#it's about gaps in memory and memories that live too long to ever heal

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Me, to my new date: doctor who thinks it's a sci-fi story because the Doctor thinks it's a sci-fi story and because the companions think it's a sci-fi story, but it's really just a story about ghosts. a story about an ancient creature carrying the ghosts of everyone they have ever loved, meeting new people, and seeing them only as future ghosts. they are haunted by the future and the past and the present because they are the only constant in a world constantly in flux, and they are running as fast as they can to things before they burn and fade to dust but everything will always end, you understand, because this is the only thing the Doctor understands and yet they keep going. they love too much to stop. doctor who is not science-fiction, it's horror and optimism and spiritual more than anything else, it's religious unto itself, the TARDIS is a haunted house and a church and a graveyard and a hospital and the Doctor is the most haunted being in the universe but more than anything, this is a love story, because how can you love something without being haunted by it- hey, what are you doing?

My date, shoving breadsticks in their purse: I have to go-

[saintobio]

blue christmas

a sincerely yours christmas special. non-canon. angst. 900 wc. part of the sy side-stories.

It was quiet that night. 

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and the scent of pine and cinnamon lingered in the air while the warm glow of Christmas lights twinkled on the tree. Outside, snow drifted lazily to the ground, covering the surroundings of your home in a soft, pile of white. It felt peaceful—almost too peaceful—and you sat back on the couch, lounging after a nice Christmas dinner with your teenage son, Sachiro, who cradled a mug of cocoa in his hands beside you.

You smiled faintly, admiring how much he had grown, and how this quiet night seemed so far removed from the all the drama that had once filled your life. But the comfort of the moment didn’t last long before he spoke. His voice, deep like his father’s, broke the silence of your supposed peaceful night. 

“Mom,” he began, “Why didn’t you ever choose to remarry Dad?”

The question hit you harder than expected, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the right words. Really, what were the right words? You had never been good at talking about these things, and you didn’t expect that your son would put you on the hot seat like this. The past, especially those connected to Satoru—sometimes it felt easier to leave them untouched, forgotten. As it should be. 

You glanced at your son, unsure of how to explain the complicated web of emotions that tangled inside you. “I thought... it was for the best,” you said quietly, voice soft as you searched for something that sounded right. His question was too sudden to be given a decent answer. “You know your Dad and I just couldn’t make it work. And for you, for us, it was better this way.”

Sachiro nodded slowly as if he already knew the answer, yet his fingers tightened around the mug. You could see the way he was processing your words, as if he was hoping for better reasoning. He had never even known the sibling he had lost until recently, the gap that finally forced his father out of your lives. Sachiro only saw the quiet love that both his parents shared, but it wasn’t enough, not for either of you.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if my sibling were here?” he asked, clearly inciting. “If you kept her, mom. Would she be celebrating with us tonight?”

You felt the ache in your chest as the question landed. You knew Sachiro’s question came from a place of grudge, aiming really well at a spot that hurt the most. And it did good at bringing you a pang of grief from a memory you had tried to bury long ago. You weren’t numb. Of course the loss still stung, even all these years later.

“I think about it all the time,” you murmured, unable to hide the shame in your voice. “What she would’ve been like. How she would’ve looked like. But... I don’t want to remember, Sachiro. I’ve made peace with it.”

But he wasn’t done. “Then, why didn’t you try again?” His voice was so gentle, yet so curious. “Why didn’t you remarry anyone else? I mean... Dad’s married to someone else now. And they’re having another baby. Shouldn’t that be a sign?”

The words felt like a stab to your chest, your heart shattering with an emotion you couldn’t name. Satoru’s life had moved on without you, far far too long ago, yet every reminder of it still cut deep. 

“I’m happy for him,” you said softly, the words stuck in your throat. “But that doesn’t mean I want the same outcome for myself. It’s... complicated.”

Marrying someone else again was not in your books. 

You could feel the intensity of Sachiro’s gaze on you, as if waiting for more. But you didn’t have more to give. You didn’t know how to explain the parts of you that had been shattered, the pieces that had never fully healed. Even if your own son hated you for it. 

“I just want you to be happy, Mom,” Sachiro said, turning away from you, his gaze landing on the Christmas tree. “I want you to have what you deserve. When I have my own family someday, I don’t want you to be spending your Christmas all alone.”

You wanted to tell him everything. How much you loved him, how much you would do for him. How hard it was to move on, how hard it was to see his father moving on with someone else. But the words needn’t be said. At least, not for tonight. 

And then, just as quickly as the moment had come, it faded into a kaleidoscope of memories. The world around you shifted, and the warmth of the fire and the smell of Christmas began to dissolve. Suddenly, you were back in your bed, heart pounding recklessly in the darkness.

You woke up eyes wide in surprise, until the reality of your room finally made sense to you. You blinked, trying to steady yourself. It was a dream. It was all a dream. 

Sighing, you let your head fall into your hands. And just for a moment, you let yourself mourn the future you would never have. The family you would never see, the happiness you could never quite reach.

But as the soft glow of the Christmas lights flickered in the silent night, you slowly allowed yourself to breathe. Tomorrow would come. But tonight, you would let the dream linger just a little longer.

[penvisions]

return the favor {chapter 26}

Pairing: Post-Outbreak! Joel Miller x Smuggler! Reader

Summary: Your trios journey comes to an end, but what comes next?

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: canon typical language, canon typical violence, description of anxiety, symptoms of anxiety, tense situations, miscommunication, misunderstandings, two idiots in love, kissing, face cradling, gratuitous amounts of fluff, confessions, sappy feels, reunited with lost loved ones, i think that's it

A/N: and that's a wrap on this, y'all!! thank you so so so much for sticking with me on this one, it was my first foray back into writing fanfic and my first ever ppcu fanfic. this one will always be special to be and i am so proud of myself for sticking with it when times got tough, but then again- this truly helped me through a lot of them ♡♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || nagivation || ko-fi

Everything almost seems alright with the world, with the decisions that had been made, with the bonds that had been forged and tested as the gates of Jackson loom in the distance. The people milling about within them, along the massive wall that is a symbol of protection and safety, the land within it ripe with opportunity for a second chance, even in the end of the world. You turn to Joel, who already has his gaze trained on you. Emotion swirling in his eyes, a small lift to the right side of his face that reveals a dimple you knew hid there amid his untamed scruff.

He closes the gap between you, hands reaching for you. His palm is rough on your face as he cups your cheek, but you don’t mind. He searches your eyes, jumping from one to the other and then to the girl standing a bit away and focused on the settlement down the ridge. She’s standing relaxed, her body no longer pulled taut and the weight of what happened no longer burdens her shoulders. She’s a little more reserved, but giggles and jokes can still be drawn out, hands held in moments of rest. Even if they are a bit subdued, it’s a good sign that she’s healing. That you were all healing.

“It’s the best option.” He repeats, the words spoken numerous times when discussing what to do once the skyline had opened up at the crest of the mountain.

“We don’t…we don’t tell anyone.” You speak lowly, not ashamed in the slightest of how things had turned out. You had warned her, but the woman hadn’t wanted to listen then tried to hold you hostage.

“You did what you had to. She had you locked up in a room, she wasn’t gonna to let you go. She wasn’t gonna let you come back to me or rest until Ellie was strapped to that operating table. I believe you, I know you.” His voice is strong, conviction calming you as you even as you feel like there’s something else he wants to say. All you can do is nod, worry easing as you glance over at Ellie as she stares down at the town in the valley. Memories play in your mind and you close your eyes as Joel leans forward to press his lips to your forehead.

Marlene had forced your hand by threatening the lives of those standing with you now. She had threatened your future, their future, the chance of reconnection with your own long-lost family and the one that was forged in the journey across the ravaged land that was the world. Marlene had brought her about her fate, reaching for too much and demanding compliance from someone who had too much to lose.

The explosion had surely taken out everyone she had gathered there, save for the surgeon and his daughter. Whose journals were secured in your bag and had been waiting in the office you had rushed to, his daughter clutched tight to his side as he eyed the calm way you had rushed in there to retrieve it.

He had helped you, seeing the mission clearly for the first time in years. His doubts and stipulations manifested in the questions you posed with such confidence, in the words you lent for him to see the truth in what was attempting to be done. You could only hope that they find peace now, somewhere safe to call home in the ruins of the world. Hell, maybe they’d show up at the very valley you were on the crest of one day.

“We don’t tell anyone.” Joel repeats the words, confirming and agreeing. Seeing the fear of being turned away for your actions. Though not remorseful, the morality of the situation is steeped in shadows. He’s sure Tommy would see it for what it is, but Maria may have a different view, the counsel may have a different view. But there are spaces for you both to fill, for Ellie to occupy. A life for all three of you within the walls, promised to you on your departure.

The gates are open as soon as your figures are spotted across the open field that allows for a good vantage point in front of them. Calls for Tommy, for your cousins, for Maria can all be faintly heard as you near them, cross through them, and they finally shut behind you with a sense of finality to the long journey started so long ago.

One that you had never anticipated beginning but were grateful for all the same.

Ellie is holding tight to your hand, so small in your own as you spy fast movement and tense up. It’s quite the commotion, those close by turning to watch the scene unfold as you and Joel receive quick once overs, you assure Maria and the others on the counsel that came to the front of the town that Ellie was clean as well.

She keeps her hold on you even as your cousins’ approach, breath fast with how they dropped what they were doing and ran to greet you. They both stop just a few feet away, not wanting to startle her or you by throwing themselves into embracing you. It’s still so new, this relationship- this bond that you had failed to set out in search of. Growing too comfortable in Boston and the imitation of life it had provided for years, decades. But Ellie drops your hand and nudges her head toward them with a small smile.

The young girl rushes you, long arms reaching around your neck while her brother embraces you both tightly from the side. Before you’re swathed in their hold, you see Ellie’s eyes fall to her feet, hands shoved into her jean pockets with hunched shoulders.

“We made sure to have a house big enough for you, we would love to help you get settled even if we’re pretty new here ourselves and you’ve been here before.” Adela speaks in a fast manner, excitement obvious as she leans back. It’s so different from the almost spiteful anger you had first seen from her, even more so from the desperate way she had asked you to not leave them after only one afternoon together. She’s holding herself tall, her height and slender limbs giving her an air of grace that she wears well. She truly does look beautiful, long dark tresses and fair skin decorated with freckles about her cheeks. Like her mother, who you hoped at least found peace in her passing.

Angelo is watching with a small smile on his face, glad that his little sister is feeling better- safer in this community when the last one had turned out to be so dangerous. Your heart flutters at the thought of a home, of going to sleep each day in the same bed, the same place. Of waking up in the same bed, same place….beside the same person and he was watching the whole scene.

You could feel the air tense, your cousins not knowing that they inadvertently stepped on one of the loose rocks that line the road you and Joel walk on together. But you hug her back, tightly holding her to you in another embrace. She deserves to have a good life, surrounded by people who love her, care about her, who can protect her. You’d try your damn best to give that to her, grateful that they had safely made the journey here so you could all get to be a family. “We can talk about it, okay?”

You wanted to talk with them both, to learn what they had been doing, how they had managed to make it this far- twenty years and counting after Outbreak day. Because not everyone did and you feel their loss every single day.

“We’ve got a good house for you two, nice porch out front and a converted garage in the backyard. If that is something that would be needed.” Maria speaks up, noticing the way Ellie isn’t holding anyone’s gaze and the slightly stilted air that’s cropped up at your cousin’s words. When your eyes find the man, he’s got a front on, but you can see the tension he’s holding in his body. You’ve traveled with him, laid with him, fought and protected him as he’s done for you. You know him- and he’s not happy.

“I think, for now, we all need to get a good meal in our bellies. It’s…it’s been canned food military food packs.” Joel speaks up, voice rough gravel, his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly, hands reaching for one of yours to tangle his fingers with for a brief moment. Your stomach flips as you realize everyone caught the action. Maria ducking her head to hide her knowing smirk and Tommy grinning like a god damn kid with a new toy.

“How’d ya manage to get those?” Tommy barks a laugh that sounds so much like Joel’s it both warms and breaks your heart. Their paths couldn’t have diverted more, but you’re happy they found each other. They can begin to heal the rift that you hadn’t realized ran so deep, Maria helping to shine a light on it when Joel was less than talkative.

“Well, it all started with some lab monkeys…” And your words are like magic, Joel and Ellie’s lips turning up at one side while your cousins eyes widen. Despite the…rather unfortunate reality of having to choose who to live with everyone you loved was here, they were safe- and that was all that mattered as you all made your way to the mess hall.

You reach for Ellie’s hand again, linking them and following the mish mash of people that make up your family, people from Joel’s world and people from yours. The perfect blend, the perfect start to a new beginning not only for you and him and them, but for the girl who didn’t have a family. You looked over at her and pressed a kiss to her temple when you saw how glassy her eyes were. She had been alone for so long, but she was surrounded by people now.

It’s late, the sun officially set and you’ve settled on the back porch with Maria, she’s heavily pregnant and off of patrol duties for the time being. Committing her time to helping organize and plan things for the town through the end of the spring season. She’s glowing and you feel self-conscious as she carefully shapes the mess that is your ragged hair. Most strands were long enough to still put up in a bun, but it was choppy and dull from the jarring cut you had made and the dirty blade you had used.

He's showered, steel hair slicked back and a thick robe pulled over a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and plain shirt. He looks good, if not a little nervous as he seems to glance up the street in the direction you would’ve come from his brother’s house.

But you had taken a longer route, walking past the stables and pet the horses that were milling in the walk about pen. Now though…you think it’s time.

As soon as your feet turn on the street, Joel’s head turns in your direction. The streetlight just across from it catches the shine of your own washed hair, the copper strands already looking so much better.

He’s standing, stepping to the stairs that lead up the porch as you approach. Lips pursed ever so slightly and giving away the anxiety you know must be thrumming just underneath his skin.

“Darlin’, been waiting up for you.”

“Sorry, Joel…was just taking a moment.”

“You know you don’t need to apologize for that.” His hands are clenching into fists and then unclenching in a slow motion at his sides, one of the traits he had picked up to stretch out his broken hand as it healed. Or so you had thought, it was a tick of his, you eventually realized. And you hate that he’s so consumed by emotion to be exhibiting it now.

“I…um…I wanted to talk to you actually.”

“Was wonderin’ if we could chat?”

You both speak at the same time, voices layering over each other.

“You’re gonna stay with them, aren’t you?” It’s not an accusation, not in the slightest. But it’s almost a resignation as his voice drops in volume. Not being able to stand the sadness you see in his features, you take the steps quickly and stand on the one below the deck of the porch and reach for his hands. They’re warm from the mug he had been holding. Scars littering them and the one from the first night of the journey that led here looks irritated, no doubt the humidity still fading from the air.

“They’re my family, Joel.” You take a deep breath, chest warm and cheeks tingling. “But you and Ellie are too. You all mean so much to me. If…if I were to stay here, I wouldn’t want to do it as friends.”

The quiet that falls is heavy, tension thick in the air.

