#uncertainty and a bit of loneliness and a bit of fear too))

[fantomevoleur]

Question: what is the World's Greatest Gentleman Thief's opinion on marriage?

A stranger already bestowing such a grand title upon the amateur thief? He hasn't made much of a name for himself, presently, even with his most recent successful heist. And yet someone identified him as such? A fan, perhaps? One who's followed his grand schemes?

"Oh, the greatest, you say~? My my, étranger, you are far too kind to call me something so renowned." His smirk mirrored the casual lilt of Joker's tone. To be recognized for his efforts without garnering the public's curiosity, that would change in due time, felt like an incredible accomplishment. Smaller break-ins fared poorly to one's where more valuable, famous treasures were secured, but such was the life of this particular thief. He started at the bottom, and would make himself known by any means necessary.

But...that's not the subject matter at this moment. He had a fan, after all, inquiring him, allowing their company as Joker took a seat in thought. It's...difficult to answer, especially for an individual who never stayed in one place for long.

Marriage was messy. Marriage tied a person down, allowing their roots to spread and grow strong...but in the end, it made it harder for them to be uprooted if they wished to move on. If it wasn't the life they wished to live. It worked for his parents, surprisingly, but...as for Joker?

"...it's a beautiful union between two people whom wish to dedicate their lives to each other. An infinite expression of love, and an unbreakable devotion. I can understand the allure of planning these kinds of ceremonies, the excitement and exuberance one may feel organizing your perfect day where you will be spending the rest of your life...relishing and committing to your partner's wants, their desires..."

And yet...

"...but it's not for everyone. There are others out there, living their lives in contentment without needing a wife or a husband. Some wish to keep it that way. Others..." Pause. His breath settled in his chest, tightly.

"...do not believe marriage will ever come to them."

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Sunwalker

Astarion x Y/N - drabble - 2.2K WC

Masterlist

Warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, near death experience for y/n, Astarion crying, companions featured!, visiting Avernus (yikes), the Underdark, guilt, fear

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

Astarion smoothed his thumb over the ring on your finger. No matter how long you had been married it was still as if you had just said “yes” to him. 50 years have passed since the elder brain. 40 of which you have been married for. And every day you woke to those scarlet eyes and fell in love all over again. You remained yourself, Astarion never pressured you to turn into a vampire like him. He knew the loneliness it could bring and he didn’t want that for you. You managed to cultivate an elixir that froze your mortality. It nearly cost you your soul to get all the ingredients, most of which you had to beg, borrow, or just flat out steal from some very prominent gods. But you did it. You froze your aging, remaining as young and beautiful as you were when Astarion met you. 

You watched the glow peer through the sheer curtains, leg thrown over Astarions waist as he held your waist in his sleep. Holding you close as always. You looked out into the Underdark, the strange landscape had been your home for quite some time. Beautiful as it was, you missed the sun. The fresh air, the occasional breeze. You never let onto it, knowing Astarion would spiral, envisioning himself as some sort of leech who kept you trapped with him. You would trade the sun for him any day. But still, the heart longs for things it once knew so well. 

“Your face will get stuck like that if you frown any harder.” Astarion whispered. 

You looked up at him, his eyes were closed still, the ever perceptive bastard. “Bad dream.” you mumbled as you relaxed your face, snuggling into his chest. 

“Tell me?” he asked while gently massaging your scalp.

“Sleepy…” you said with a yawn before kissing his chest.

“Then sleep my love, I’ll see you in the morning.” 

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

You awoke feeling refreshed. Your house was still bathed in darkness. You had grown accustomed to this, but still, sometimes you missed being greeted by the golden rays of the sun. 

“Darling,” you started as you stretched your rigid limbs, “I was thinking… Maybe we could go to the surface for a few days? Gale has been begging to see me ever since we moved to the Underdark. I miss our friends. And Jaheira isn’t far off from Waterdeep. Neither is Shadowheart. And I’m sure Karlach would slip away from Avernus for a bit if she knew everyone was top side.” you picked at your nails, you hated talking about the surface. You alway wondered if it made Astarion feel bad.

Astarion kissed your forehead before pulling you up so you could be eye level with him. “My sweet, you may go to the surface whenever you wish, you know that. But… somebody has to stay with the spawn. Especially the younglings, they’re still so unpredictable.” his eyes held a sad look. He would never admit it, but he missed your companions too, even Gale. But he knew what he signed up for when he released them. He kept balance between he spawn and the Underdark’s natural inhibitors; drow, myconids, duergar, etc. 

You let out a small sigh, “Only a few days, I swear it.” you kissed him, thumbing over his cheek as you held his face. 

He leaned his forehead against yours, “I know, you can’t live without me.” he said with a smirk but you could hear it in his voice. The waver that held uncertainty. He knew you loved him, but it is so easy to leave and never return. 

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

You opened a portal early in the morning. You left Astarion a jar of your blood on the kitchen table along with a little love note. He knew you were leaving early, giving you a small kiss before he watched you go. 

The sun was blinding and took your eyes several minutes to adjust. The soft glow of the Underdark didn’t compare to the ball of fire in the sky. It almost felt oppressive. However - feeling the warmth on your skin, the wind in your hair, the smell of the grass. Gods how you missed it all. You ran your hands through the  tall grass as you walked towards Gale’s tower you saw off in the distance. 

He captured you in a bone crushing hug as soon as he saw you. “Y/N! My dear friend, how I’ve missed you.” he said fondly. “Come, come! Everyone is inside!” 

As promised everyone was inside, even Lae’zel. You hugged them all, holding each of them a little longer than normal. God’s you missed them all. Everyone looked just the same, a few new scars and wrinkles here and there, but the same. Gale had managed to pull something off similar to you, ingesting dark fire to keep his soul bound to this plane of existence thus his body remained as well. 

“No Astarion?” Karlach asked with sadness evident in her voice. 

