires. Ming, even with all the toxic shit he has pulled, stood by his word of not letting Joe return to an empty home. For Joe, that was enough. It changes how he sees and understands Ming.

It's also why Sol and Joe would have never worked out.

As Poom said, ultimately, it's not that he gives in to Ming but rather he lets his heart melt when he sees exactly what Ming has done for him in his absence.

Even after everything, Joe still loves him.

[gyumibear]

˗ˏˋ STUPID CUPID ˎˊ˗

“cupid, what you do to me….” | stupid cupid — nct dream

synopsis ── after your latest forum fails miserably, you’re almost out of an extracurricular! that is, until a mysterious account going by the name “cupid” brings you just the thing you need to fix your reputation: park wonbin, radio show host and your longtime crush. with the help of cupid, wonbin suddenly falls head over heels in love with you! you’d expect for this to be a good thing right? but no! everyone’s starting to notice how strange wonbin’s acting and now it’s up to you to figure out how and if you can get wonbin back to normal before anyone finds out what you’ve done. especially because “cupid” has disappeared… stupid cupid.

pairing — campus crush!park wonbin x journalist!reader

genre — smau + written. romcom. suggestive. love spell au. college au. angst. “strangers” to lovers.

warnings — hella swearing + crude humor (kys jokes). mentions/illusions to: food/sex/alcohol consumption. fighting (physical and verbal). mind control (what cupid does is essentially brainwashing). light jealous and possessive behaviors. use of pictures of yn but only for reference. everyone makes fun of each other a lot, but not maliciously. yn is a manga reader so spoilers for jjk, csm, the summer hikaru died & black butler. more warnings in the actual chapters, but please always lmk (!!) if i missed something. keep in mind: this story doesn’t describe the idols in real life and is written by a blk person so aave will be used.

playlist — stupid cupid nct dream. mutual butterflies ryan trey. don’t get mad wayv. cosmic red velvet. one kiss riize. love language hibiki. off the record ive. 2nite p1harmony.

notes — the taglist is open! (26/50) updates every saturday! creds to the respective artists for the graphics used! please consider reblogging or replying with your thoughts on each chapter!! it means the world to me but i appreciate spam likes too! you can join the taglist by replying to THIS post. asks will be deleted sorry </3… it’s just easier to manage for me.

profiles ── hate91.1 | public forum mods | specialz

act one let me monopolize that heart…

ᯓᡣ𐭩 ONE ── this week’s forum

ᯓᡣ𐭩 TWO ── nobody wants wonbin

ᯓᡣ𐭩 THREE ── chat… am i cooked?

ᯓᡣ𐭩 FOUR ── tell her the truth

ᯓᡣ𐭩 FIVE ── party ready!

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SIX ── byob (bring your own baby)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SEVEN ──

ᯓᡣ𐭩 EIGHT ──

ᯓᡣ𐭩 NINE ──

ᯓᡣ𐭩 TEN ──

act two girl you got me crazy…

to be added…!

additional notes ── ah sunny back again with another smau! yippee!! um, i don’t have much to say except hii if you’re new round these parts.. i hope y’all enjoy because i worked hard and i hope this doesn’t flop? i’ll be sad. pleek.. pleek…?

early taglist ── @onlyhyunjin @pxnklover @glorism @nujeskz @soheendo @starwonb1n

2024 © GYUMIBEAR. do not repost, modify, or translate my work onto other social media sites.

[barrel-crow-n]

Something that makes me crazy is the difference in how Kanej deals with their issues.

Kaz was hurt so he hurt others. He got scammed so he became the scammer. He was beaten up so he became the one beating people up. He found a way to thrive in the toxic cycle of violence in the Barrel. This keeps him alive, but makes him a bad person. Kaz doesn't care. Kaz left decency behind the second that was what was necessary to survive. He shrugged it off like a cheap coat. Don't like touch? Simple. Break anybodies wrist that dares touch you; break their arm. Give them a reason to keep away. Make them scared because that keeps you safe (and as a result will keep them safer from you).

Inej was hurt so she prevents others from being hurt. She hunts down slavers so children won't have the same fate as her. She can't just leave decency behind, her values and beliefs won't allow it. She does penance after every kill, she cried after killing the first time, she isn't keen on violence and only does it when completely necessary (at odds with Kaz that attacks at the slightest provocation to the point of everyone giving him a wide berth). The violence committed on her makes her angry (and righteously) but she doesn't lash out at everyone like Kaz does, she holds that back for a select few, to make them pay for the suffering they've caused.

Kaz felt like he died and became someone new so he leaned into it. He change his name from Rietveld to Brekker, he became someone new, a stranger. Nobody knew who he was, or where he came from. Kaz Rietveld was dead, and a monster had taken his place.

Inej also says that she feels like she died. She says that the girl she had been died in the belly of a slavers ship. However, unlike Kaz, she refuses to change her name. And dehumanisation links to this!

Kaz was dehumanised so he dehumanised himself further. Dirtyhands. Per Haskell's rabid dog. Demjin. Kaz thrives in this, because it makes him feel safe, it makes him feel untouchable. Kaz Rietveld was weak, so was replaced by Kaz Brekker. When that isn't enough, Dirtyhands is there to get the rough work done.

Inej was dehumanised so she humanised herself. She is not a lynx or a spider or a wraith. She is Inej Ghafa. She is a pirate vigilante, rescuer of slaves. And the interesting thing is that Kaz offered this to her too! He asks her "Is that what you prefer to be called?" (referring to her name, Inej Ghafa) when buying her indenture at the Menagerie. He is offering her the same thing he did. A change of name, a clean slate. But she declines. She is a Ghafa and no matter what happens to her, she always will be.

Kaz was traumatised so he isolated himself. He holds people at arms length because he sees them as weaknesses, or as obstacles between him and his revenge. He put his gloves on and doesn't take them off, he failed once with Imogen and decided to never try again. He yearns for connection but it only serves to isolate him further. Because they have no idea what it's like to watch friends hug, knowing you can never have the same. Kaz builds up armour (the gloves) but he doesn't tackle the root problem that is his fear of touch. He tried once and failed and quit (which is actually out of character for him, in contrast with him learning magic ceaselessly until he has mastered it - and shows how terrified he is and how disgusted he is at himself) and this serves to make him feel like he just can't. Like the dream of friends is hopeless.

Inej was traumatised so she seeks human connection. She has Jesper and Nina. She has the other Crows. She tries to heal, to open herself up. She might still flinch at touch occasionally but her friends are helping her and she wants to try and heal. She knows how to ask for help.

In all, Inej's ways of coping are a lot healthier. Kaz is stuck in a toxic cycle, and has been for years, but Inej is giving him a way out of it. Finally, he can make the step towards proper healing. He won't change his name back. He won't stop being a gangster. But he can feel more comfortable in himself and with his friends. And that's what Inej wants to give him, because she knows how important that is.