And then he’s suddenly hauling you up onto the porch and into his arms, lips pressing to yours as he holds you tightly to him. Your stomach swoops, your heart rachets against the inside of your ribs and you can’t help but smile into the kiss as you wrap your own arms around his neck. He’s passionate as he keeps pressing kiss after kiss to your lips, hands coming up to cradle the back of your head and the small of your back. He can feel the tremors of your muscles as you arch into him.

When you part to catch your breath, the words you’ve held onto tight surge up as you gaze into the beautiful brown of someone who you only caught sightings of once upon a time. There was no way to anticipate the turn of events that altered the entire trajectory of your life- leaving you standing here in front of him with endless praise and love.

But he beats you to it, his own lips pressing together as he takes a deep breath to center himself, hands holding you tight and eyes looking right back at you as you look up at him.

“I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you. You’ve been a tremendous help since we ran into you all those months ago, me and Ellie…I don’t know where we would be right now without you. I…Bean, I love you.”

Heat takes over your entire chest, blooming there as you feel happiness you never thought you’d feel again, life granting you another chance to experience something good.

“Well, guess I should return the favor then and tell you I love you too.”

He’s licking the words out of your mouth the second their out, striking arousal up your spine like a match being lit. He murmurs your name between devouring kisses, and between it all you feel like you’ve made it home. Like you can begin to create a safe life here with the man who Joel Miller blossomed into on the journey it took to get here.

previous chapter || end

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[tenderwatches]

summary: Jayce begins to reconcile with privilege and all the things he's never questioned

After a full week of working with Viktor, Jayce finally begins to accept that this is not a fantasy he’s conjured in his madness and grief. Against all odds, he and his partner are here, putting their heads together on a project once more.

It’s almost too much for him to bear; partly because the angry tension between them seems about to snap at any moment, but also because he’s now close enough to witness Viktor’s decline.

His health has always been a fragile thing. Even when they were much younger, Viktor’s breath came short too easily, pressure on his bad leg forced him to pause too often, and exhaustion shadowed his eyes on too many days. As they’d spent the years developing their work, it had worsened. They shared memories of steep decline; Viktor’s face growing thinner, paler, and there were times when pain ransacked his partner’s sense of autonomy.

It had been hard, infinitely harder for Viktor surely, but Viktor was his closest friend. He had saved Jayce’s life. Being helpless to make his days easier had been torment. Jayce helped how he knew at the time, building him a replacement cane for the one that was shattered the night they cracked Hextech, then developing it into a crutch once that no longer served to support him. Afterwards, there were the doctors, specialists, surgery—countless combustions of arguments, healing, bedridden days, hope, and everything in between.

Viktor’s slow decline, watching time steal pieces of him away—is a new class of staggering pain. Jayce has only ever known the kind of death he’d faced with his father—a sudden heart attack in the forge—nothing to be done. Sudden, finite. For a long time, that was the only kind of death Jayce could bring himself to accept.

With Viktor returned to him, however, his decline is on full display. It’s like the Undercity took him and returned nothing but a wraith. Viktor is thinner than he’s ever seen, colourless but for the transfixing gleam of his amber gaze. He can hardly move from station to station in their lab without obvious discomfort and can’t stand beyond the measure of a few minutes without a gentle tremble starting in the muscles of his crutch arm.

Jayce’s hands long to soothe. He needs to reach out and settle a gentle palm at the centre of his partner’s back, just below the edge of his brace, where he might catch the warmth of his body again. The desire strikes like he needs to prove to himself that Viktor is still here with the living.

An urgency roils in his chest and makes him want to abandon the stabilisation blueprints down into the chaos of his workstation. Makes him want to rip open the drawer where his secret project is locked away and dive back into it, building on the foundations of the work Viktor had been doing before… everything. He has to make this right.

Viktor calls it a ‘Hexcore.’

The thing his partner had built was an adaptive rune matrix, a device that could evolve according to the user’s needs.

It was revolutionary; and he’d gotten it destroyed.

Ever since, Jayce has been striving for penance; he took a leaf from Viktor’s book and saved the research that had been deemed too dangerous to continue. He’s found something here, a gap, a missing piece, a revelation just waiting to be laid open. He only has to put the pieces together—but this project, born alone in Viktor’s most desperate hours, yearns for the touch of their collaboration as much as Jayce does.

If Jayce allows himself to imagine, just for a moment, sharing this progress with Viktor, he sees Viktor pleased, smiling. But if the explosion of their first real conversation last week is any indication, this is a fallacy. Broaching the topic again should be done with caution. Though their way has always been a bit reckless—if you’re going to change the world, don’t ask for permission—he fears the revelation wouldn’t survive Viktor’s outrage if it’s seen as a bargaining chip for their previous warmth and affection.

Those better times now lie in a grave too deep to be exhumed, and Jayce knows this chance is the one thing he can’t bear to risk. He can’t get it wrong.

Jayce replays the frantic press of Viktor in his arms in the midst of their terrible argument, reliving the sensation of the bones of his body, heat of his skin. It drives him to distraction and disgrace; he’s standing here now, just a scant distance from the man himself, and this is what is going through his mind.

Viktor is up and moving, his gait is a slow thing, leaning so heavily on his crutch that his slender shoulders tremble with the effort. His back curves to the side to allow him to take pressure off his leg, and he rests just the metal toe cap of his brace on the ground to minimise the pressure on his knee.

Even in such obvious decline, he’s beautiful.

It feels voyeuristic; Jayce can’t help but see the lines of his body as lovely, notice the way his tailored vest accentuates the mesmerising dip of his waist. Jayce longs to step forward and place hands there, let Viktor lean back into his chest, and feel the weight of him lingering like he had days ago.

What would it be like if Viktor would let him?

Would he tip his head back to rest on Jayce’s collar bone? Would he run fingers up Jayce’s forearms as if to telegraph that this is where Jayce’s hands belong?

His imaginings blur with the memories of what it was like to hold him, even so briefly and in conflict, before Viktor had ordered him away. He is just recalling the scent of Viktor’s hair (machine oil, chalk dust, and the clean notes of his shampoo) when a voice shatters his peace. Thomas has come up beside him. The young man has spent the last several days adapting to the new presence in the lab. He’d skittered around them in a cocktail of mild fascination and nerves, but seems to have finally acclimated.

“He really is something.” Thomas’s eyes settle on Viktor, who moves across the room towards his workstation, settling down to peer at a synthetic hex crystal and take agitated notes. Jayce blinks, feeling oddly caught out to realise he had, in fact, been staring like a starving man at his partner’s back while imagining his body pressed close like a lover’s. He clears his throat and hopes to every god he isn’t flushing like a teenager.

“Hard to believe he’s from the Undercity,” the boy continues as Viktor purses his lips and scratches his pen through what Jayce assumes is an equation that isn’t cooperating. He’s about to hum his agreement to the boy and continue trying and failing to do his own work when Thomas’s comment hits him.

Jayce knows the context of Viktor’s initial rise to Piltover. He understands that he came from the sunless Entresol levels of the Undercity, knows that he had no formal education and everything he has worked for came through years of self-determination and discipline. When he considers Viktor’s success in becoming, frankly, one of the greatest scientists Jayce has ever had the pleasure to know, it’s this formidable journey he thinks of.

But Thomas doesn’t know all that; he doesn’t understand the specific context of Viktor’s personal story. Like others in Piltover, when he says ‘from the Undercity’, the comment means something different. Jayce thinks back to their heated exchange from Viktor’s first night back.

“I have never—cared—where you’re from!”

“Exactly. You never look at it. How could I expect you to care? … . You’d never choose to look at it.”

At the time, he thought the blazing accusation was unfair. Viktor’s background has never been a concern for him—it’s never made him feel that Viktor might be less capable. He’s always thought of that as a good thing, but suddenly, he’s curious.

“What do you mean by that?” The question is genuine, but Thomas is eager to please and easy to fluster. A simple, middle-class Piltover scholar, much like Jayce himself had been a few years back. He’s a slight thing, sandy-haired, unassuming, and dappled with an abundance of freckles. He’s smart, dedicated, and has earned his position on the staff here, but folds into a tangle of his own perceived shortcomings when pressed.

“Oh, nothing really. He’s just… really smart,” the boy ventures, biting his lip a bit as he worries through the choice of his next words. “And… it must be nice, I guess… that he has this opportunity to work with you.”

The comment detonates in Jayce’s chest like a destabilised hex crystal. The way that statement is a slight against Viktor’s place as his partner begins to seep through. What’s more shocking, however, is that it’s the kind of casually, maybe even kindly meant statement that has been made to him dozens of times before. He wonders now, with swelling contrition, how many times have people said these things to him. Hell, how many times have they been said directly to Viktor?

“Viktor is a fine scientist, Thomas, and my partner at Hextech.” He spins his chair to the side, pinning Thomas with a look so serious that the young scientist blinks back at him in mild alarm. “This isn’t about him having the ‘opportunity’ to work with me—yes, he’s from the Undercity, but that only means we were lucky to find him.” The boy swallows thickly, and Jayce thinks he may be close to scaring the poor kid to death. “You’re part of Hextech now, too, so I hope you are giving one of the visionaries that brought it to life your full respect.” He works on setting his expression in what he hopes is an encouraging smile, though the boy still looks like he’s being told Jayce would like to light him on fire. Jayce can’t make himself offer more comfort than that, though, and he turns back to his station as his assistant scuffles away with a quiet ‘Yes, sir.’

His pulse is thudding in his temples, and he leans forward to press his thumbs there, thinking hard. How many remarks like that have come and gone? How many times has Jayce himself heard and never questioned these things? And Viktor, gods, Viktor has been there the whole time, watching him stroll past the every patronising remark without a word in return.

He feels foolish and short-sighted. It didn’t just start with Viktor, did it? There was something deeper than that here, but he’d spent so long asserting that Viktor was his partner, his equal—he’d forgotten that simply saying it didn’t make it so.

Jayce just hadn’t seen it. Or maybe it was more accurate to say he hadn’t looked for it.

It is a humiliating thing to reflect on. In truth, he’s avoided looking at these things because these people liked him, were kind, well-meaning, and sympathetic. It was easy to take them at face value while they shook his hand, invited him to their parties, and lauded his success.

Now, he wants to reach inside himself, pinpoint where this pathology of indifference begins, and mend it. But how do you heal a wound that doesn’t hurt?

𐡸.:𐫱:.𐡷

Summertime, 968 AN

On the first Progress Day that Jayce could truly recall, it was raining. He was maybe nine or ten in his memories of it, though perhaps he was younger. The summer air had been humid that morning, heavy with the warm moisture of a summer squall that had rolled in from the sea beyond the Sun Gates, across the glittering towers of the City of Progress in a lazy series of small showers.

The weather hardly deterred celebrations; the streets remained a hive of activity. Vendors still hawked their wares, and frantic apprentices to the academy scrambled quickly towards whatever merchant clan auditions they were hoping to distinguish themselves in. The rain was a minor inconvenience to the hum of potential in the air. Shopkeepers unrolled awnings to keep off the worst of it. Jayce watched in fascination as the drops of rain pattered against the spider web of glittering copper and waxed linen that created an arch of shelter for them.

He had a hand in his father’s broad palm. Calloused fingers held tight around his own. Ezra Talis was a craftsman through and through, from his broad shoulders to his kind, leonine face. His eyes were the same shade of honeyed gold as Jayce’s, though his complexion tended a bit lighter than either Jayce’s or his mother’s warm tawny skin, a nod to his Freljordan heritage.

His father was always kind but assertive, clear-eyed, and stubborn; he never seemed to run out of lessons for his son, and Jayce loved nothing so much as learning. Jayce thought he might be the best man in the world.

He turned his face towards his father as he heard the clink of coins exchanging. He watched Ezra’s polite chatter with the vendor as he lifted his free hand up to receive the warm pastry his father had purchased for him. It was wrapped in crinkling paper printed with red and gold cogs that reminded him of House Talis colours, the same as his father wore on his belt buckle, the gold buttons of his jacket, and the pin in his tie.

He took a bite of the pastry, enjoying the way the flaky crust gave way to a rich filling with the caramel sweetness of dates and honey. His eyes darted back up to the awning over them as his father tugged him to the side, careful to keep his son close to him as he and the shopkeeper continued their idle talk.

Jayce began to consider the construction that must be used to make the copper skeleton of the awning and how its pulley system must connect to allow it to extend. He loved to pass time this way, constructing and deconstructing the workings of the world.

He was just beginning to get the picture of how the joints had to be arranged when a flurry of motion across the square drew his eye. A gaggle of dirty children wove through the crowd with a practiced sort of ease. It reminded him of watching gulls on the docks dive into the eddies to scoop up fish.

They prowled with subtle purpose, scanning the crowd, and Jayce understood enough of the world to imagine they must be looking for people caught unaware, for a loose purse or a watch chain not secure enough to draw notice when they plucked at it.

He tucked into the side of his father’s leg a bit more, surveying them and bringing his pastry close to his chin as if the children might suddenly lunge across the square for it. He had seen them before, of course, the poor children who trickled up from the Undercity, but mostly they kept their actions contained to the Bridge of Progress or the lower quarters of the city. Up this high, you rarely caught more than a single dirty face or two.

No one in Piltover appreciated begging or loitering. He had heard the men in his father’s workshop say, ‘A living is earned by the sweat of your brow or the sharpness of your mind.’

‘Charity is a gift one earns from society by making oneself useful,’ his mother intoned to the ladies she chatted with while she haggled for supplies for the forge.

If these children weren’t here to beg, then they were most certainly here to steal. He knew there was a name for these children, one he had heard from the others in his primary lessons.

Sump snipes. Urchins from the Undercity. He had only ever used the word once and was met with the derision of his mother, who called it an unkind term. The workers in his family’s forge used it often enough, though, he had noticed—along with various more colourful terms. Almost all of them lived much closer to the cliffs than his own family, their houses hugging the edge of the fissures that led down to the lower promenade where the true Undercity began. He assumed they must see folks from there more often than he did, and seemed very quick to use those unkind terms for them.

His father and mother would counsel him to have empathy and gratitude, that these children were innocents who had so much less than him. The workers at his family forge would shed disappointed words, all whilst insinuating that the children’s parents must have scorned opportunities to work good, honest jobs. The conflicting talk painted a strange mental image of the children, something between a cautionary tale and the crime serials that ran in the papers, full of careless, dastardly rogues. But the bleak reality underwhelmed him; the children were thin and ragged around the edges in a way that set them apart. But there was nothing else that seemed remarkable about them.

He noticed the tall, bony boy who appeared to be leading them was missing three fingers on his left hand. The smallest, almost his own height, maybe a peer to him in age, listed a bit to the side when he walked, and when he turned, there was an empty socket where his right eye should have been. He didn’t wear anything to cover it.

The yawning absence made Jayce’s chest tighten uncomfortably, like his body was telling him to turn away, but he held fast, fascinated. He stared, even though he knew his mother would call him rude for it. He had never seen people who looked like they did up close before. Like the awning from before, he found himself considering how a finger was built out. He’d studied the inner workings of his own mother’s prosthetics, two fingers made of the finest silver his father could commission. Jayce had even been allowed to watch part of the construction. It was delicate work, like a jeweller would do, using elegant tools that seemed too fragile to be useful, but created the most beautiful patterns.