Your friends all looked at you sympathetically, “The spawn… they need him. And the sun… tends to be an issue.” you said with a slight laugh, trying not to bring the mood down. 

“Did you never find the Sunwalker’s ring?” Shadowheart asked.

“Our leads stopped years ago… we made a home in the Underdark. It’s not so bad, we never get sunburned.” you shrugged with a lopsided smile. 

Your friends nodded, quickly changing the subject as they noticed your mood dropping. You talked, drank, ate, and laughed. It felt identical to when you traveled together, regaling each other with new and old stories. Eventually though, bedrolls called to everyone. 

You looked out the window of Gale’s tower. You had almost forgotten about the moon. You felt a pang in your chest, you missed your husband. You twisted your wedding band around your finger, trying to feel close to him in the dark. 

Gale walked up to you slowly “Missing someone?” he said as he passed you a chalice of wine. 

You smiled softly, “You only get one great love in life… it hurts to be away from him.” you said looking into the deep red of the wine. 

Gale nodded in understanding. “If I may, I might know of another way.” 

“Way for what?” you said with a confused look. 

“A way for Astarion to walk in the sun again.” he said, his eyes shining with hope.

Your eyes widened, “Go on…” you said.

“In Avernus, there is something called “The Eternal Pit "; it is a hellish void. A portal really. To a realm of the unknown, but if you survive it, those who have returned alway return with their hearts desire.” Gale said with excitement. 

“I’ll do it.” you said immediately, “Now, we go now.” you said as you jumped down from the ledge of the window. You rushed to Karlach’s room, knocking lightly before you rushed in. She laid on her bed, resting but her eyes met yours as soon as the door opened. 

“Hello?” she said with confusion on her face.

“I need you to take me to The Eternal Pit.” you said quickly.

Her face was dripping with shock. “I’m sorry, what? You can’t be serious.”

“As a heart attack.” You said sitting on the bed next to her. “Please, it’s the only way Astarion can walk in the sun again. He deserves it, Karlach.” you begged, your eyes becoming glassy. Your lover deserved the world, and you’d do anything to give it to him. 

She sighed, her eyes searching yours. “I have a feeling you’ll go with or without me… fine.” she sighed.

She started to put her armor on. You dawned your mage armor along with your simple chain mail. “After you.” she said, opening the portal back to Avernus.

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

“As requested, The Eternal Pit.” Karlach said, cringing as she looked into the swirling black void in the center of the burning, abandoned monastery. 

Your gaze never broke from it, “If I don’t return…”

“Don’t” she said sternly.

“If I don’t… tell Astarion I’m sorry for leaving him alone… I just wanted to give him everything he deserved. And that I love him more than he could ever know.” you finished your sentence before letting yourself fall forward into the pit. 

Heat enveloped you, thick and sticky like tar. It felt fluid and yet molten at the same time. You walked through a sea of nothingness, just emptiness for what felt like ever before you arrived at a shimmering mirror. You gazed at yourself, skin melted, bone showing. You touched the shimmering surface of it before you were thrown backwards. A devil slowly made her way out of the mirror. Her imposing figure looming above yours. 

“What dost thou want?” her voice echoed in a sinister whisper throughout the void yet her lips never moved. 

“The Sunwalker’s ring.” you stuttered out as you lay in the blackened tar like fluid. 

“Why?” she asked.

“My lover needs it.” you said simply, not wanting to overshare in case the devil was trying to form some sort of trick.

“What whilst thou sacrifice?” she asked, outstretching her hand.

You thought hard. What could you give of equal value? “Take whatever you wish, just not my soul or immortality.” 

The devil smiled, “You’re brave. What are you willing to endure for this boon?”

“Anything.” you said. Suddenly you felt all your skin peeling off. Your nails being removed one by one. 

“Pain is your price. If you say stop, your soul stays with me.” she smiled wickedly.

The pain was unlike anything you’d ever experienced. Searing. Melting. Evil. You writhe about, feeling every part of you be ripped apart just to be put back together and torn apart once again. You screamed and cried but never said stop. You remember everything fading, slipping deeper into the tar like water before you felt… nothing. There was an absence of everything in this abyss. 

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

Astarion rushed through the halls of Gale’s tower, not caring if the sun scorched his skin every time he walked past a window. He made it to the laboratory in the basement. He stopped when he saw your body resting on a gurney. 

He rushed to you, “What happened?!” he yelled, demanding to know. 

You had been missing for three days before you reappeared in Waterdeep. Fainting as soon as you materialized, Gale kept you in the laboratory. He watched your vitals day and night, Karlach blaming herself for taking you despite knowing your stubborn heart would have gone no matter what. 

“OUT! Both of you get out!” he screamed. Feverish tears rushed down his cheeks as soon as he knew he was alone. He held your limp hand, kissing over your face “Wake up, please… you promised…” he held your forehead to his. His sobs wracked him, he kept his head on your chest for hours, listening to the only sign of your life. Your heart beat was weak but steady. He didn’t meditate for days. 

“Astarion…” Karlach said as she entered. She left a cup of fresh blood next to him. “They… I know their heart and mind was filled with only you when they stepped into that pit.” she patted his shoulder. 

He didn’t move, he was practically catatonic. They had told him what happened. Why you went. Your last words. Everything. He couldn’t be without you so this is where he would stay until he too faded into nothing. 

Astarion was sure he hallucinated it, a twitch of your eyebrow. Then your finger. He saw your eyes shifting beneath your lids. His head shot up despite the dizziness he felt due to lack of feeding. “Little love?” he whispered.

You shot up bolt right, leaning off to the side to throw up black liquid that scorched the stone flooring. After coughing and gagging for a solid minute you regained your sight a bit, “Astarion?” you mumbled, unsure if he was really there or if this was a fever dream. 

“Darling?” he said, kissing over your face. 

You sunk back down feeling weak. 

“GALE!” Astarion let out a booming yell which had the wizard running in. As soon as he saw you were awake he rushed a bottle of antidote and superior healing to your lips. Color returned to your face quickly. 