He wondered what a set might look like for three fingers, how flesh and metal might work best to open and close, to give the boy his grip back. He only realised he had been caught staring when the oldest boy let out a sharp whistle to call the others along with him. Jayce blinked, embarrassed at his own lack of tact. He wished, absurdly, that he could explain to the boy he wasn’t trying to be rude, but dreaming of ways he could help him, how he could then do more things than pinch purses. Maybe he could hold a hammer and learn to metalwork, like Jayce was.

What if they might wear the apprenta uniforms of the Academy, like he hoped to one day? Rather than urchins on the fringes of the day’s celebrations, they might be his classmates instead, with a brighter future than whatever their present must be. In his imaginings, they were all friends, brought together by how he’d helped them, like his father did for others; the oldest boy would throw an arm around his shoulders (they’re the same height now) and grin in camaraderie.

But then, another figure appeared in his memories, radiating with promise and power.

He remembered the glow of blue light, the slender, hooded figure emerging from a wall of blinding snow as he begged for help, the swirl of glowing runes in the air, the beautiful expanse of stars that he and his mother had hung in, away from cold, pain, and fear.

This delivery was what he wanted to give the boys—the kind of impossible hope that only magic could bring. He wanted to be able to reach out and save them. Save everyone.

Jayce took a final bite of his pastry, closed his eyes, and dreamed. Not of praise or achievement, but of countless small miracles and blue lights dancing in his hands, giving breath and life to all who needed it. In his dreams, magic wasn’t just power wielded by the few—it was a bridge between everything that was, and everything that could be.

𓊈 first chapter | previous chapter 𓊉 𓊈 next chapter on AO3 𓊉

AN: i missed two tumblr updates bc i got bit by a stranger cat and my life was thrown into turmoil sorry lol (we are all ok) also i realised that i said the chapter name of the last one wrong, it's 'Defiance', not 'Design', that one is still coming up!! this one is Ch. 6, 'Dreams of Progress', and this post is STILL late (should have been yesterday) but we have updated on AO3 today!!!

[ninjagoat]

An observation I've made, 170,000ish words into a piece of fanfiction based on a now ten year old TV show:

I'm not particularly interested in trauma.

It's *important*, certainly - the Big Event that Changed the Character Forever is never going to be irrelevant - but it's not nearly as important to the character as pain.

Kara watched Krypton die. That loss informs a lot of who she is, but the pain she feels isn't the loss, but from being *closed off*: from her history, her culture, her own name, the capabilities of her own body, her senses, the humans she has to live amongst... even from Clark, who only knows Krypton from stories. The walls of the box she's forced to live in are thinnest regarding her relationship with Alex - who, to her credit, seems to have a better understanding of the divide than Kara does - but the wall between them remains. Becoming Supergirl goes some of the way in breaking her out of the box, but she can never get there in full.

(in theory, introducing Mon-El - the last person in the universe Kara would want to have a living memory of Krypton - and shoving him in the box WITH her - yes, there's still a divide, but that's Kryptonian culture: it's INSIDE the box - should be and mostly is a great character dynamic to explore; but the show is too cowardly to ever let Kara be really wrong about anything, so it gets kinda stuck)

Winn's traumas are numerous, but his pain is loneliness; loneliness that's gone on so long it's become his default setting, but that he still hasn't given up trying to heal, in ways that are not always healthy. There's no box keeping him separated from anyone - they keep themselves separated, and they always have - and his struggle is based around trying to close the gap that he can never truly explain (and will misattribute to the wrong causes).

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this - in any sense - but I think it's a decent thing to have in your writer's toolbox when you're trying to figure out where the hell you're going. Make of it what you will.

[happy74827]

His Ghostly Touch

[Rick Grimes x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: “He was gone, but he was everywhere.”

WC: 988

Category: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort (Takes place during the 6 year time gap // GIF CREDITS: @andy-clutterbuck)

I wrote with a lot of commas this time to represent the emotion involved with this (angsty, I know), but now that I’m re-reading, I actually hate it and I’m too lazy to fix it🧍‍♀️

『••✎••』

You could still hear the way your name fell from his lips as he kissed his way down your neck. His warm hands sliding down over your skin, caressing every part of your body.

You'd always imagined it would be rough. A man like him, in a world like this, would surely be hardened. Yet, the way he made love to you that first time and every night after that was filled with an unbridled passion, a softness and longing that you'd never felt with any other man before.

Rick loved you. Not just with his words but with his body, his touch. It was in the way he smiled at you when you walked into the room. The way his gaze lingered on you when you talked, it was as if the entire world was melting away, and the only thing he could see was you.

He loved you.

And you loved him.

That was the worst part. Loving him was the hardest thing you ever had to do and not a day went by where you didn't think about him, miss him, cry over him. He was gone, and there was nothing you could do about it. He was gone, and yet you could still feel him. Everywhere. All around you. You could still hear his voice. Your name on his lips. That raspy tone that would make your knees go weak, his breath tickling your ear.

He was gone, but he was everywhere.

Rick was a good man. A strong man. But even strong men have their breaking point, and he was no exception. You should have seen it coming. The way he looked at you, his eyes dark and filled with pain. He tried so hard to hide it from you. He tried to be strong for you, for his family, for his people, but the truth was that he was tired. He was tired of fighting, tired of losing people, and tired of being in pain.

He carried so much on his back, so much responsibility. You knew it was weighing him down. You knew he needed someone to lean on, someone to share the burden with, and you wanted to be that person for him. You wanted to be his rock, his anchor, his solace. You wanted to take away his pain, to make him smile, to give him hope.

But you failed. You failed him. You let him down. You watched as the man you loved, the man you would die for, the man who was the center of your world, the man who made your heart sing, slipped away.

He smiled at you as he held the gun up, his finger on the trigger. He smiled at you, and you felt your heart shatter into a million pieces. You tried to reach him, to stop him, to save him, but both Carol and Michonne had held you back, their strong arms wrapped around your waist as you fought against them, tears streaming down your face. And then,

Rick had pulled the trigger.

You cried out, the sound of the bridge collapsing filling the air. You screamed his name, and Carol held on to you tighter, pulling you away from the explosion, away from the sight of your husband, your soulmate, your world, dying with the flames.

And then, he was gone.

You'd never felt pain like that before. It was as if your heart had been ripped out of your chest, as if your soul had been torn in two. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but scream. And then you'd passed out, falling into the blackness of oblivion, your last thoughts of him.

Now, months later, you'd finally started to heal. But the pain was still there, a constant ache in your chest, an emptiness that could never be filled. You missed him. Every day, every minute, every second. But you knew he would want you to keep going, to keep fighting, to keep living.

That's what you did. You lived for him. For his memory, for his sacrifice. You carried on, doing what you could to help the community, to keep his family safe, to make his dream a reality. You were strong for him because that's what he would have wanted.

And now, here you were, lying in the bed that you had shared, the place that once held so many memories and so much love.

You could still feel him, smell his scent, see his smile. And for a moment, just a brief moment, you let yourself pretend that he was there with you. You closed your eyes and imagined his arms around you, his lips on yours, his body pressed against yours.

You let yourself pretend, if only for a moment, that he was still alive. That he was still there with you. And as the tears streamed down your face, as the ache in your chest grew, as the emptiness threatened to consume you, you whispered his name.

"Rick."

The tears flowed freely as you remembered him. The day you met, the way he looked at you, the way his fingers felt against your skin. The first time you kissed, the first time you made love. The way he made you laugh, the way he made you feel, the way he made your heart sing.

"Rick."

His name fell from your lips like a prayer, like a promise, like a plea. You clung to the memories of him, the pain of losing him, the love you had for him. It was too much. Too much to bear.

You let yourself fall apart, the grief overwhelming you, the loss tearing you apart. You sobbed, the tears coming faster and harder, your body shaking with the force of it.

And in the darkness, in the loneliness, in the grief, you whispered his name one last time before closing your eyes to finally rest.

"Rick."

[whiteraven87]

Driven by Love: Rebirth from the Ashes - 3. For Her, I'd Do Anything

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

The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist

Part 3: Driven by Love. Rebirth from the Ashes

Prologue

Nightmares

For Her, I'd Do Anything

Shared Nights

I Thought It Was the End

Scars

Say it again

Pleasant Views

Oh My God

Together

A Shared Trip

The Boss's Girl

I'm Back

She's mine [18+]

The Fight Continues

I Bloomed

Something's Going On

No Brakes

City of Sin [18+]

Title Defense [18+]

FIA Gala

Home and Christmas

Just Us [18+]

A Dream I Don't Want to Wake Up From

Return to Scotland

The Woman Who Blossoms

Return to the Paddock

Media Circus

Total Domination

Marathon

The Limits of Restraint [18+]

The Unexpected Guest

Fear of Loss

The Truth I Didn't Want to Say

I Won't Let You Go

A Promise I Couldn't Keep

The Truth I Couldn't Tell Her

The Last Evening

The Darkest Day of my life

Epilogue

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

Warnings: slow burn, age gap (23 years), woman racing in F1, boss/driver relationship, sex scenes,

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

3. For Her, I'd Do Anything

Bieszczady, August

POV Toto

I sat in the living room, staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace. The room was quiet, filled with the scent of wood and the cool summer night air drifting in through the open window. Loki, curled up beside my chair, lifted his head and looked at me with his wise eyes.

I sighed, resting my elbows on my knees and clasping my hands together.

Miriell was asleep. For the first time in days, she had allowed herself to rest. And I... I couldn't.

I still heard the screech of tires, the crash of metal, the sound of tearing bodywork in my head. The image of her lifeless body, covered in blood and dust, wouldn't leave my mind. A few days ago, I could have lost her.

A tight knot formed in my stomach. Sitting beside her hospital bed, watching her fight for every breath, I had sworn to myself that I would never let her get that close to the edge again.

And now? Now I had fallen straight into her trap.

Miriell was stubborn as hell. The moment she regained consciousness, she was already talking about returning to the track. I knew there was no point in trying to talk her out of it—she wasn't the kind of woman who could be stopped. But agreeing to it?

It was madness.

I ran a hand through my hair.

She had pulled me into her world, into this whirlwind where only one thing mattered—her passion, her determination, her relentless drive. And even though everything in me screamed that it was too dangerous, that I couldn't allow it... I had already made my decision.

I wouldn't leave her alone. Not ever again.

I glanced toward the hallway leading to her bedroom. The scar on her temple—thin but visible—brought back the memory of her lying in that hospital bed, her pale skin stark against the dark red stitches.

I closed my eyes. Miriell...

And then I heard the scream.

Piercing, filled with pain and fear.

I was on my feet in an instant. Loki jumped up too, but I paid him no attention—I was already running down the hallway, pushing open her door.

"Miriell!" I called.

She lay there, trembling, her breathing ragged, eyes wide with panic.

"Hey, it's okay" I said gently, approaching her carefully. "It was just a dream."

She was shaking. Her fingers clutched at the blanket as if searching for something solid to hold on to.

"Toto..." she whispered, her voice barely above a plea.

"I'm here" I assured her.

She looked at me for a long moment, then slowly shifted on the bed, making space.

"Will you stay?"

I hadn't expected that.

Not after the past weeks, when she had rebuilt her walls, shutting me out, keeping her distance. But now...

Now, she needed me.

I didn't answer. I just slid in beside her, careful not to touch her injured ribs or the healing wound.

Miriell hesitated for only a second before hesitantly curling into me.

I closed my eyes, feeling her small frame press against mine.

Her skin was cool, but her breath was warm. I could feel her heartbeat—fast at first, then gradually slowing. My hand found its way to her back, tracing slow, soothing circles, as if I could erase the remnants of fear lingering in her body.

I couldn't remember the last time she had let me this close.

Before the accident, she had started retreating again, shutting me out after the attack in Berlin. I couldn't reach her. She pretended nothing had changed, that our relationship was still the same—professional, distant, controlled. But now...

Now, I could feel her. The real her.

Her trust meant more to me than I could ever put into words.

As she drifted back to sleep, I leaned in slightly, whispering soft words in German meant to bring comfort. Then, in Polish, because I knew it was the language of her soul—the language where she felt the deepest.

"I'm here. Nothing will happen to you."

I felt her body relax against mine. Her breathing slowed, evened out.

I lay there, holding her, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath.

I had no intention of sleeping. I was keeping watch.

The next morning

I woke up feeling the warmth of her body nestled against mine.

For a moment, I didn't move, wanting to memorize this moment—her steady breathing, the way her hand rested on my chest, how her head gently leaned against my shoulder.

She was still asleep, but not like before—not restlessly, with fear lurking at the edges of her consciousness. This time, she was peaceful.

With each passing second, I realized just how much I had missed this closeness. How much I had missed her.

She stirred slightly, blinked a few times, then looked at me—sleepy, slightly confused, but not tense.

"Good morning," she whispered.

"Good morning, kleine Löwin," I replied softly.

For a while, we just looked at each other, as if both trying to understand what all of this meant. Then, Miriell slowly moved away, and I helped her sit up, careful of her ribs and the wound from her surgery.

It was our first shared night since we returned to the Bieszczady Mountains, but it wouldn't be the last.

From that night on, every single night, Miriell fell asleep in my arms. Only in my closeness did she find solace.

Each night, when the lights dimmed and silence filled the house, Miriell let me stay near. And even though she never said a word, never asked aloud, every time she lay down on the bed, she made space for me.

I didn't have to ask. I simply lay beside her, wrapped my arm around her, and kept watch until sleep carried her to a more peaceful place.

I did everything I could to make sure she'd never have to fear sleep and nightmares again.

***

The days passed, and I watched her come back to herself.

She wasn't the type to lie around and wait for the pain to subside. She wasn't someone who allowed herself to be weak for longer than absolutely necessary.

Right after breakfast—which she stubbornly tried to make herself, even though she still moved more slowly, more cautiously—she would start her own rehabilitation.

On the first day, it was just a few extra steps around the house. The next, a longer walk in the garden. Within days, she was making her way down to the lake, though at a slower pace.

"Miriell, slow down," I called one day, watching as she stubbornly pushed against the limits of her recovering body.

"I can't," she muttered, bracing herself against the wooden fence and taking a deep breath.

I stepped up to her, gripping her shoulders and making her look me in the eye.

"You can. And you should."

"I only have four weeks," she reminded me, determination lacing her voice.

It was our constant refrain.

Four weeks.

Four weeks in which she planned to fully recover, while I... well, I knew that was impossible.

I also knew that if I kept telling her she wouldn't make it, she would find a way to prove me wrong.

So instead, I stayed by her side. I offered my hand when she walked down the stairs. I made sure she didn't push herself too hard—though she did, every single day. I eased her tense muscles with massages when she overworked herself more than she should.

Every day, I saw her grit her teeth against the pain, focus on regaining her balance, fight for every movement, every ounce of strength she reclaimed.

And every day, she became more like herself again.

The woman I had fallen in love with long ago, whose determination could move mountains, whom nothing and no one could stop.

***

A week passed, and she started training more.

First, simple exercises, then light weights, and finally, she resumed her usual routine—at least as much as her body allowed.

One evening, as she sat on the porch with a cup of tea, I joined her and watched her carefully.

She was tired. But happy.

"Do you ever plan to slow down?" I asked, amusement in my voice.

She smiled lazily, glancing at me from under half-lidded eyes.

"No."

I shook my head, sighed, but said nothing more. I knew her. And though my heart told me I should stop her, that I should set boundaries, I also knew she would cross them anyway. So instead of fighting, I chose to stay by her side.

Because if someone had to keep watch over her stubborn, untamed heart...

It could only be me.

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

NEXT -> 4. Shared Nights

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

"I put my armor on, show you how strong I am."

Read the story here:

AO3 Unstoppable Series

Wattpad: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

🇵🇱 Dla Polskich czytelników [for Polish readers] [PL]:

Seria Niepowstrzymana AO3

Wattpad PL: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

[randomperson99sworld]

Hope

~ Chapter 3 ~

Summary: Dean and Sam Winchester save a young woman —Natalie Johnson, from a coven of witches who are after her deceased grandmothers spell book. At first Dean doesn’t trust her, will he ever? Natalie is just simply a woman who gets roped up in the supernatural world from a mistake her grandmother made.

Pairing: Dean x OC

Warning: Age gap, slow burn, smut (in later chapters), language, gore.

Word Count:1,732

A/N: What do we think of Natalie so far? Happy reading! ♥️

A week passed and she had convinced Dean to take her to her apartment to grab some of her belongings. She'd been cooped up in the bunker for weeks, tired of wearing Sam's oversized clothes and desperately missing her own essentials.

"Dean, seriously, I just need to go get some of my stuff," Natalie had said, standing in front of him with her arms crossed. "I've been wearing Sam's clothes for weeks. I need my own things—clothes, shoes, my laptop, all of it."

Dean was leaning against the Impala, shaking his head. "And you want me to take you back to your apartment, with that witch still out there? That's a terrible idea, Nat."

"I'll be quick," Natalie insisted. "In and out. I just... I need some semblance of normalcy, you know? And I'm driving myself back."

Dean had shot her a skeptical look. "Not a chance. You don't know where that witch is hiding. For all we know, she could be watching your place."

But Natalie had been determined. "I'll be fine. You'll be right behind me, and I'll pack light. Just enough to hold me over until it's safe to go back."

Reluctantly, Dean had agreed, but he'd made it clear that he wasn't happy about it. The entire time they were at her apartment, he had been on high alert, eyes scanning the street and the surrounding buildings, looking for any sign of trouble.

Natalie had quickly packed a few clothes, some shoes, and the essentials she couldn't live without. The process didn't take long, and soon she had loaded up her car, ready to drive back to the bunker.

Dean had insisted on following her the whole way, staying close behind her car as she drove. Even though she'd gotten what she needed, she could see the tension in his posture, the way he gripped the wheel of the Impala when they finally made it back to the bunker safely.

Dean Winchester had always been an ass—he knew it, and he owned it. But sometimes, when Natalie was working tirelessly at her laptop, helping with research or hacking into some obscure database, he couldn't help but be reminded of someone else: Charlie.

The memory of Charlie Bradbury still stung, even after all these years. Her death had taken a toll on both brothers, a wound that never quite healed. She had been more than just a friend; she'd been family. And now, every time Natalie threw out some snarky remark or effortlessly hacked her way into classified files, Dean saw a flicker of Charlie's vibrant spirit. He didn't say it aloud—he never would—but it gnawed at him. She reminds him of Charlie.

Still, that didn't mean he'd stop being a pain in her ass. It was his default mode.

But Natalie? She didn't seem to mind much. After weeks in the bunker, she'd grown used to Dean's gruffness, his eye rolls, and his constant muttering about "geeks." She could tell, though, that underneath the rough exterior, Dean was a good guy—a man who had been through too much, but who would go to hell and back (literally) for the people he cared about.

And if she could help make their lives a little easier? Well, that was fine with her.

Later that day, Natalie was deep into her second cup of coffee when Sam walked into the war room, a tablet in hand and a look of grim determination on his face.

"So," he began, sitting across from Natalie. "We've got a new case."

Dean wandered in, wiping grease from his hands after another morning working on the Impala. "Great. What's killing people now?"

Sam pulled up the details on his tablet and turned it toward Natalie and Dean. "An artifact. It just got delivered to the Museum of Natural History in Kansas City. It's from an ancient tribe that scientists dug up years ago, but here's the thing—wherever this artifact goes, people die."

Natalie squinted at the screen, scanning the information. "What kind of artifact are we talking about?"

"A ceremonial mask," Sam explained, scrolling through the images. "Belongs to a tribe that was believed to practice dark magic. When scientists uncovered the burial site, they took the artifacts, including this mask. Since then, it's been passed around to different collectors and museums. And every time, there's a string of mysterious deaths. Accidents, murders, unexplained illnesses. Now it's in Kansas City."

Dean shook his head. "People never learn, do they? Just leave the creepy cursed crap in the ground where it belongs."

"Yeah, well, now it's our problem," Sam said, glancing at Natalie. "We'll need all hands on deck. You stay back and help us with remote access again. We'll need you to monitor the museum's security systems and keep an eye on any digital chatter about the artifact."

Natalie nodded, already mentally preparing for another long night in front of her laptop. "Got it. If that thing is causing death wherever it goes, I'll be able to track anything weird in the surrounding areas, too. People post about strange stuff online all the time."

Dean folded his arms, leaning against the table. "So, what? We're gonna waltz in, grab the cursed mask, and torch it?"

"That's the plan," Sam said, though his tone suggested it wouldn't be that easy. "But we'll need to be careful. This thing's been killing people for centuries. We don't know what kind of power it holds."

Dean huffed. "When do we ever?"

As the brothers headed to the museum, Natalie stayed back in the bunker, once again manning her setup of multiple screens and monitoring systems. She had hacked into the museum's security system within minutes, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she bypassed firewalls with ease. Cameras, floor plans, and employee schedules popped up on her screens, giving her full access to everything she needed to help the brothers navigate the place.

"Okay, you're in," Natalie's voice crackled through the comms. "I've got access to all the cameras. The artifact is in the east wing, in a restricted section of the museum. I'll guide you through."

Dean's voice came through the earpiece, tinged with his usual sarcasm. "Yeah, yeah. Just make sure we don't trip any alarms, geek."

Natalie smirked, rolling her eyes as she leaned back in her chair. "I got you covered. Just try not to touch anything else in there that could be cursed."

Sam and Dean moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of the museum, with Natalie's voice guiding them as they approached the east wing. The museum was closed for the night, but they knew security would still be tight.

"Alright, there's a guard making his rounds near the entrance to the east wing," Natalie said through the comms. "You've got about 30 seconds to get past him while he's turning the corner."

Dean, crouching behind a display case, whispered, "We're moving. Don't let him spot us, Nat."

The brothers slipped past the guard just as Natalie had predicted, and soon they were standing in front of the glass display case that housed the mask. The artifact itself was eerie—carved from dark wood, with hollow eye sockets that seemed to watch them as they approached.

Dean grimaced. "That thing's definitely bad news."

Sam reached for his lockpick set, but before he could get to work, Natalie's voice came through again. "Guys, I'm getting some weird readings. Heat signatures... but not human. Something's moving toward you, fast."

Dean glanced around, his hand moving instinctively to his gun. "Great. What now?"

Suddenly, the room grew cold, and shadows seemed to shift unnaturally around them. The mask's hollow eyes began to glow faintly, a sickly green light emanating from within.

"Get the mask and move," Natalie urged through the earpiece, her voice tense. "Something's wrong. It's reacting to you being there."

Sam quickly picked the lock on the display case, his fingers moving swiftly. He grabbed the mask, wrapping it in cloth to prevent any direct contact. As soon as he lifted it, the lights in the museum flickered, and a low, ominous whisper filled the air.

"Dean, we need to go—now!" Sam urged, backing away as the temperature continued to drop.

"On it!" Dean grabbed his machete, watching as dark, humanoid figures materialized from the shadows, their forms twisted and unnatural. "Great. Ghosts and a cursed mask. What a night."

The brothers fought their way through the spectral entities, each swing of Dean's machete dispersing the ghostly figures momentarily. With the mask in hand, they raced back toward the exit, the museum's alarms suddenly blaring.

"Guys, security's been triggered!" Natalie called out, her fingers typing frantically as she tried to disable the alarms remotely. "You've got less than a minute before the guards swarm that wing. Get out of there!"

Dean cursed under his breath as they bolted down the hall. "I knew we should've just burned this place down."

Hours later, after the mask had been safely stashed away for proper disposal, Dean and Sam returned to the bunker, looking exhausted but triumphant. Natalie was still at her laptop, having stayed up to make sure they got out safely.

"Well?" she asked, raising an eyebrow as they trudged into the war room. "How was your haunted museum adventure?"

"Ghosts. Cursed masks. Almost got arrested," Dean muttered, collapsing into a chair. "Same old, same old."

Sam, on the other hand, smiled at her. "You were a big help tonight, Natalie. We couldn't have done it without you."

Natalie grinned, leaning back. "Glad to hear it. Though, if we're being honest, I'd rather not have to hack into another museum's security system anytime soon."

Dean glanced over at her, and for once, his tone wasn't entirely snarky. "You did good tonight, Nat. Real good."

Natalie blinked in surprise. It wasn't exactly a glowing compliment, but coming from Dean, it was practically a rave review.

She smiled faintly. "Thanks, Dean. Maybe you'll start trusting me after all."

Dean just smirked, grabbing a beer from the fridge. "Don't push your luck."

As the night wound down, and the brothers finally let themselves relax for a moment, Natalie realized something important. She might still be a stranger in this world of monsters and magic, but she was becoming part of the team.

And that? That was something she could live with.

[444-athena]

The sun and the stars:

warnings: death (if any are missed please tell me!)

"Why did you become so close to your best friend's boyfriend after she died" I couldn't let him go. Not when he was the last thing of her that was left in the world, except myself. Becuase he was hurt in exactly the same way that I was. He was the only one who knew how bad it was. Both of us were missing a burning sun in our lives. She is the best thing to have ever happened to me; is, not was. Because, even though she might not be here anymore, her impact on me continues, shaping me into a better person with every memory i hold onto.

Him and I are just two stars stood together mourning the explosion of our sun. Two stars that can never shine as bright, but when faced with complete and total darkness seem to be just as bold anyway.

Sometimes even just looking at him is painful. His face reminds me of memories, of sunshine, of laughter, of dumb decisions, of staying up late and just talking about anything we could.  Things he says, sound like he's taken the words right out of her mouth and is just echoing them back for me to hear one more time. When its raining and he laughs like a child, she's there giggling and dancing along with him; when theres a loud car and he stops to look, she's there staring with the same awestruck face.

He reminds me of her. And sometimes it's almost too much to handle. Looking at him and seeing the other half of my heart, that's now cold and dead. Six foot underground, left to rot.

But I can't let go. Not when letting go risks forgetting all of the times I had with her. Not when letting go means letting go of the last part of what feels like the other half of me. Fuck, I've not felt whole since that night. Nothing I do seems to fill the gap she left. None of the bad decisions, the bad habbits, the running away from life, could fix the hole permanently burned into the centre of my chest, where a beating heart once lay.

Why her? Why was it her time that had to come to an end? She did nothing to deserve this. And what did I do to have to go through the pain of mourning someone who was supposed to be with me until the end? We were supposed to grow grey together, laugh in our sixties at old memories of dumb things we did as teens, but thats all she had, her teens. Permanently sixteen, never growing, never changing. She'll never laugh at sixty, or grow grey. She'll always be the young girl, with bright blue eyes and long brown hair, always laughing and smiling. The girl who was taken way too soon. If I am a star, I feel like I'm collapsing in on myself, being destroyed from the inside out until all that's left is a black void, trying to consume everything in its path.

I can't let myself get to that stage. If not for her, then for him. If I were to become a black hole, destroying anything close to me, what would he become? Collateral damage, in the wake of a tragedy that ended up as a massive fucked up game of dominos?

So we keep going. We survive as a promise to each other. We already lost her, we cant lose each other too. We're two broken pieces of a jigsaw that will never be completed, the final piece being lost, but maybe we can heal. Never fully, never forgetting the sun who used to warm our lives, but enough. Enough so we can live, instead of survive. So we can tell stories of the past with smiles instead of tears. When we can look back fondly, remembering her and loving her still, her absence might not always feel like it's slowly killing us both.

We'll never be warm, but maybe we can get some blankets and heaters, and live through the death of our sun. We might not be freezing forever.

Maybe one day, when we grow old and grey, we'll be healed enough to laugh about the past, fondly reminiscing on times long gone, and think 'we had a good life'.

Maybe one day I'll be able to look at the colour violet, or see a butterfly and smile. I'll never forget my best friend. But fuck, this hurts.

Does it ever stop hurting? Can I survive this? As a promise to both of them, I'll try my hardest, I'll live through each day, remembering her, always loving her, but never feeling whole like I did at sixteen. When the other half of my soul was forcibly taken away from me.

Life is cruel, and fate has favourites. I know I'm not one of them, but maybe she'll be kind soon, and let me see her once again.

[plasticfangtastic]

Carnivorous Lamb Ch. 8

A Homelander x Male OC fanfic

A/N: still on hiatus but i sadly realized i never posted the final chapter despite me finishing this before my hiatus, for those who have enjoyed this thank you for reading, will post a masterlist soon.

Tags: priest kink, age-gap, smut, murder mention, HL unhinge behaviour, bilander, not proofread, very long read.

Chapter Eight

Autumn comes

He won’t ask where he learned all that from, the strange squeeze in his heart tells him to not pry, to enjoy himself as Homelander bounces on his cock, as he twitches and groans around Amarello.

His back pressed against the headboard, Homelander hangs on his shoulders heaving as Amarello jerks him off, as his hips drop and lifts, happy to know the man beneath is chasing after him.

He can’t help the tears teasing his eyes, the pain squeezing at his chest, his heart feels as if it's about to explode around his touch, wishing to have at least a hickey to remember him by.

Glad to know Amarello dreams of feasting too.

“I love you” He whispers into the ether, holding him against his chest as Amarello comes inside him, a sharp wet moan and trembling legs speak where his words are incoherent– I love you…”

The man pulls closer, itching to silence him.

Itching to tell him he loves him too.

Words that had only ever been uttered for God’s ears only.

“I wish I could’ve been born again… I’m sorry… I’m sorry we couldn’t…” His words are so quiet– I love you, John…”

Homelander cries yet smiles… glad to know… glad that he was loved just as much as he had loved him, glad to see those endless streams of tears cleaning the sweat of his cheeks, glad to see him hurt and glad to hear the panic in his heart.

Glad to know it's not just him who 's wounded.

Sobbing into each other’s arms, afraid to let go for by morning it’ll all be but a memory.

A thought that can only end on ‘what if’s’ 

Homelander wouldn’t sleep at all that night, exhausted and his eyes heavy for the first time, wanting to watch him sleep until morning, his reflection watchest him from all angles just as restless.

But angry.

The city wakes up much earlier than he’s accustomed to. 

No twittering birds who’ve never been caged in here.

Fresh air has become a precious commodity, no windows that he can open and all doors to the outside are under lock and key, he could try breaking the windows but the glass is reinforced and thick, he’s glad the furniture isn’t bolted down yet it might’ve as well have been, escaping would reach nothing– just empty space and a hundreds of meters drop.