“Don’t ever do that shit again.” Astarion said with a watery tone. 

“I know, you can’t live without me.” you mumbled with a smirk as your shaky hand reached for his face, cupping his cheek. 

Astarion let out a shaky laugh before he kissed you. The healing potion tingled against his lips but didn’t distract him enough to feel a warm sensation slide up his ring finger. He begrudgingly pulled away to look at the cause. A golden band with a golden gem softly glowing. 

His eyes widened, “How did you…”

You softly smiled at him dragging him back into a kiss. “Let’s go home.” you whispered against his lips as you carded your fingers through his hair. 

“No…” he shook his head, “My brothers and sisters will manage without me. We’ve lived in the shadows long enough. Let’s make a new home.” he said.

You nodded quickly, pulling him into a crushing kiss as you pressed him close to you. He held you tightly, responding with just as much urgency and passion. “I love you.” he said.

You kissed him over and over, “I love you. Now, Sunwalker, let’s go make a home for ourselves.”

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

Naboo's Note:

Hello all! This was based off a request so thank you for sending that in. This was awesome to write! Had a lot of fun with it, got the creative juices flowing. I hope everyone is well. I work an overnight tomorrow so expect another fic to be out soon! Thanks for everything!!! TTYLXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO!!!!!!!!!!!!

[crow-aeris]

The og post here :3

i just wanted to expand on this world a bit (and also cos im tired and need an excuse to procrastinate both my schoolwork AND my other fics 😙)

Also, if enough ppl show interest, I’ll probably continue this au/world/verse/thing

=====

Bruce never wanted kids- never. It's not because he hated kids or something like that- it was the complete opposite, he loved kids. Every time he goes out on the street, every time he dons that cowl and cape, every time he streaks through the air with vengeance screeching in his soul, Bruce does it for the children.

He loves children, and he wants ones of his own. He wants to hear their gleeful smiles, their bubbly laughter as little feet pitter down the halls of the open manor. He was to see their bright round eyes blink up at him with soul-searing love that he'd return without a single beat of hesitation. He wants to cradle their little face in his palms, sing them gentle lullabies and read them little story books to help them sleep.

But... He can't have that. Batman can't have that- Bruce can't have that.

This crusade- his crusade- against crime... he can't involve a child. Even if it shreds his heart apart and leaves this ever-growing monster of loneliness and isolation clawing and tearing at his chest... he won't ever involve a child in his messy coping mechanism.

So, rather than settling down like the board members (and Alfred) wish for him to do and make heirs to Wayne Enterprises, Bruce continues to go out every night, waging his war on crime. He was content to do so too, but… But it seems like the universe had other plans for him.

Bruce watched in quiet horror, Alfred tensing beside him as the Flying Grasons fell. Their son freezes, watching as dark crimson spills across the ground, the sound of bones snapping was lost in the cacophony of screams, the piercing and wailing faded to the background as Bruce shoved to his feet, hiis limbs moving without Bruce’s prompting as he surged forward, shrugging off his coat and draped it across the boy’s- Richard’s- shoulders as Alfred hurriedly called the police.

The boy jolted, turning his bright, watery, sapphire eyes onto Bruce- filled with uncertainty and anguish… Bruce was reminded of his that fateful night on their way to the theater, the sound of pearls clacking against the concrete pavement, echoed by the sound of gunshots, screaming, and red-red-red.

Sympathy seized Bruce’s throat like a vicious creature, and Bruce could barely shove away the need to gather Richard into his arms and sweep him away.

But, after Alfred’s pointed glare, Bruce reluctantly tries to hand the boy over… only for him to wail, clinging to Bruce’s shirt with fearful and wild eyes.

“Don’t- PLEASE!” Richard screams, writhing in the cop’s hold, “LET GO OF ME!”

Bruce was instantly at his son the boy’s side, prying the man’s hands from Richard’s shoulder with a narrowed eye glare so uncharacteristic of “Brucie” Wayne.

“We have to question the kid,” the cop tried to reach for the boy once again, but Bruce neatly twists away to keep Richard away from the man.

Bruce huffs, glaring at the man from the corner of his eyes, “You can do that later! He is very clearly distressed, young man, and I will not have you upsetting him any further!”

Without another word, Bruce turns away and headed toward Gordan with the eight-year-old balanced against his hips.

———

Bruce welcomes Richard- Dick- into the manor after a few weeks of battling with Gotham’s horrid foster system. The boy had a pale pelt clutched between his hands alongside the heavy coat Bruce had given him on that dreadful night.

“Do- do you want it back?” Dick had asked, his hands tightened around the coat before brandishing the garment with shaking, trembling hands.

He falters, swallowing thickly before gently pushing the coat back into the kid’s arms, “It’s okay, chum. I was just curious. You can keep it, okay? I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” the boy had asked.

“Of course I’m sure.”

Bruce smiles, slowly and gently stroking a hand through the boy’s thick hair.

Maybe… maybe having children wasn’t a bad idea?

[spacemimz]

Raph's body hurt, it felt warm in places and terribly cold in others. Was he bleeding? Was he hurt? He wasn't sure. Where was everyone?

Was he alone..?

No.. they wouldn't have let Raph be all alone. Right..? They always said they loved him so they can't leave. No, no they can't leave. They wouldn't hurt Raph like this.

Their home was already gone, they can't leave. Raph wanted to be sure they were around. Somewhere, yeah, just out of sight. Not close enough to catch their scent either.

Just a bit further and he'd find everyone. All of them waiting for him, all worried that he got lost in the sewers again. Yeah, they were just around the corner.

Except.. there is no corner. Nor a sewer. Nor streets. Where was Raph to begin with?

Was he still in New York? Was this Jersey? Where was everyone?