He can’t complain much about his environment, for there are worse cages to be locked in.

He has ample space to move, a three bedroom penthouse in the middle of New York ample. At first he thought it was Vought towers but the view was different and he could catch a glimpse of the towering behemoth from his living room, and a balcony he had never once sat outside.

Amarello hadn’t been given an answer as to what this place was but he rather say it was a safehouse than the alternative.

Yet in the dead of night when all he heard was the steps above and his own racketeering heartbeat, his mind wanders into dark corners thinking of the evils he could not heal, the evils that Homelander never considered worthy of absolution– those he hadn’t even tried bringing into his chapel. His mind wandered into that bad man residing in John… the other one… the one he should have seeked to save and help but failed completely.

The clock doesn’t need to beep for by now he knows the routine, a man wearing boring clothes comes in with groceries once a week, the same man comes once a day with a meal his breakfast, he can’t complain about the food just that the man never speaks, he does not look at his direction, he does not acknowledge him.

He examines the display, it's a simple meal, he sits and eats for refusing the meal would bring him headaches.

There’s a bowl of fruits on the kitchen counter, peaches, grapes and mangoes, all so beautiful and round, picture perfect and sparkly… there’s no bruises or scuff marks, they might as well be made out of plastic, he can tell these are his peaches at least.

He’s glad he now it's allowed blades around the house, not having to press his only line of communication to get that same man to come cut his fruit or shave his beard like before, Amarello had no desire to kill himself in fact he had been quite well-adjusted, the panic had lasted a couple days until he accepted it would get him nowhere.

It was easier to stay collected as long as some stranger didn’t pre-cut all his breakfast into bite size pieces as if he was a child… even his steaks had been opened, cut then repacked before delivering to him.

That had been 3 months ago now.

He turns the TV and fills the space with the news, his name had never been uttered on the screen even if Homelander had let him know that he was a registered missing’s person without a cellphone or computer he had no way to corroborate his claims.

At least he had a smart TV with all the apps and services he could possibly need and his guard would bring him plenty of books to be entertained with.

Boredom came easy regardless, he wouldn’t say he was restless but he missed gardening.

The door opened once more– he almost dropped his juice as the sight of the flag quickly coming into his peripheral.

Homelander didn’t always come everyday, and when he showed up it was whenever it caught his fancy, even here he didn’t knock so there was some familiarity in this exchange.

He would speak about his day and complains as if they were still in that crammed chapel back in Wyoming.

Today felt different for in his hands was a large wrapped box, Amarello hadn’t utter a word before the box was placed right before him and its carrier wore the happiest smile he’d ever seen in the past 3 months, he stared at the exquisitely wrapped box, each edge sharp and clean and the bow big and bouncy.

He had brought presents before to try to earn his favor but never wrapped them, they would just appear in the house for him to notice like the cross that adorned his wall, the fresh fruit selection or even the nice clothes now wore.

He shouldn’t complain too much he’d thought for this was better than the alternative, at least he had space to roam, a view and hypothetical freedom in the way that blankets and knifes could bring and of course Homelander never touched him, he had moved inch by inch closer to him but he wouldn’t touch him were his skin would show, he would ditch his gloves but he kept a distance.

Today he was unusually close, Amarello noted as if sliding the chair wasn’t obvious enough.

“Thought it would cheer you up…”

He pushes the box until it clashes against his fork.

Amarello looks up trying to catch clues in his blues but Homelander it's childishly giddy, his head lightly sways side to side with anticipation, if he had a tail it would be thumping on the hardwood. Amarello moves his hand towards it, shame fills him as he slides a nail under one of the flaps, it pains him to break the material apart but he does his best to salvage the wrapping paper– so pretty and colorful it’ll be a shame to waste– he tells himself,  even if he enjoys making Homelander wait this way.

The younger man taps his fingers impatiently repeating some soothing mantra under his breath as the priest unwraps the present, it's painful not being able to lash out and open it himself.

He sighs with extreme relief when all there’s left is for Amarello to take the lid off the box.

Inside was an old book, he didn’t need to look at it twice to recognize it was a very well restored antique bible, but so old that he immediately put it back in the box horrified that he had touched it with bare hands.

“What!!?” He looked beyond offended.

“I need gloves for this… it might break… is beautiful-- Could I please get gloves?” He asks softly, trying to calm his heart.

Homelander undresses his hands offering his own gloves in lieu of an alternative.

He had never once felt the leather in his own hands but he hoped it would do the job. Homelander passively watched him gawk and mewl as he carefully opened the pages, swallowing as he realized he would need a special glass case to house this safely.

“It’s old english… no?” He mumbles at the darker blond– thank you, Hom… John.”

“It's one of the first ever printed in Scotland from like the 17th century… it's a bit worn but I thought you might like it.”

“It’s amazing. What’s the occasion? if I may ask”

“How are you finding the playpen?”

Amarello carefully places back the book, taking the gloves as he considers his thoughts… playpen… that word kept him at night.

This home must have housed plenty others… the more he cements it as reality the more Amarello grows anxious, it's easier if he can chuck things to an overactive imagination.

Frankly he has grown homesick, which was apt for the situation but he had a peculiar mind… which it’s probably why he hadn’t broken.

“I miss having fresh air.” His lips feel so dry, his sight focused on the book instead of him– you’ve been very kind so I can’t complain but I’m clinging onto the hope you’ll let me return home, John.”

“This is home.” He says firmly with a wide grin– I told you… I won’t let you leave me…”

He’s careless when he takes that book out the box and places it on the table as if it's something old from the bargain bin, he digs his hand into the stuffing of the box to pull out a thick yellow envelope.

“You said you wish for another life… so we could be together… to be born again but here it’s… a new name… a new everything… fake papers that can fool anybody… Father Dennis Amarello doesn’t have to exist anymore… we… we could be together…” He leans closer, taking the older man’s hand inside his– I have the resources and connections to make sure nobody will ever recognize you, for you to start anew… we can live here… together…”

“I don’t like the city…” Amarello says bluntly, staring intensely at the hand imprisoning his– "this place it's lovely and I’m most certain that somebody would like it but I don’t.”

“We can move anywhere… away from the city… anywhere I can always fly to work.”

“John. Your offer its most generous, but we both know we–

“You’re such a stubborn son of a bitch!!” He yelled– I don’t care! I don’t care about your age! your junk! your job! If we are different or not, what I care about is you! Goddammit, do you have any idea how many people would throw themselves headfirst if I walked into their living room and offered them this!? How many people would kill to be with me and here I am asking you!! You should be fucking over the moon!!” he shouts! the table tilts, dropping at his feet, box slides and glassware shatters.

Amarello keeps calm, ignoring the tantrum the best he could.

“I’m not a good man… John…” He bites his lip, turning his head to that bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter– you don’t want me… am not good…”

“Oh for fucks sake’s what are you on about…?” He seems more irritated than he wants to portray.

“... when you first came into the church… the reason I was so calm… is that… I was hoping you weren’t there for the corpses under the peach trees– y’know don’t be suspicious… you be surprise the amount of times people walk behind you when you’re handling bodies” He stands up watching Homelander’s hand cling to his ultimately falling apart as he takes a peach–… humans… humans make great fertilizer… makes the peaches so sweet… you think I like cleaning? Have you seen me clean much since I’ve been here…?”

There was that thousand yard stare that Amarello had that nobody else did.

The man's tone was so calm, as if he expected Homelander to finally end his misery.

As he bit the peach with his still gloved hand and was drenched in juice, Homelander was out of the apartment.

The night sky was dark but the city could lead you to believe it was still daytime with how bright everything was.

He cannot recall when was the last time there was grime and dirt under his manicured nails? The garden had been mostly untouched, except for this spot under the brussel sprouts, buried under rotten leaves and rabbit shit– chipped calcium.

He’s panting yet one corner of his mouth is raised in disbelief.

He thought back of his scent, how sweet he always reeked, how the whole place was placated by strong incense, fragrant fruit and flowers, wild animal manure that was inescapable… everything was covering a dirtier scent.

Calm.

Perpetually calm, never jumping or screaming when the Supe entered the room, was he so used to it… or trained?

Looking into his eyes there was really nothing.

He flew back to the tower, heading to a familiar room filled with eggheads glued to their screens, he approached the older woman who headed the department pulling her with a wagging finger, the woman swallowed as Homelander leaned closer and whispered his request.

By the morning he was still in the room sitting by the woman whose eyes occasionally drifted towards his dirty hands, at the dirt staining the grooves of his fingers.

He thought of Amarello… thoughts of 5 years ago.

“Can you show me a picture of Agent Rogue” He said with an unusually polite tone despite never saying please– and her file.”

She had been a real C-lister, not many things under her belt but saving Amarello had been a highlight, a picture of a beautiful woman in her 30s… flaxen hair… blue eyes, missing since the early 2000’s.

“How many missing women in the Wyoming area are blue eyed blondes?” He mumbles chewing on his lips.

The list narrowed significantly, the woman gave him a long look as he seemed more than just pensive at the sight.

“Print those for me.”

She dared not question it, he had a murderous look in his sight, whatever this was she was to not concern herself, whatever it was it must require more than discretion as he had requested the head of the room for this and not an underling.

Amarello sank in the deep bathtub washing himself in floral oils, his sight on the hot condensation floating before him, toes starting to prune as he hummed a rhythimless tune, just enjoying the hot water dyeing his skin pink.

He would’ve never touched him.

He really would’ve never not because he couldn’t but he wouldn’t have ever considered it… he was so pretty… he wanted to look at him for a little longer… he liked pretty things…

Agent Rogue was so pretty

An angel.

The moment he convinced himself that they were a gift fallen from the skies as a mercy from the heavens had been when he found himself on Rogue’s arms, as he dragged his cold body out of that house, she ran panting as her hair clumped to her brow and her eyes dilated, as her throat burn so hot he could feel it against own his ear, until she found a nearby vet clinic that was still open, demanding them to call for an ambulance and to help him.

Despite her disheveled self… she was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

Until he’d seen him…

Until Homelander.

Her long curls, sweat beads draping down her temples, those big dark blue eyes– washed away by his everything.

The door slammed open and for once he flinched, splashing water out the edges as he leaned forward.

Homelander took a firm step forward, icy blues as severe as his entire demeanor, Amarello relaxed his shoulders as if he refused to take the sight seriously, resting on the brim of the bathtub.

“Four. Four women in your garden.”

“I know.” He sounds embarassed– girls are always so much prettier than men… So pretty it even makes somebody with my predilections understand the appeal.”

His voice so gentle he seems saddened to share, as if it would cost him his dignity, as if he was remorseful.

Homelander shakes his head watching those dry green pastures staring directly at him, peeling the layers until they are watching the hellish core residing within him.

“How did you do it…? Kill them?”

He tells him a long story, so long the water gets cold until all there is its dampened tiles and pruned feet. 

He skips no details, how they came to his door, where he found them, where he put bits of them, why he kept them there, where it all began but all that Homelander could get out of it, it’s that the man wanted to keep them in his grass, for all they were good for was for making sweet fruit and beautiful flowers.

He described in passing how he killed them, how he killed Agent Rogue… how he killed a supe with boredom more interested in sharing the silly details like what made them appealing in the first place than the sordid parts, killing them wasn’t interesting enough, disappointed at how fragile the average woman was even for a man who wasn’t fitter than most… specially compared to Rogue.

He came to realize that his type didn’t match Homelander’s first assumption; all those blue eyed blondes were just wild guesses in the end, he himself was more concerned with their visuals than a singular trait.

“But you’re a priest…” he says with a gasp caught in his throat.

“I'm human… I’m sorry John but I can’t be with you… no matter how much I wish I could but am not good… all I’ve done to you might not be proof enough… I’m bad.” he let words hang in the air, afraid of his own tongue.

Homelander smiled.

Following that wet dog as it marchest out the bathroom leaving slippery footprints on his wake.

He who smelled too sweet.

He who he missed so dearly, who gave him so much, had never asked for anything in return not even to be remembered… was so foolish.

So naive and foolish.

More than he ever was.

Dirt turns to mud on his skin, as his hands squeezed at the sides of his torso, his hair dampening as he seeks to rest his chin on his shoulders.

He takes a long unbearable whiff, wanting to erase it all with his own scent, to make him his own over and over but the thought dies as he realizes how much he enjoys that sickly sweet perfume glued to his, the only sugar he likes in the whole world.

“I’ll take it all away” He spoke gently– all your bad with me… nobody will ever know.”

It makes his stomach drop in an instant, his knees weakened but Homelander supports him entirely, refusing to let him fall burying his chin on his shoulders, kissing his neck teasing to tear into the flesh.

“I’ll give you a new life, erase all your mistakes, protect you… guide you… let me… Father… no… Dennis… or whatever you wish to call yourself…”

“I… why…?” He cried.

“You helped me. You listened to me. You listened and gave me your friendship. No one even tried to be my friend back then… I only have Noir with me nowadays… I’ve been lonely… God doesn’t like talking to me… But when you were around…” he sobs slightly, squeezing him tightly wanting to feel his pulse on him– at least somebody liked talking to me. Killer or not… freak or not… killer or not… you love me.”

“You were sweet… despite your horrid sense of humor… you’re so sweet… and attentive… of course I liked talking to you… you were different from everyone else…” he managed to turn around facing him– is it really enough?”

“It was enough to convince me that to protect you I had to give you up– now I don’t have to… never again will I ever give up on anything that’s mine.”

Amarello wished to cry but all his sobs died in his throat, he’s tight against his embrace catching a whiff of freshly snapped weeds on the hands that touched his face.

He was truly a work of the divine, eyes as blue as the heavens above.

He believed his every word, he swallowed, accepting he was now the one needing saving, he was returning the same work that he had done for him… atonements, his lips sealed.

“Perhaps… this is what God wanted for me… I wasn’t worthy of the cloth..."

“Shhh… you’re made of flesh… let me take care of you… give you the peace you gave me… for he might not listen to you anymore but I will… I always will Amarello…”

“You promise… please John… I’m scared… I’m scared tha–”

“I promise.” He smiled– you won’t need to be afraid… I got rid of the bodies already… turned the bones into ashes and same with those mummified remains… is all dust in the wind quite literally.”

“Y’know calcium is good for fertilizing… hope you showered my broccoli with it…” he says quietly– I was growing squash too… my thumbs aren’t green enough for them… it would’ve helped.”

“Is that why you killed them? Really…?”

“You had the peaches didn’t you?” 

Homelander nodded softly.

Homelander leaned forward kissing his forehead.

It felt like a cleansing storm.

Homelander held his cheek watching him nuzzle the heel of his pal, eyes watching him with the same adulation he once gave him.

He could only look forward to the autumns they would share together.

[wives-natlho]

Family (Memories of Coco Epilogue)

“So how’d it go?” Athena had been waiting patiently at the apartment with Jaye, who had been far less patient. The Viera was basically vibrating. 