Panic started to settle in, Raph may be really alone right now. Alone in a place he didn't know.. okay, chill, cool. He wasn't panicking, nope, not at all. Just eternal dread creeping up his spine, nothing major, no, Raph was fine. No panic here, no no, he was gonna be okay. Just had to keep his eyes open for any familiar spots, easy. Right?

Right... looking around frantically Raph tried to find something he knew when he felt a searing buzz creep up his body. Was he hurt? Actually hurt? Or just scared, he couldn't smell his own fear stink so maybe not he wasn't afraid. But if he wasn't scared, what was he feeling? How could any of this make sense?

Raph collapsed as he wandered around. As soon as his body hit the floor the buzz turned into white hot pain and Raph screamed at the top his lungs. Everything hurt, it hurt so bad. Everything felt as if it were on fire. Maybe he was burning alive.

Raph curled in on himself, holding his head as he sobbed. It was all too much. The pain, the loneliness, the uncertainty, all of it.

The turtle couldn't help himself, sobbing was the only thing possible right now. Something warm pooled beneath the teen but he couldn't move to check. Maybe he was in a place where the sewer overflowed, that had to be it.. right?

He was still laying there in pain and sobbing his heart out when something approached. It grabbed at him and Raphael shot up. The thing gripped with so much force that it dulled out the pain from before. This.. presence was hurting him but it didn't feel or smell like his brothers. Raph couldn't see, he didn't know whether his eyes were closed or if he was blacking out from all the pain in his body. One thing was for certain: the presence grabbed hard and it wasn't his family.

The turtle stopped thinking and acted purely on instinct. He lunged forward and started beating the thing gripping him with his bare hands.

Punches turned into scratching, scratching turned into biting, biting turned to tearing. Raph could smell blood. It smelt different than before. The thing had stopped gripping him a while ago but he didn't stop. Was Raph angry again? Did Leo say something stupid again? Maybe he did, but why could the red clad turtle smell blood then?

The thing beneath Raph was getting cold and when Raph finally stopped tearing into it, he staggered to his feet. His body still hurt so much, the stench of blood was everywhere and he was still alone.

Raph.. was alone.. everyone left him.. did they stop caring? Was he such a burden with his anxieties that abandoning him seemed like a good idea to his brothers? Was his father okay with him being left to fend for himself? What would April say? Did she agree to him being abandoned or would she chew the others out? Would Draxum care? Or would he be disappointed that Raph turned out so big and so terribly weak?

Raph was always meant to protect the others from harm and maybe he had hoped that someone would protect him too. He was just a child after all. He wanted to be held like any other kid and be comforted when he had bad days or a failed crush. He just wanted to be loved. But maybe he was too much of a monster from the beginning to even deserve that. He looked like one, that much was undeniable. Big with a massive shell and spikes all over his body along with his long tail. He looked like Godzilla with a dangerous shell attached, who would love someone like that?

Maybe his brothers had always been scared of him and that's why they left. Maybe his appearance and anger issues were the root cause of this all.

Raph continued to wander, covered in blood and crying still. His heart was pounding so fast it hurt, everything hurt. Moving hurt, sitting hurt, laying hurt. No matter what Raph did nothing helped, he was still in agony. Maybe this was supposed to be his own personal hell: chased by mystery entities and his doubts while bleeding out slowly.

He didn't know what he ever did so wrong to deserve this but maybe his existence was justification enough. He was made to kill after all, Draxum never made it much of a secret. So being a weapon for a war that was never his own was possibly what was so wrong with the snapping turtle in the first place. He tried protecting people and being good when that was never his purpose. But with this emptiness did he even have a purpose?

What had even lead to this situation? He didn't even remember, what was he doing before all this?

The guys had been goofing off maybe? Like they usually did but then again, how would that justify leaving Raph? Unless it all was just a veil to mask how they actually felt and looking for the perfect opportunity to abandon Raph.

As the teen continued to wander on weak legs, there were presences again. More this time. And they all had a similar smell to the other one, they too leaped towards Raph and wanted to injure him further. If such a thing was even possible, the turtle didn't register the scope of his injuries anymore but he was sure he was hurt. As the things lunged at Raph a fight broke out.

Similar to before but much, much more brutal. The teenager skipped the punches and scratches and immediately went to tearing and biting at everything that came within arms reach.

He continued to rip the things attacking him apart, did he swallow blood from ripping flesh in two with his teeth? He didn't know anymore. He couldn't tell apart what was real and what was just his mind playing tricks on him. Slowly the things stopped moving one by one. Maybe he had won this fight, maybe they just pretended to be dead to save their lives.

Raph continued to wander, progressively getting wobblier as he went. He was losing strength at a raping pace. If he didn't reach someone to help him soon he would die, he was sure of it.

Suddenly the air filled with with a static buzz, was he in a place with a lot of electricity? Before the snapping turtle could react two metal cuffs flew at him. One bound his arms to his torso and the other bound his legs and tail together. Crashing to the ground for the second time in the amount of time Raph had been wandering around didn't do his wounds any good. This time it all culminated in him passing out right then and there.

Raph didn't know how long he had been knocked out for but he felt familiar three fingered hands touching his limbs. Was he being saved or being tortured? How could he even tell in his current state, nothing made sense anyway.

Then there was a clack followed by a mechanical fizz of air. Something was on Raph's head but it wasn't uncomfortably tight. It sat snuck against the turtle's skull but not in a way that would be bothersome. He could then hear his brothers call out to him. They sounded so worried and as if they'd been crying for hours.

Raph opened his eyes and there they were! Oh they had been crying, even Donnie despite his "emotionally unavailable bad boy image". The eldest propped himself up and smiled and turned to hug his little bros. Tears were forming in his eyes as the relief of them looking for him washed over the red banded turtle. They still cared and they took care of him. They were okay and they were happy. Everything was just as it should be.

"Are you sure this is safe?" Leo spoke. Looking at his older brother sitting idly on the makeshift gurney wrapped in bandages and bandaids. None of them knew how Raph had gotten so battered up, all the twins knew was that Raph was in savage mode when they had found him.