“I don’t think I’m going to be seeing her again.” Coco was barely in the door before answering questions from her wife and girlfriend. She had expected as much. Jaye hurried over to help Coco out of her coat, one sleeve hanging limp. The Sea Wolf relents, though, knowing this is not the time to be too proud. Once free of her overcoat, her sling is revealed, keeping her right arm in a position that will put the least amount of stain on her new wound. 

The Maelstrom chirurgeons were able to extract all the bullet fragments from her shoulder, and expressed that Jaye’s on-site healing prevented the wound from being permanent. She should recover in a few months and be able to move the arm again without issue, as long as she takes her time to heal. Coco would still insist on bartending during this time, though. The good news is the Savoury patrons all would understand their drinks taking just a little longer than usual, if it meant their Roegadyn would be okay in the long run. 

“She spent a lot of time expressing regret over abandoning me and… my brother.” Coco continued. She sat down on a chair just inside the apartment while Athena poured some whiskey into one of Coco’s wooden cups. “But, she also said she really didn’t think she deserved to get to know me. She was real hard on herself.”

Coco was solemn since she came in the door. She didn’t even drink from her whiskey. She just smelled it, smiled at Athena, and placed the drink on a nearby table to talk some more. 

Jaye was surprisingly quiet, like she had been instructed not to say too much. She did, though, sit curled on the couch, with her knees at her chest, eyes wide and ears upright, listening with every ounce of attention she had. Athena was intent on listening as well. She sat on the couch opposite her wife and gestured for Coco to continue. 

“She told me about how conflicted she was about abandoning me, and even named the ship after me as some sort of penance. I don’t think she ever really wanted to meet me, but just to be reminded of her failure, I guess.” 

“That’s stupid.” Athena blurted out. Jaye nodded in agreement.

“Yeah,” Coco sighed. “I tried to tell her as much, but she really wouldn’t have it. I think she made peace with losing me a long time ago, and her actually talking to me seemed to make her really uncomfortable… Like talking to a corpse or a ghost.”

The mentally and physically taxed Roegadyn hit a breaking point. She leaned her head back against the seat and started to silently cry. Her two paramours rushed to her side to comfort her, across the small gap in the living room. The silent tears swelled into full-on sobs. Coco tried to speak between teary breaths, but couldn’t put words together. 

“Breathe, Coco.” She felt a hand on her chest, as a loving reminder. She expected the advice from Athena, but it came from Jaye instead, who had become intimately familiar with how to deal with emotional pain over the last year. Coco took the advice and breathed in deep through her nose. She held it for four beats, then looked forward and let it go, slowly, along with a flood of tears that pooled in her eyes from leaning back. 

“She doesn’t want me.” Coco realized her own words and the sobbing returned. 

The other two sat there in the quiet room, holding onto Coco as she cried. 

—-------

Minutes later, the emotions had processed. Coco had composed herself and started sipping at the now-watered-down whiskey. She cleared her throat and continued to reprise her conversation with Captain Ana Goss. 

“Ana – I’m not gonna call her ‘Mom’, by the way. – seemed like the thing she wanted most in the world was to end the conversation and to never see me again. She said she was trying to quit her seafaring life, and move inland. I think the encounter with the Sahagin got to her.” Coco looked out the apartment window, thinking. She watched a seagull float in the breeze and wondered why anyone would ever want to leave the ocean. After several seconds, she started again. “She’ll probably go someplace dark and alone, where she can bury her shame in the shade. I’m starting to think he was right when he called her a coward… My ‘brother’, I guess.”

“Did you want to at least try?” Athena would probably give anything to talk to her mom again. She wasn’t sure if Coco was feeling the same.

“I did… I gave her a paper with my name and address. I even told her where the Savoury is.” Coco looked Athena in the eyes, with tears forming at the edges of her vision. “I heard the paper rip as I was leaving.”

“Well, shit.” Jaye exhaled some frustration along with those words. 

Coco nodded in agreement and took another sip of whiskey. She looked down into the wooden cup. The ice had melted into water, which hadn’t fully mixed with the spirits, creating a wavy pattern of swirly amber. She looked over to her right, and saw a chair in the hallway. It was newly upholstered and stuffed. Coco made sure to have it restored by a craftswoman she trusted in Ul’dah every single year. She leaned to her right to get a better look, and smiled. Her old headmistress’ chair sat in one of the most inconvenient places possible, reminding her of the closest person to a mom she’d ever have. All three of the girls in the house must have stubbed their toe on that chair at least a dozen times, but that was part of its charm, Coco assured herself. The pain of a stubbed toe was a perfect reminder of putting up with Headmistress Aurifort.

She looked over against the wall, opposite the window, and saw one of her aprons from the Sweet and Savoury. She looked at the small cakes lined up in a neat display, and at the jars of fruit juice she squeezed herself. She thought about Einar, the tavern’s owner, and how he trusted Coco with the bar, something she put none of her own money into. Einar would tell her often that she was more of a “boss” for the tavern than he ever would be. 

She saw the stacks of papers on the table, referencing Sharlayan. Professor Uari-Uk-Upash and Athena have been communicating back and forth, leaving some evidence of their efforts to return to Sharlayan on the living room coffee table. She thought about the support all three of the girls have received from people who have no blood relation to any of them. 

She looked at Jaye’s scythe, leaned up against the apartment wall. The determined Viera had been repairing it, reinforcing it, and recently had been empowering it with aetheric energies. Her connection to Ikkobach was growing, and that wouldn’t be possible without a whole cast of help from almost complete strangers. 

Coco took a moment to process everything, to feel the depth of the loss of a potential mother, but to be filled with love from her friends and other folks so very close to her life. She drank down the last of her whiskey and clunked the wooden cup on the table. 

“I think I’ll be okay, though.” Coco smiled at her two lovers. “If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that blood isn’t everything. That woman isn’t my mom, and that man wasn’t my brother. My family is you two, and Einar and The Professor, and all the folks at the Savoury.”

Her grin grew. The other two were smiling as well. 

“And no one can take that away from me.”

[dhruvxmehta]

"Sure fucking does," he agreed and could on occasion still feel the phantom burns. "A goldilocks situation innit, not too much, not too little, just the right dosage. They knew what they were doing, and I think they might know of my rank too. Or they didn't and their intention was to kill Meena." At the question he paused, "I don't know. I'm trying but they did something with my head so I don't remember details. I think it was more than one." It wasn't intentional on his part these gaps in his memory, but whoever did this to him had intent.

His words were dismissed with a scoff, if this what holding got him, as bad as it was tho think such a thing, he would rather not have held on. But the thread that had him hold onto life was his own family, they had gone through the loss of a child once and he couldn't do that to them again. "Do you even have expectations, Nico? For the pack I mean, ones that mean something and not just a rephrase of the accords?"

Teeth gritted as he heard Nico out, a shaky exhale blown out to keep rising irritation at bay, while he wouldn't be so foolish enough to snap at him, Dhruv felt the prickle of wanting to do so. "I have, yes. Would you like me repeat all things that I heard about me? How people think I'm a freak because I was made in a lab? How they only seemed to be interested in talking because of that and not really anything else? I hoped it might change, but no." And that had been why he often butted heads with Nico, to brig about some change to this pack, but to rise in ranks to do such a thing felt a lofty goal now. "My assumptions aren't created from thin air, I don't need to spin hypothetical when everything is based in proof." He scoffed again, "Yea, that's all I good for it seems - creating problems. Dammed if I stay, damned if I leave. What a fuckin' wonderful life."

Shifting in his seat, contemplating leaving entirely seeing as this conversation was becoming an increasingly waste of his time, at hearing about not thinking clearly, Dhruv shot Nico a look. "I might not be sound of mind in regard to everything else, but this I'm certain about. I've already been chained up and forced to lose control, I know very well of the physiological and physical effects. I can't change out of this life, it would only mean to turn into something else again. Which could've nearly happened when the vampire came to my aid, but I refused blood. I already live a life shackled to the moon, the control I crave I want in my own hands. So, what if I have to chain myself up again, it'll be my choice. And yes, I have shifted, fucking hurt like hell, I reopened my sti-" he looked to Nico momentarily. He hadn't told him yet, he wasn't sure if the doctors had but with a soft inhale and exhale, he continued, "- my stitches. Whoever kidnapped me, I think was also behind taking Mason's gallbladder. I had a kidney removed. If you could keep that to yourself and not share with everyone that'd be appreciated. When I shifted I reopened that stitch. don't think it's ever going to heal properly." He shrugged, "I'm not faulting you or the pack here, but, you talk about pack providing control, I was in the pack when I lost control, albeit heavily drugged but, in or out, it doesn't seem to matter does it? It's something I have to figure out, I didn't have help to do that before I was kidnapped, I can't expect that I'll get any now."

Nico's words swirled in his mind latching into corners. You could hurt someone or yourself again. Give people time to feel better about themselves. Trust us for your good. It felt like pity. Like he had to do them a favour for being kidnapping, for getting hurt. Accommodate to their feelings. Dhruv stayed silent for a long time, both letting those words sink in and trying to not let it fester into unsavoury. He wasn't sure if either worked. "How much time do you need then? To feel better, to fix things? Give me something to look forward to."

·✥·

Nico just sighed internally. There were other more pressing, and more manageable problems to address than Dhruv's perception of him, of their somewhat combative relationship. Whatever the misconceptions were, they hadn't been cleared before now and it wasn't the time. "I appreciate that," he said, honestly.

Dhruv seemed to focus on the task, supplying more details. Nico nodded, making the note. "Right, and that kind of thing has to be something learned from experience. Silver... sucks." He winced, in sympathy and remembering his own encounters with chains like that. "But too much wolfsbane, you wouldn't have been able to shift at all, too little and the pack could've located you easier. So they were intentional, experienced, and calculating. Do you remember hearing any conversation, orders? Or multiple sets of hands on you at any time, getting you into the van? Because that would tell us if there's more than one person involved." He looked at Dhruv, unwavering. "You did hold on. You're here, you're alive. And take it from a medic, the last thread that holds you is the one that matters most. I can't speak for your expectations of yourself, but you haven't failed mine, at all."

Tilting his head, he frowned, then chose his words carefully. "Have you actually talked to any of the pack, or is that an assumption? 'Cause I'll tell you right now, I'm better off if you stay. You're not doing anyone a favor by leaving, you're creating potentially more problems?" His voice softened. "I asked if you talked to your family, because I don't think they'd want you taking this risk, and I think you'd listen to them more than to me. I trust Ben and the Coalition to be fair with whatever Council business needs handling if you leave the pack, but I don't think you're thinking clearly about what it'll be like on the full moon. Do you have anything prepared for that? Do you intend to chain yourself up, after spending a month being held captive? You gotta have some idea of what effect that could have on you psychologically, physically. Have you even fully changed, since you've been out of the hospital—do you know for certain that you have enough control to make it back to human after the full moon, by yourself? That you could control yourself if you got loose somehow? That's what a Pack's designed to help with, it's not just about some heartfelt bond or community belonging, it's to give you control. It can be an aide, if you choose to use it."

He shook his head. "It's not my way to force people to stay when they don't want to. I won't fight you. I just think you need to be objective and help yourself by taking it slow. The Pack can help keep you safe, right now. Without it, there's a much higher chance that you could hurt yourself or someone else, when that could easily be avoided. Give the people who've searched for you for a month a little bit of a chance to help you. Because we didn't find you." He met Dhruv's eyes, hard and certain. "You're not the only one feeling like a failure. You're not the only one who wants to fix things in real, tangible ways. Just trust us, for a little while. For your own good, and ours. Leave after we've all recovered if you still want to, and I'll wish you well."

[severussnapedamagedlove]

Eomer X OC Fluff Scene

This is an excerpt from a fic I’ve been working on...

Eomer was bent over a table. A map stretched across its length. There were lands he had memorized listed, where his memory filled in the gaps with ridges and dips, valleys and streams too little to be noted on the map’s face. Grimbol pointed to a section where a grouping of farms laid on the outskirts of The East Fold.

His eyes squinted at the map in search of something.

           “I have news of the Hlud if I could just find it…” The old voice said.

The king reached and pointed to the spot where the Hlud lived. “Here, Grim.”

           “Ah, yes. The Hlud reports of - .”

There was sound in the Golden Hall that echoed through the barren aisles. It was cleared of the day. Post celebration come down was still underway since the grand royal party a few days prior.

Even Eomer was dressed down in tunic and leggings, devoid of finery.

He gave little consequence to the noise, as he expected it was Heferth back with reports of how much the celebration had cost the coffers. However, he shot another look quickly when he realized it was Lady Eira in a simple loose dress he recognized from one of Rohan’s wardrobes. It was especially remembered by Eomer. It was one of his mothers.

           “Lady Eira,” he said with stern surprise. “You should be resting.”

           “I have done naught but rest, your grace.”

Her gait was stilted. Her face winced with each motion.

Eomer stepped away from his advisor at the high seat and approached the wandering woman with no business attempting to walk after an injury like the one she had suffered.

The memory of her warm blood between his fingers still filled his mind, never to leave.

           “Are you in search of something, my lady?”

She shook her head. The muscles of her neck tightened. Her hand reached forward and grasped to the edge of a nearby table, wobbling ever so slight. “Just a stroll.”

His heart sped as he neared. The thick cling of her sweat struck his nose. She exude too much to be healed. His brow fell.

           “I don’t need tending to, so don’t even ask,” she snapped.

When her eyes finally met his, there was a cruel twist in their bodies. The pallid color of her face stabbed him further through.

Theodred’s face. It was back at the river, pulling his beloved cousin from the blood stained waters, seeing that same lifeless tone to his body. That tangy swell in his mouth brought him back to that haunted moment in time where chaos surged throughout him and stayed for many long months.

Eomer blinked away from the memory. “I am not asking. I am telling.” He tilted his head with a warning look. “Please, retire.”

Her jaw clicked in place.

           “I will escort you back to your chambers.” His arm rounded behind her back to direct her back the way she’d came to prevent any falls to the floor.

The lady stiffened her grip on the table. “No thank you. Your grace.”

Eomer shook his head. There was no option in his mind that would allow her to walk around his palace so gravely injured without care. The risk to her body was too great. He’d be on constant edge.

His hands practically shook in fear. “I will not permit you to continue in this state.”

           “I am not yours to worry about.”

That stung his heart. He blinked back his surprise, recovering quickly.

           “I swore your safety to your friends before they departed,” he stated evenly. “My sister would have my head if I let you injure yourself further. Just stop being so self-righteous and let yourself be cared for.”

The fact that she refused his help festered deeper and deeper as time passed.

When her knees buckled, he reached out for her on instinct. His heart beating fast as she fell right into his arms. The fragile trembling of her body from so little movement settled his resolve. She was far too ill to be upright.

He cradled her against his chest as he lifted her up.

           “Eomer,” she slipped, forgoing his title. “Put me down. I can walk on my own.”

The servants of the palace parted from his way as he marched through his palace halls. It was a worn path of memory back to his sister’s old rooms. All the while, Eira resisted. Her body was too weak to fight. The tongue within her mouth, however, was another story.

           “Put me down. I am not some damsel. My legs are capable of walking. This is so unbecoming a king, you know. Th-they do not permit such actions by royals.”

           “I was not born to be a king,” he said evenly. Her weight was nothing to his strength. “And I was not raised to let a lady suffer so.”