"It will work. I made the helmet and I am monitoring every response to the feed he's seeing and hearing," Donnie spoke monotonously. The events of the world essentially ending had made Donatello even less receptive to emotions. All he cared about was keeping his remaining family safe, even if that meant hurting others. He would do anything to keep Raph from disappearing again, the same way Leo would do anything to treat all their wounds and keep them fed.

The tech savvy brother knew it was morally wrong to feed his brother lies via a helmet but it was the only way to keep the eldest from destroying everything in his path. Maybe this made the whole thing a little easier to stomach for Donnie.

Maybe they all just had to lie to themselves a little so they don't lose themselves even further. The twins were okay with eliminating threats to their family while Mikey had to live with his newfound blindness and Raph turning into a mental zombie.

Maybe it was best to never let Raph witness the horrors of their world again. Out of sight, out of mind. What he never knew can't hurt him and he'd be safe.

Raph was under the impression the invasion never happened, the helmet fed him lies that everyone was alive and well and the painkillers numbed him so much that the illusion was perfect.

He thought he was happy and loved and safe, along with everyone else. All while the end still loomed overhead.

[tisthepamseason]

So - Taylor Swift & Florence Welch both have songs called Cassandra. Why is that significant?

✨First- Who is Cassandra, Anyway? EW.

Cassandra is a figure in Greek mythology, blessed with the ability to see the future & cursed to never be believed. She sees the fall of Troy before it happens but can't do anything to stop it (there's a lotttt more Cassandra lore, keeping it basic here).

In the 1940s, a French philosopher dubbed "Cassandra complex" to encompass situations where someone reacts validly & with reason and raises the alarm but is not believed until it's too late.

✨Second- What is Taylor's interpretation of Cassandra?

Taylor's Cassandra remains faithful and places herself into the myth, issuing warnings about untrustworthy individuals that went ignored by her peers, the media, and the general public - invoking her Reputation era. ("You can mark my words that I said it first in a morning warning no one heard"). She's telling the story of her Reputation era through Cassandra, who was famously ignored after giving warnings about the fall of Troy.

She references snakes in her cell, a double meaning:🐍 on her actual cell phone (hehe) & a reference to the snakes mentioned in the myth of Cassandra, where snakes whispered the future to her. She goes on to say, "so they killed Cassandra first because she feared the worst and tried to tell the town"..."do you believe me now?" asking if, after the witch hunts & death of her reputation, we believe her now that the truth has actually come out. She makes a point to say, "when the truth comes out, it's quiet. it's so quiet."

A line that I personally feel is very important within Taylor's story is "they say 'what doesn't kill you makes you aware' - what happens if it becomes who you are?" Changing the famous "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" to "makes you aware" is a very important distinction for her to make. Ever since she was made aware of the shady characters that exist within her world, she has been vigilant in order to protect herself, her art, and her integrity. Next, she worries that the struggles she went through will define her in the same way that Cassandra's struggles continue to define her today, which we've seen carry over thematically in albums she's released since Reputation.

In her outro, she reiterates: "When the first stone's thrown, they're screaming. In the streets, there's a raging riot. When it's BURN THE BITCH, they're shrieking... when the truth comes out, it's quiet. It's so quiet." Taylor Swift has not forgotten the volume of the voices that condemned her, or their apparent silence (lack of apology?) in the aftermath.

✨Third- What is Florence's interpretation of Cassandra?

Florence's Cassandra is a told a bit more in abstract, and comes after Florence believed that the music she was writing, as well as her own personal wishes pre-pandemic, seemed to call upon her the isolation that came during the pandemic.

She starts with, "I used to see the future and now I see nothing"..."Crying like Cassandra, I used to tell the future but they cut out my tongue" and tells a story of a Cassandra who had the gift of foresight, was cursed, and then was ultimately stripped of it & left to cope in the aftermath. Combined with the uncertainty & loneliness felt during the early months of quarantine, Florence's Cassandra is blinded, condemned, and left to question how she fits into the world crumbling around her.

[maxphilippa]

lookie i did a mario au with limited knowledge haha... look. estella

her backstory will be under read more i guess-

Rosalina in canon doesn't have much of a story except for the story she tells the lumas, which technically are like her children considering what happened with them. The main ideas I was having yesterday before designing her were Rosalina going through an very VERY emotionally expensive arc to then end up becoming who Estella is

Estella is similar to Estrella which means star on spanish so you can kinda can guess what this direction might be like, in a way (?)

So I'm thinking that the reset, despite it being something that Rosalina got adapted certainly quickly and wasn't too worried about it considering all of her years being alive and her power, the whole disaster and the events themselves did leave her a bit more paranoid that expected instead in this one. And with a bit more I mean by a lot. Being used to a journey of losing what she loves, her feelings and uncertainty grow as a result, add to that the fact that she's feeling a much more bigger sense of protectiveness over the galaxy, especially for those who she met.

In fear of being alone and adding the slight paranoia she was going through, Rosalina ended up stopping with her coming to home every 100 years plans and decided to focus on trying to make sure that nothing else like that happened again.

With emotions acumulated, her physical form suffers from change, although it isn't a good change. The stress and certainly the pain she has been feeling for a while took the best of her, add that to her loneliness, and it was like a combo.

Of course she had the lumas, but they were like her children. But she also didn't want them to be worried about how she was, she was supposed to be there for them, and didn't want them to worry.

At the end, it didn't do her any good. Her body changed and changed and so did her mental state. She became more and more scared, doing everything to stop any threat, making sure that if given the case, bowser doesn't try to do any of that (though it is... VERY unlikely), but her feels pile up and she's feeling like she's dying. Why, she can't tell.

Her love for life and the beings that were there was so strong that it kept her going, but it was also killing her emotionally so to speak.

At one point, Estella couldn't do it anymore, weakened by her feelings and stress, by the amount of power constantly being used to protect everything, the goddess was being too rough on herself and didn't realize her limits.