They made it to the door. It, the last obstacle in his path.

           “Oh,” she said. The journey over, there was no point in fighting his hold. “I can get that.”

The bed was the only place he would place her.

His leg raised and kicked against the wood. The door flew open at the force and clattered against the wall behind.

           “Hot water. Cloths. Oils,” he shouted.

Eira’s body relaxed in his arms. He felt her settle further, easier to hold to his body. A subtle excitement filled his veins.

           “Have you eaten?” He asked her quietly.

           “A little,” she admitted.

He turned his head around at the servants he knew lingered near. “And a meal. Bring it all to Lady Eira’s room immediately.” The door was kicked back closed behind him.

           “You should stop calling me Lady Eira,” she murmured.

Her hands clasped behind his neck as he lowered her to the fluffy top of her bed. He released her only when he believed her settled in its hold.

           “It gives them the wrong idea. Moreso with me staying in this room. I should be in the servants quarters or in a house out in the city. Not here.”

           “Your wellbeing has been trusted to me,” he explained as he pulled the chair from the desk over to her bedside. “And I take care of those in my stead.”

Eira raised herself against the headboard of her bed. Her face turned lazy, less stiff. “I am not a lady, your grace.”

           “You are to me.”

He swore at the slightest coloring to her cheeks. The way her lips lifted from a thin line to the start of a smile had him in raptures. It was impossible to look away from her beautiful blue eyes and devious tongue that toyed with him – he was sure that she did – at every given opportunity.

A small knock was at the door. She raised herself, as if to get up to answer.

He put his hand to his chest. “Please,” he said gently. “Stay. Allow me.”

The doorway spilled a mess of servants all bearing gifts of food and drink and bandage and a steaming bowl of water. There was a stack of small cut cloths placed alongside the bowl. A hearty stuffed tray with roasted wild game and vegetables of the land with small dishes of spiced apples and small foraged berries. It was placed at her side on the bedspread.

Eomer nodded his head as the servants bowed in their leave. He made sure to close the door behind them.

He began to roll the long sleeves of his tunic. The rolling white cloud off the water had him wince ever so slight as his hands split the surface. He pulled a cloth into the waters, allowing it to swell with the heat before he wringed it free and brought it over to the side of the bed.

Lady Eira watched his motion through lazy eyes. Her head rested against the board for support. He saw the drain. What little she had done was too much.

She placed her wrist in his outstretched hand. He ran the cloth along the exposed flesh of her forearm and hand, taking care to be gentle against her skin. It was so slender in his hold. There were seldom things so small and dainty in the Riddermark.

           “You are not what I expected,” she revealed after a time of watching him rinse her skin of the dense sweat throughout her. “Warrior king Eomer. Brave, bold, horse lord of Rohan.” When he said nothing on the matter, she continued. “I’ve heard of your brazen attitude, reckless and brave with stupidity. Your words are daggers, blunter than your spears but none the less piercing.” He kept quiet and allowed her mind to flow than staggered thought. He rather liked the fill of her voice. It chased away the flashbacks that took the heart of him at times. “It is not a learned behavior from Eowyn, I take it.”

That finally brought a small smile to his mouth. “Is that how I am spoken of in the other kingdoms?”

           “It is said with respect,” she answered. “Seldom better spoke of, in terms of men. Aragorn excluded.”

He settled back to the seat at her bedside. The weight of many restless days pulled at him. A course jumpy ride through emotions had him stretched thin ready for rest.

           “My parents died when I was young. My father, cut down by orcs. And not long after, my mother gave up. She seldom had the strength to get out of bed. I would cry and pull her arms and try to drag her out, but I was not strong enough to save her.” He cleared his throat. The words became a struggle to get out. “The only people left in the world were my sister, my cousin and my uncle. All of whom have gone on in these years. By one leave or another.”

Eira looked at him with a strange expression. He did not understand it.

           “I hated that feeling.” Her voice was small as she picked at pieces of her dress.

           “What feeling,” he asked.

           “Being left behind…I hated being left in Rivendell. My father would go and protect the border. Not a place for children, he’d say. He’d want me to tend to my studies and practice with my bow, but.” Her eyes swam in gentle waters. “All I ever wanted was to be with him.”

It was in that moment that Eomer was struck off his guard. He never said the words aloud, as they were too fragile for his tone, but he often felt that same desolate feeling of being left behind. It was first at the death of his father, then watching his mother live on in hell until she was granted enough peace to be freed. Eowyn lived fierce and wild. He had no choice but to keep up or else lose her, too.

There were so few in the world who knew how devastating it was to be the only one remaining.

Eira was a kindred soul. He felt it inside himself the more time passed. She was a piece that he recalled missing. Apart that he did not want to do without any longer.

[ask-healthy-light]

The mood in the room dropped as Amethyst's tone fell, and the Sisters worriedly looked at Amethyst, as Nox asked her if she could explain who the two were she mentioned, to which Amethyst shied away, apologising to the Princesses, as she could not remember the name of one of the two; but Nox merely smiled and told her she need not apologise, since anything she could share would be of great value.

After she took a deep breath and smiled, Amethyst nodded to Nox, and thanked her, before she turned to Luna to ask her whether she remembered everything she saw while they were traversing her memory; and Luna solemnly and quietly replied she remembered, but she also saw that she and her Sister were present, but to her frustration, she knew not why she could not remember any of the events herself.

Before they could continue, Celestia asked them to wait a moment, since she knew not what they were talking about, to which Amethyst told her that she would explain in due time, which Celestia agreed to; but despite the fact that the three Princesses remained silent, their minds were terribly busy, trying to figure out how they could not remember, if they were present for those events themselves.

However, their thoughts were silenced, too, when Amethyst snapped them out of their focus by asking them if everything was alright, as their faces had turned pensive, and they were all merely staring into empty space; and as the three Princesses deceptively smiled and nodded, more gravely concerned over the many large, unexplainable gaps in their memories, Amethyst smiled, and started to explain.

Since she had returned along with the city from elsewhere but a few years ago, the events were much more recent in memory for her, and she would not fault them for being unable to remember such heavy and painful events; but though the day the Shadow first appeared was terrible, for many years prior to that day, when the War of Shadows started, the Crystal Empire was a safe place to live and work.

For a moment, Amethyst uttered not a word, as she said she could not think of a way to tell them of the hospitality of the Empire and its inhabitants, when she remembered she had heard of the unfair, hostile reactions that Nox and her friend Light had received; but just as she started to apologise, Nox placed her paw on Amethyst's hoof, and told her to say what she thought of, for it was alright.

With a relieved exhale, Amethyst politely thanked Nox before she continued, and said that there had been many times throughout her life that a lost Pony, Griffon, Dragon, or any other being was found in the Mountains by patrolling Guards; and they were brought to the Empire to heal, and rest for as long they needed to feel strong enough to leave, but even then, there were those who chose to stay.

One of these beings was a young foal, seemingly abandoned, barely clinging to life, though, to this day, none knew how or why they ended up there, for they could not walk and they could barely speak; but when their quiet cries were heard by a pair of Guards, they were brought to the Empire at great speed, where, though it took them a long time to recover from the frost, they made a full recovery.

But since the foal was found alone, parentless, and nameless in the Mountains, there was not a soul in the Empire who dared to let them go anywhere by themselves, if there even was an 'elsewhere' for the young foal to go; and since that day, everybody in the Empire, including the ruling Royals from that age, and Amethyst herself, cared for the foal, and treated them no different from anyone else.

The Empire became the home of the young foal, whom was eventually unanimously named 'Shining Star', and who was happily raised alongside other foals; with a small chuckle, Amethyst recalled many fond memories of them, how brightly Star's face lit up any time they visited the Library, be it to check up on her, or to check out a myriad of story books, which they did frequently for years afterwards.

"They were a good kid… Not a single soul ever thought ill of them."

(Thanks for reading! And if you enjoyed, please reblog! Thanks in advance!)

Send an ask or request! | Start at the beginning! | Next part!

Featuring: Nox Lunarwing from @nox-lunarwing

[werdlewrites]

Season of The Witch (Steve Harrington x OC)

Chapter Eleven: Need to Know

masterlist-about-patreon-ao3

UPDATED 7/21/24

Summar: “No,” falls from her tongue. Her friend's mouth is left hung agape, unsure of what he had heard at first as it’s slow to process - so confident she would jump at the chance to help at least try to solve this painful mystery. “What?” He stands from his place on the bed, closing the gap between them within the blink of an eye and despite there being only a few inches of difference to their height, it suddenly seemed like he was towering over her, the frustration radiating off of him so strongly it could be felt burning her skin. “This is Will we’re talking about.” Warnings: Blood, INTENSITY? Panic Word Count: 4,155 Do not repost without credit or permission.

The thing about pain is that you can never truly escape it.

You may break your leg, and while this pain is temporary, there will always be the memory of how it felt when it happened and in the hours it took to be diagnosed. In the weeks or months it took to fully heal in an uncomfortable cast, hobbling around in an attempt to keep up with your normal life. The world seemed to go far faster than you had ever realized until you were suddenly limited by the hurt.

When your heart is broken, it feels like every cartoon imagined. A shattered piece falls away, leaving emptiness in its wake that will never be filled, only mended to disguise the immediate danger. Heartache can last a lifetime, with chips falling away little by little, and unlike physical pain, these memories wait in the darkness, lashing out during your happier times, just to remind you that you’re still incomplete. Heartbreak was a box, and with every year, the circle inside of it grew smaller, taking longer to ricochet off the walls and shake the foundation. You are asked to live with this pain and endure it.

What is life without the aching reminder that you’re here while others have left you behind?

Autumn stands just at the edge of the driveway, letting that familiar pain sink in as she studies the two cars. One was her fathers, home from work early, ready to sniff out the weed that soaked through her clothes despite desperate attempts to disguise it. After the scolding, another prepared lecture would leave an impact. Frustrated words spilling out about classes skipped. The other car that rests on the curb was no doubt Jonathan's faded Ford. It sits cold, having been there for some time. By now, he was most likely hiding away in her room or sitting in the shared space with a very upset Ian, accusing the teen of being the cause of her behavior.

Shoulders straighten with a chin held just a little higher as she pushes forward, ready to take on whatever awaits her beyond that door. To sink back into the misery of Will’s disappearance and the added punishment her father prepared while impatiently waiting. The door clicks, gently swinging open to reveal a disturbingly quiet home. Evidence of people having been by recently with their shoes discarded at the door, her father's briefcase leaning up against the wall as if he had been too exhausted to carry it the full journey up toward his office.

Instead, he waits in the kitchen, a fine glass of whiskey hung from his fingers with his torso hunched over the island. The man's brow was furrowed, deep in thought. Autumn was fully convinced she could have slipped on by, gone unseen if she hadn’t insisted on resting her book bag just across from him. With the noise, he’s finally pulled out of whatever trance he had locked himself in, pondering over the events of the day. At first, neither had said a word to the other; his expression was unreadable, though obviously displeased. There’s a sudden shift, and she makes note of the way his lip turns up into a faint smile. “Long day?”

It was an unusual demeanor, leaving her unsettled to see him like this and nearly impossible to hold contact with him. Her eyes flickered towards the window, filled with the night sky, and back to his stare, uncomfortable and shaken. Autumn lets out a sigh, fingers tapping along the surface of the counter, pushing away the awkward distance between them that grew by the second. “The longest,” she replies simply, chewing at her lower lip until she swears the skin has been broken.

Her dad nods along, breaking his gaze from her to instead gesture towards the long stretch of stairs just on the other side of the hall. “He’s up there. We can talk later.” It had all been so unexpected, but so was her sudden behavior in skipping an entire day of school.

So with hesitant steps, she moves back, inching closer towards her escape, all the while keeping an eye on her father as if he may suddenly change his mind, but she successfully moves on. The girl's feet are practically flying up the stairs, searching for some relief in being with her friend again. She had anticipated to find him sitting in her bed or poking through the various plants that sat along the windowsill. Instead, he was hovering over her desk, sifting and looking rather frantic, with his large hand filled with a few stones he had plucked off of its surface.

He doesn’t react to her presence at first, so lost in himself that he doesn’t know she’s even come home until she clears her throat. Easily startled, he nearly drops the small handful and backs away from the desk, now bashful and even a little guilty. “H-hi,” he greets, folding in on himself in hopes of simply vanishing.

“Hey yourself,” Autumn replies with amusement, taking a few steps deeper into her haven. “Something I can help you find?”

Caught in the act; he’s flustered. The gears were visibly turning behind smokey brown eyes as they darted around the room, working through his thought process before allowing himself to speak and tumble over words. "I, uh,” his chest swells with breath to prepare for an explanation, but it never comes. His shoulders fall and slump, defeated, as he extends his hand outward to surrender the borrowed goods. “I need your help. I thought—I thought I knew enough t’get ready without you.”

A brow raises in curiosity, the stones curled up into her chest. “Ready? Ready for...what?”

Jonathan's gaze is locked on her, a hard swallow seen as his nerves build and bubble in his chest once more, a glass already full and threatening to pour over the moment there’s the smallest disturbance. “Alright, ah,” he stammers, running a hand along his face before finding a comfortable seat just at the edge of her bed, avoiding meeting her eyes as he begins to talk as if he were afraid of what she may say. “My mom got a phone call,” he begins. The silence hung heavy in the air, and he had hoped she would fill it, though she was patient, encouraging him to continue with her silence. He sighs once more. “She swears she heard Will-”

>“What?” The atmosphere is immediately changed, tipped over on its head, and Autumn finds herself leaning into it until she nearly stumbles forward.

“Yeah,” he says in a defeated tone, his eyes still lowered to the floor. “I don't—I don’t know if it was. She hasn’t exactly been all there, y’know?" His words trail off, finding shame in what he said, though he needed to say what was in his heart. There was no one but his family and Autumn to truly express himself to. “Not that I can blame her. But someone definitely called, and it freaked her out.”

The new information was slow to sink in, unsure of how to take it all, and for a moment, Autumn pictured Will at a payphone somewhere far away, looking for his mother, soaked to the bone. This familiar pain was what she had spent hours hiding away from, and that minimum relief allowed this moment to feel ten times heavier, crushing her chest with its unbearable weight. “What does this have t’do with me?”

Nervous palms begin to run along his knees as he finally looks up to his friend, lips pursed in wonder at whether he should even continue—if he should abandon this and go home to work something out on his own. “I just-I just want t’know...if we should keep looking.”

Abandonment.

Abandon Will, wherever he may be. The thought visibly pains his older brother. Dark eyes filled with sorrow as they fall to look beyond Autumn, too ashamed to meet her surprised gaze. Though she can’t say it’s entirely surprising, How long do you continue to look for someone missing when there are no clues left behind?

The longer the silence settles between them, the easier the pieces of the puzzle are put together as to why he was here—why he was gathering her things in desperation, though he had no real clue where to begin. Why does he find himself drowning in guilt for even wondering if they should look for the boy? Old nightmares and creeping visions flash before her, causing a stumble in her stance and leaving her to grip the door frame with force, waiting for the shock to settle. But a sickness begins to build in the pit of her stomach, bubbling up into her chest and burning as a whispered "no" falls from her tongue.