She felt so... alone. But she knew she wasn't. But it was a different type of alone. The lumas were all she had now, and so was her newest friend, but she couldn't bring herself to express those worries. She was a protector. She can't just let her guard down at all.

And she pushed them away with that thought in mind.

And it got so bad to the point in which her body. Started "breaking" itself. Giving up in the way a star would.

She didn't know what to do at all and didn't want others to worry. But if she somehow got into a terrible state, how is she going to be there for them?

She's scared.

She has given herself such pressure when it should've never really been like that on the first place. She was already strong. She was aware that the Lumas were following a cycle. But one can only hold onto hope so much before they break down.

Now basing this from the whole "Rosalina was also a princess back in her place" theory, I think that even if the Lumas did comfort her in her most vulnerable moment, losing her mom and then not being able to communicate with her dad and brother really made her feel worse in the end.

She can't afford losing anyone again.

And that fear, pain and stress almost leaded her to, practically experience what Lumas go through.

Her body breaks, yes, it was giving up due to all of what was going on. The cracks can be seen on her face and everything, and that alarms her a lot.

And so, she realizes that she needed some time. She wrote some letters, sent them, and told the Lumas the truth at the very end.

And she ended up in a slumber so she could either recover, or go through it finally.

As to how much time she was in slumber it's unknown, but things changed a lot.

Star dust started to fuse with her body, star dust from The Lumas who cared for her more than anything, in order to make sure she was safe and healthy again. Which time, her body started to recover, the cracks leaving scars, sure, but recovering. The love of the lumas, her kids, gave her strenght and made her feel like she was going to genuinely be okay again.

One way or another, her family was going to be there with her, always.

And when she was back, everything about her look changed.

For the good.

Long and lovely hair that was taken care of, a star crown, comfortable clothes, the sparkles in her skin, everything about her. And she felt at peace. But she started crying once she processed all of it.

She was alone, but not really.

The Lumas wanted her to be okay. To feel safe. To feel loved. That she's enough. That things will be okay.

She would never really be alone again. But they sacrificed their cycle/life for her. All because of her fear for them to get hurt.

And now they're there with her.

After realizing all of that, Rosalina decided to go by the name of Estella, in memory of the Lumas that she loved so much and now were a part of her.

And now she's still doing her duties. With confidence and always with company despite everything. And yeah.

[oki-haru]

We still stray, we always stay on the Lonely St.

去年の6月にスキズ宛に手紙を送っていた。色々な翻訳機能を使って書いたけど、適切な表現なのか、伝わる表現なのかわからない。そもそも届いたのか、読まれたのかもわからないけれど。StrayKidsがリリースされて、その歌詞をみて、勝手に通じ合っている気がしている。

I came across Stray Kids during a difficult time in my job hunting, around September of 2020. 

Your gumption of spirited <Double Knot> stage performance captivated me. <Side Effects> and <Placebo> gave me solace profoundly. Moreover, I could relate to the message of <<IN 生>>: “Do what you want to do, to live your own life.” 

These days I think it’s meaningful that you released <<5-Star>> and <<樂-Star>> after <TMT>. You didn’t just become Stars, you created stars on your own and shared them with us. 

I love every album and its stories. Nonetheless, since <<ODDINARY>> was released, <Lonely St.> has been my best beloved. The same tension continues from Changbin's start to Seungmin's end, as if a single voice. How touching. 

This song reminds me of an old Japanese psychiatrist's words: “In ancient and modern times, the person with the greatest desire is the most admirable. The person with the greatest desire is the loneliest. You must quietly watch your loneliness, hold it in the depths of your heart, and make unceasing efforts to shape your destiny.” You are admirable. 

As a clinical psychologist, I meet individuals who are distressed and suffer, but to begin with, I am not averse to certain kinds of suffering and pain. Before I took this profession, I wanted to discover the mechanism of feeling that way: “I can’t stand myself not fighting along with you, while you’re fighting. If you fight, someone might get hurt. However, you, who have decided to fight, are already hurt. I feel your wounds as mine, but you are so beautiful helplessly when you’re fighting.” Because I haven't found the mechanism yet, “I'm still astray”. 

While most people prefer to have fun but not suffer, I tend to “Step Out" from human relations to concentrate and appreciate my interests. This tendency leaves me feeling isolated, seems like I am an <Alien>.  Sometimes I deny myself. I long to lean on someone, but I find myself unable to do so, held back by fear and uncertainty. 

At such times, I listen to and watch your works and performances. Thereupon, my heart surges. I can forget my loneliness. Your existence encourages me. It makes me feel closer to you. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I feel like some of you are like me. I enjoy going to museums, I draw pictures on my days off, and actually,  March 20th is my birthday too. 

Ah, then I would like to live too. I can get hope that I can live my life by relying on my own sensibility. I want to be <MANIAC>. 

（2024年9月1日18時過 撮影）

[mama-qwerty]

Age 5

The boy didn’t know where he came from. He had no name. No parents. No sense of family or where he belonged. Even his species was an impossibility. People whispered the word “echidna” in hushed tones, as though it were a cursed word, likely to bring ruin to any who passed it over their lips.

His was an existence of mystery. Of loneliness.

Being the only one made him an oddity. No one wanted to take on this child—many saw him as a bad omen, or a curse to be endured. So he was shunned, turned away by all who came upon him.

Starving and scared, the boy found himself near a ship that had docked in port. He scrounged in the castoffs and scraps, searching for anything to satiate even a fraction of his intense hunger.

As he dug through the trash, a rough hand closed around the back of his neck. He uttered a startled cry as he was hauled off his feet, and brought face-to-face with an angry human.

“What’s this that’s rifling through my trash?” he growled, and the rum on the man’s breath made the boy cough. “Ain’t never seen a rat like you, boy.”

Terror spread through the boy, and he struggled in the man’s grip. “I-I’m not a rat . . . I’m j-just hungry . . . please . . .”

The man jeered, giving the boy a hard shake. “What’s that, rat? I can’t hear such soft squeaking!”

“I’m sorry!” the boy cried, his voice cracking in his fear. “Please! I’ll go! Let me go!”

“No, no,” the man said, a leering smile on his lips and mockingly jovial tone to his voice. He dragged the boy up the gangplank, hurling him to the ship’s deck. “You stole from us, and now you need to repay your debt.”

The other men in the crew surrounded the boy, and fear clutched his chest, making him tremble. He’d heard stories of pirates and what they did. They were mean, and tough, and hurt people for fun. Killed them. And now he was trapped here, on a ship, surrounded by at least a dozen men—both human and non—who looked down at him as though he were their next meal.

“Please,” he pleaded, tears trailing down his muzzle. “Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll be good!”

Laughter rumbled through the group, and the man who’d snagged him lowered himself to his haunches. “Ya hear that, lads? He’ll be good.” He smiled, showing filthy, broken teeth. “Just how good can you be, boy?”

The boy cowered on his hands and knees, his tail tucked between his legs. His sobs were loud and made him unintelligible.

The man flicked the boy’s nose. “Speak up, rat. Or we’ll strap you to our anchor and drag you along the bottom.”

Another loud sob shook the boy, but he summoned all his willpower, all his courage, and bit back more. He gazed up at the man with his odd violet eyes.

“I . . . I can work,” he said, his voice thick and snot running down his muzzle. “I’ll do what you tell me. I promise.”

The man seemed to consider this. He rubbed his stubbly chin with a rough hand, eyes narrowed as he looked the boy up and down.

“I may have use for you yet, rat.”

A soft murmur moved through the men then, and one stepped forward to lean closer to the hunkered man.

“Cap’n,” he said, his voice low. “That’s a dread child. An,” he glanced around as though worried someone may hear, “echidna. They’re bad luck. Let’s just toss him overboard and drown the worthless thing.”

A soft sigh of agreement passed over the rest, and the boy’s blood ran cold. He closed his eyes tightly, curling into a ball out of reflex. The captain stood, his face set.

“Am I sailing with a bunch of feckless women?” he growled, glaring down at each of his crew. “Are you all so cowardly as to believe some foolish superstition?”

The men glanced at each other, uncertainty on their faces.

“If any of you are too frightened to sail with this boy, then feel free to leave.” The captain looked down at the cowering child, his lips pulled into a smirk. “If he is truly a dread child, then I have no intention of letting him go. I am Captain Benjamin Harper, after all. The fiercest pirate on the seas, and . . . ‘collector’ of valuable items.” He hunkered himself down, scruffing the boy and shaking him out of his protective ball. “And rarities are most valuable. If he proves useless to me, then I will simply sell him. He would no doubt fetch a high price on the black market.”

The boy stared at him, his violet eyes locking with the captain’s dirty brown.

“But you will be useful, won’t you, rat?”

Swallowing hard, the boy nodded.

“Yessir.”

“Good.” Captain Harper tossed the boy in the direction of the mop and bucket on the edge of the deck. “Earn your keep, rat.”

Keep reading on ao3

[moonlightdistractions]

since it's supernatural day and I'm thinking so many wincest thoughts because hello? I'm only human. uh, so I was reading a few forgotten WIPs I had done years ago. here's a bit I actually typed up and saved in 2019, thinking I'd actually*do* something with it. hah.

below the cut, a beginning or middle to a first time late season wincest...

wrote this after watching 13x20 Unfinished Business

"...and if we die? we'll do that together too." Sam let the words reverberate through the air before leaving the room, letting them pierce through his brother's thick skull. Dean's need to protect him, putting him up on some goddamn pedestal, just cracked something in his heart. How can he ever get Dean to understand how important he is, how loved he is? How Sam ceases to exist when Dean is gone? Why do they have to suck so badly at telling one another how much they love and need one another? Why are they so fucking necessary to one another!?

Sam drags fingers through his hair, roughly tugging it back. He pulls a little too hard, just to feel that bit of pain. He needs to calm down. He's fighting his instinct to go to Dean, to show him how much he's loved.

"Idiot." Sam whispers, not sure if he means himself or Dean. Both.

He sighs as he gets to his bedroom and starts shucking layers. He's so tired. Constantly worried about mom and Jack, about Dean, about everything. Feeling like he just keeps failing. Not doing enough. Never enough. He finally gets the last layer off and sits on the edge of his bed. He feels that deep pang of loneliness that comes at night, when he's ever-alone in a room he has no attachment to. He lays back on the bed, feet still on the floor, and looks up at the ceiling. He keeps this room and it's too small bed to remind himself he doesn't deserve more. He closes his eyes, wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. "goddammit" He rubs his face, feeling the threat of tears. That's how tired he is, that he's not sure he can stop the flood of emotions.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice is barely audible, just a hoarse whisper, but Sam heard it as if it was yelled. He swipes at his wet face, a futile tactic since his brother is right there. He didn't even hear Dean creep in, how fucking embarrassing. Sam sits up, tries to not make his nudity weirder than it could be. Whatever, they've seen it all.

"Uh. Yeah, Dean? Is-are you okay?" Sam is trying really hard to keep himself in check, to not reveal too much. He lays his hands loosely on his lap. Dean steps in the room and shuts the door behind him. He stands there, uncertainty written all over his body. Sam searches his brother's face for a clue, and what he finds is unknown to him. Timid. Insecure.

"I can't." Dean starts, but abruptly stops, biting his bottom lip like he used to, showing nervous energy.  Looks to his brother. "Sam. Thing is, what I was trying to tell you. You, you are the only reason I even keep trying." He stops again, eyes sliding to the ground, hands fisted at his side. "I can't fucking believe I'm saying this, but it seems you didn't get the memo. I've said it before, in a goddamn church for crying out loud, that there ain't nothing I'd put before you. You get me, Sammy?"