Jonathan’s mouth is left agape, unsure of what he had heard at first as it’s slow to process—so confident she would jump at the chance to help at least try to solve this painful mystery. “What?” He stands from his place on the bed, closing the gap between them within the blink of an eye. Despite there being only a few inches of difference in their height, it suddenly seemed like he was towering over her, the frustration radiating off of him so strongly that it could be felt burning her skin. “This is Will we’re talking about.” He spits out, clearly in disbelief and growing more upset with each passing second. “I just-I just want t’know where he is. I need t’know something. Anything!”

The girl remains frozen under his gaze, petrified by the thought of disappointing him and by potentially seeing that familiar, empty space again once she closes her eyes. Or, if she had succeeded in what he asked for and lost a piece of herself in the process. Ruined and haunted by what was left of the younger Byers. What Autumn wanted was to lay in bed and forget the day had ever happened. From Tommy accusing her of the unthinkable in front of the entire school, to Steve “The Hair” Harrington coming to an awkward rescue, and the inevitable argument waiting for her downstairs.

But as she sees Jonathan’s body practically deflate in defeat, turning away to grab his bag and mumbling, “Forget it,” her response comes without hesitation, pained to see her friend in such a state.

“I’ll do it.” The sudden change of heart nearly gives him whiplash as he turns to look back at her, his eyes now glimmering with hope and the corner of his lips curling into a small smile.

“You will?” Autumn feels too ill to speak, her anxiety rising quickly as she thinks of what’s to come, so she only nods in response, her grip on the wall tightening until there’s an audible crack in her knuckles.

“Thank you.”

With pleading eyes and an exhausted father unable to fend off two teenagers with their hearts set on a goal, it was fairly easy to convince Ian of one more night of freedom before he most likely grounded her. The two gathered their things, with the promise of Autumn returning home to face the consequences of her actions. By the time the sun was beginning to set, they were making their way through the familiar wooded area.

The teen girl allowed her friend to charge forward with his flashlight, her hesitant steps giving extra time to mentally prepare for what was to come if anything at all. Or maybe she had hoped he would take it back. On their journey to Castle Byers, she would wait for Jonathan to turn around and change his mind, suggesting they go home and make a plan to find his brother another way. Make more flyers or call any missed neighbors—anything to spare her mind. But they march onward until the fortress comes into view, stealing her breath away.

Various gemstones and crystals were laid out accordingly to encourage an easier transition into this hell created for her. The lingering shadow just over the girl’s shoulder was both enticing to pique her curiosity and haunting, just enough to keep fingers concealing tearful eyes.

Some stones were meant to help hold her down and ground her as she walked out into the unknown. Giving her a figment of a hand to hold and pull back on when she needed safety. Finally, a candle at the center of it all, carefully lit by the lighter she found, stashed away in her car. There was incoherent grumbling as she thought it had been lost during her bathroom panic attack.

In her hands, paper. The colored surface is just barely visible under the fading light of the day, but look closely, and you will find not just scribbles but a delicate piece of artwork. Made with care and passion by none other than the missing boy. She can visualize him inside this place or at the table with his many tools, bringing his fantasy worlds to life, leaving behind a look of sorrow in her eyes as she looks at Jonathan. “Are you sure?” Nothing is spoken; a hesitant nod is his only reply, paired with a hard swallow to prepare for whatever may come, no matter the consequences. Especially that of his dear friend, as desperation seemed to push all other thoughts aside.

And so she does as she has with the others before him—with every lost soul looking to be found by a loved one. Her eyes are closed, and her hands at first kept the drawing just in her lap as deep breaths helped to calm her spirit. But the deeper she falls into this familiar state, the less control she has. Chilled fingers would begin to act on their own, tracing along the lines and envisioning the colors reaching out to tickle her skin. They sink deep like a tattoo and crawl through her body like vines, working their way up her arms until the rainbow of colors pushes their way into her eyes. A momentary flash of brilliance in the darkness was so alarming that, for a moment, she wondered if Jonathan had shone his light in her face by accident. Irritated, she opens her eyes to find her friend long gone. Along with the trees, every fallen leaf and their rustling sounds as the wind carried them away.

Autumn had slipped away peacefully into that horrific void, with not a sound to grace her ears or a sign of life as far as she could see out into the abyss. Only his drawing had accompanied her along this journey, their vibrance standing out like a sore thumb in all of the negative space. Her knees are weak as her body is forced to stand, walking out towards nothing with hopes of seeing something—anything. Fingers would twist at the paper, her stomach turning at what could lay just over the darkest horizon.

Time drifts on; it is impossible to count the minutes, though she had tried times prior. A watch froze on her wrist, allowing dread to settle in long ago about the possibility of remaining in this state for days if someone hadn’t been there. And with no telling of how far Autumn had gone if anywhere at all, a heavy sigh cascades from her lips as she comes to a sudden stop. Tired eyes fall to look over the drawing of a wizard riding horseback through a field, thinking of how he always imagined himself in this man’s place on a mystical adventure with his friends. It only tears at her heart more. An adventure ended too soon, never to see the final chapter of a long tale constantly being rewritten. “What happened t’you?” Autumn asks, words delicate and soft, drifting through the thin air with ease, echoing all around her until it dissipates.

“Help,”

It was weak, painful, and so close that the girl could have sworn this plea was crawling up her neck. She turns on her heel the moment it tickles the microscopic hairs, eyes wide and searching for its source, only to find nothing. Familiar feelings of a past time come flooding back of someone calling out to her, much more fearful and panic-inducing. This time, there was frailty with distortion to bend any ability to judge the character. Was it the young boy? Or was another soul lost along the way?

“Will?” she calls out, much louder this time, and immediately begins to trace her steps backward, following the tugging feeling in her gut as that same pitiful cry continues to echo in the air. Soon, her feet are running after it, or so she hopes. “Show me where you are!” she pants, her chaotic footsteps nearly drowning out the sounds of a separate voice slipping in, still distorted but with a much different tone, clearly someone else as it whispers,

“Traitor.”

One by one, it builds. There’s soon a heavy cloud filled with angered and broken voices, creating a thick veil to shield her judgment and leaving the girl lost in its chaos. She was no longer running to the unknown, her ankles now throbbing with sharp turns, trying to outrun the storm that seemed to surround her. She’s desperate for a moment of peace and begs for it to end with heavy breaths. It felt as though they were looking for someone—looking for her. There were messages to be delivered and deeper desires to be granted. Wishes to move on or to move backward. To find life in their old homes, now sold by their grown children. If Will was one of them, he was buried deep under it all, and after running breathlessly for an unknown time, she somehow stepped just over the bounds.

Like the wall of a rainstorm, with her feet just stepping out onto dry land where the sun shines, dark clouds are now behind her as the weather slowly migrates. Their pleas fall silent in an instant, and Autumn is left with dizzying relief as well as frustration now that she has been left with nothing. An empty hand runs along her face, pulling at the tense skin while the other balls up into a fist, risking tearing the drawing she admired.

Just at her back, a new presence had slowly crept into existence. Washing in like water, though unheard and unseen. It’s felt as pressure builds against her, threatening to knock the girl forward as her knees become weakened. Feeling uneasy, there was a resistance to turn and face it. Tired of this chase yet also not ready for what could be reaching out for her. It’s slow and cautious. The heavy thud of a heartbeat was felt up in her throat, matching the pulse she could feel trembling through the ground. It was choking her without mercy before it all seemed to plummet, burning away into nothing but ash and leaving her nauseous and aching.

A vision of the past had returned to her—a tear through the darkness, filled with anger as its fiery glow slowly became more painful to witness in this vacant space. This hole that ripped through her mind, whatever it may have been, appeared much smaller. Small enough for her to kneel to its level, inspecting it closer despite bubbling fear and the ringing in her ears telling her to go. Turn away and cast out this haunting image.

There’s movement inside; it's difficult to make out its shape as it cowers behind layers of debris. Though the girl should find this frightening enough to pull back, she instead reaches forward with her mind set on the possibility that this shadow could be Will.

A piercing scream breaks through the eerie silence—something else that seems to have followed her, though unknown. It shakes her down to the bone, her body twisted to cover her backside for fear something had snuck up while she was preoccupied—something grotesque enough to match such a horrific sound. But only a lonely space greets her, and while she should be thankful, there’s a present, sickening feeling. A false sense of security in a place to call home, untrusting arms that once were a warm embrace. This place, as unnerving as it may be, was once familiar, and now pieces seem to have shifted, becoming unrecognizable and uncomfortable.

The girl was no longer welcomed in this space within her mind.

It all happens so quickly. The guttural, panic-inducing clicking just at her ear lured her attention back toward the tear. Each pulse caused the red to shine brighter, like a heartbeat. Pushing and pulling every ounce of blood to continue its survival.

And then it breaks through the barrier. A shrill cry echoes all around her as what she could only describe in those few seconds as a long, gray arm bursts through. Thin, veined, and full of intent as it loosely latches onto her wrist. Autumn was already stumbling far back, unable to process what was happening and acting on the only instinct that screamed loud enough: run. Her body is twisting away from the nightmare spilling out onto the floor, palms pressed into the surface and aching as she pushes herself away in blind panic, escaping out into the abyss with a force she never knew was possible until this moment.

She could feel the thundering pressure in her heels as they bound against the black but heard nothing as the sound of its echoing scream in the distance seemed to encapsulate her. Fire filled her chest, her heart a molten hot core, threatening to burst from pressure and leaving her lungs filled with painful, dry ash. The horrific screams in the distance never dissipated, no matter how far she ran—like she was locked in a dream, stuck on a treadmill with a nightmare just at her heel. Inescapable.

And buried beneath it, a familiar voice calling her name. There was clear panic and worry. She continues to race forward into this personal hell, hoping it will at least keep some distance between herself and the being while she calls out to Jonathan. Autumn’s attention desperately shifts to his voice, focusing. Gradually, she can begin to feel his firm hands on her shoulders, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises in their wake.

Her eyes fall shut, using every shred of strength she held onto in hopes of reaching out to him. That same burning heart seeks him out, desperate for something familiar, until suddenly cold air fills her lungs, dousing the flame.

She’s left gasping, eyes wide and vision spinning, with hands frantically grabbing onto anything they could find. Twisting at pieces of fabric as her friend tries to steady her. He continues to call her name in the dark. “It’s okay, you’re okay! I’ve got you,” he reassures, though there’s fear dripping from every word, uncertainty, and an unsettling lack of comfort despite his iron grip on her. Their chests soon connect in a warm embrace, needing more reassurance. “You’re here,” he says again, hushed and gentle with attempts to soothe an erratic heartbeat.

Blood is flowing far too fast for her to focus until the heat between them pricks at her fingertips like a thousand bees, giving life and pain all at once to help guide a spiraling, aching mind back home.

The girl is weak in his arms, slumping forward in his hold as things begin to settle. Flashes from only moments ago play on a loop just behind her tired eyes, only vanishing as Jonathan shakes her back to reality, worried she is slipping away from him. “Autumn, you with me?”

She hums in reply, blinking away the heavy fog before truly taking in the sight of her fearful friend, barely illuminated by his fallen flashlight, the two teenagers now hidden away in the night sky. She’s uncertain if it’s all in her head at first. Her eyes narrowed in on his features, and made note of the blood smeared along his cheek. Without question or hesitation, a hand reaches out to wipe it away, though the action causes him to flinch back from her touch in confusion. “What happened t’you?” She questions.

He blinks, almost dumbly back at her. Unbelieving of her shifted attention. “M-me? Autumn,” he trails off, shifting in his position on the ground, discomfort overwhelming him. “Y-your nose,”

She reacts without thought, touching just above her lip, where she can begin to feel warmth spilling just over the peak. The taste of metal quickly coated her tongue, and her fingers were soon stained with red. No words find her; thoughts are swept away in the chaos of everything, leaving Autumn in a state of feeling numb as life trickles down her knuckles.

“Come on,” Jonathan starts up, shifting so that he is instead crouched before her, arms hooked around her to help carry her away from Castle Byers. “I’ve got stuff in my car t’clean you up”

[still-a-morosexual-help]

At this point I have completely forgotten the lore of this game aksnskdnsks but like are we definitely Lilith reincarnated? I thought we were like related to her after she became human and had a family with her lover. Which...even if it was like centuries in between is still very eugh to me. I mean either way I have made the executive decision to forget that part of the story ever happened and my MC has absolutely zero connection to Lilith in my mind 👍

NO NO! THAT IS DEFINITELY NOT WHAT I SAID OMIGOD😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

MC is NOT a reincarnation of Lilith.

Human!Lilith was a reincarnation of Angel!Lilith (Diavolo says he can't save angel!Lilith but he can bring her back as a human) and MC was a descendent of Human!Lilith

And about Lilith getting together with her lover, ik they said it in the game but I don't think it sounds realistic??? This is of course my own opinion/headcanon but hear me out:

1.) Lilith never says she got together with her lover. She just says she had a happy human life with a family. If I remember correctly it was Lucifer who said it, but Luicfer was banned from going to see her so he would have never had a way to confirm it

2.) For Lilith to get together with her human lover she would have had to be brought back exactly the way she was before she died (in order to avoid a huge age gap) and that just isn't practical because:

a.) They would have to wipe Lilith's complete memory for this to happen. And I don't see how it's possible to drop a grown woman into the middle of nowhere with no connections and no proper knowledge about how the world works and expect her to have a happy life?

b.) Remember how Mammon told Levi that Lucifer would never be truly happy without his memories because he loves his brothers too much? I believe that applies to Lilith too. With a noticeable gap in her memories she would feel the absence of them and never be fully happy.

c.) Lilith as an angel definitely would have told her lover about her family, given how close the 7 of them were and how much they adored each other, so if she got back together with him he would have had so many questions about where this family who loved her so much was

d.) The last time her lover saw her, she was performing a miracle to save him from the brink of death and he would definitely have questions

e.) So to make this work Diavolo would have to heal Lilith's dying body, change her entire species, erase her memories, somehow create and give her a support system (alter the memories of a random human family and dump her there????), erase the memories of her human lover about her, possibly erase the memories of her human lover's family or friends who might have known about her and still manage to find a way to make Lilith and her human lover meet and fall in love??? Just the whole thought of this seems like way too much trouble.

-> Instead Diavolo could have just taken her soul and had her reincarnated as a human. Thereby giving her completely new human family, the possibility to live a human life the way she wanted and since this lilith would have been a new person they wouldn't have felt the gap left by her old family. However she wouldn't have gotten together with her old lover. She would have found a completely new person and fallen in love and had her own family.

-> And I like the idea that she didn't get together with her old lover a lot because:

[1] It really highlights the selflessness of her actions. She knew what the Celestial Realm was like, she knew what they would have done to her, she knew she may not be able to get together with him, but she still healed him because she wanted him to have a long happy life

[2] I said in a previous post (with reasons why) that I think the existence of the Devildom & Celestial Realm was once an open secret in the human world but with the war it became a myth which eventually transformed into a religion. I like the idea that Lilith's first lover was one of the first people who believed in angels being divine beings who performed miracles

[3] I like the idea that Lilith didn't get the neatly wrapped happy ending she would have wanted as an angel but instead got to really experience life as an actual human and find love along the way