Sam starts to fidget, sitting ass-naked on his bed in front of his beloved brother. Listening to Dean saying these things, things Sam wants to hear but fears isn't the same as he feels. His love for Dean runs deeper than blood or brotherhood. He wants everything Dean has to offer.

He stands up, not saying a word, but tears fall down his face. He forgets his nudity as he walks towards Dean, who is now openly staring.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy. Look at you." Dean's voice causes a shiver to run down Sam's spine and he stops moving, looks down at himself. He lifts his eyes, still wet, and looks into Dean's intense green eyes, "But, Dean, I want everything. More than you can ever want to give. I'm sorry, God, I never intended you to know. This is just me and my fucked up want."

Dean drags fingertips over Sam's tear stained cheeks. "I gotta- Sam, please." Dean's voice is barely audible, just a raw whisper. Sam feels lips brush his ear, and his breathing quickens. "Yeah. God, yeah." Sam doesn't even know what he's saying yes to, he just knows he'll give Dean everything. "Anything."

Sam feels teeth bite down on the juncture between his neck and shoulder and his knees almost gives out on him. Dean starts laying claim on him, with teeth, lips, hands. "Sammy. Tell me." Dean says between heated touches. "Is this what you want. I need to hear you say it."

"I want everything you can give me. Dean. I'm yours." Dean growls his response onto Sam's lips, the kiss takes Sam's breath away.

[honeeysagee]

this means goodbye pt.2

★5,008 words★ summary: Bucky has to go, and Sam lets him, which cause them both to question whether their love deserves to be fought for. ★★★

The first time Sam Wilson saw him again he had prayed that morning - actually got down on his knees and prayed for a sign that he was moving in the right direction. And when his prayers seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving him with nothing but the echo of his loneliness, he rose, wiping away the remnants of his plea, and faced the day with a heaviness that clung to him like a shadow. His knees weak with uncertainty as he moved throughout his day and life, craving. He still had this hunger that could not be fed.

He knew it was there but couldn’t identify what it was. It ate at the inside of him. In his mind, he imagined it to be the hunger of yearning. A hunger born from his inability to have something and call it home again. The need to feel something close to his heart and hear it again, even if it was just in words. To touch again, and taste another flavor. So, Sam decided to walk the streets of New York. He would look in store windows for inspiration and hope that one of them might give it to him. But when his feet found themselves in the doorways and window displays of the stores in Manhattan, he felt no inspiration. Just emptiness. And maybe a little bit of fear because he didn’t know how long it would take him to find some kind of fulfillment again.

For the last two years, he was a husk of himself. A shell. It was as though someone had sucked out all his emotion and left nothing but a hollowed vessel behind. He felt empty, broken, and useless. That was when the hunger set in. He craved something real and substantial to hold onto, and he wanted to feel that again.

He sighed as he settled into a cafe just north of his apartment. The sun hung low in the sky and the breeze carried with it fresh scents of coffee and baking bread. Sam closed his eyes as the cool air brushed his face, and breathed deeply. Something was calming here. The smells were rich, enticing, and familiar.

Then, and only then, he heard it.

A laugh.

A loud, throaty laugh. Like laughter that is forced through too much tension and has lost its sense of humor. Sam knows who it belongs to. He was once the person - the only person - to bring it out of him. It was a rare occurrence for Bucky to truly laugh, especially around other people. He was always so stoic - cold and distant - but Sam knew him better than most.

Sometimes, Sam had caught him laughing - sometimes, Sam could make him smile. Sam was the only person who had ever made him really laugh. Not just a small chuckle, but actual full-out laughter. Sam remembered it well, he’d never forget it.

Bucky's back was towards Sam, but he was sure it was him. He could recognize Bucky anywhere, especially after these many years. The way he walked, held his body and spoke. This was Bucky Barnes, and he was in the cafe, laughing freely with a woman at a table near the window.

His smile was wide and genuine - his cheeks slightly pink from the heat of the day, his eyes crinkled in laughter. Sam had seen this expression a thousand times before but, now it was different. Different than the usual frown, the downturn of his lips, or the tight line across his forehead that was always there, even in a smiling situation. His laugh was light and free. As though there wasn’t anything in the world to worry about.

Sam couldn't stop staring. He didn't want to. It was the first glance he had of Bucky since that night in New Orleans. Seeing him was like finding a piece of himself that he misplaced. He hadn't been looking for it, but its absence was noticeable. Sam wondered how Buck could smile so easily - wasn't the world caving in on him too? Wasn't it harder to get out of bed? Didn't he, too, reach for emptiness and sigh when that's all he received? Didn't all his emotions writhe within him and a hunger he couldn't feed replace them?

The more Sam watched Bucky's body light up with joy, the more he grew envious. He grew angry. Envied how much this mystery woman was baking Bucky smiled and laughed. Angry because he hadn't so many months trying to figure out how to be better - if that was possible - so Bucky would choose him for once. Envied the man he was before Bucky left. Angry that he had to change to so much.

But beneath the anger, beneath the envy, there was something else—a longing so profound it threatened to consume him whole. A longing for something he couldn't name, couldn't quantify, couldn't even begin to understand.

Sam couldn't take it anymore. His feet were already moving him through the cafe. Through the tables, chairs, and people between him and everything he thought he didn't want anymore. Towards Bucky, who was so far away now and so completely unaware of his approach. Sam took another step. Another. Then another. Two more. One.

One step from him and Bucky. Just one, but he couldn't move. Couldn't bring himself to confront him. What would he say? 'You took my heart. I want it back’? His mouth went dry at the thought of speaking to him. His tongue felt heavy as a rock and he feared he might just lose it. His palms grew sweaty and slick. Sam felt sick at the pit of his stomach as if he was about to throw up. He squeezed his fists. Squeezed. Until the skin turned white with pressure.

The laughter bubbled around him, filling the air with a sense of warmth and camaraderie that felt like a cruel mockery of his own shattered existence. Sam's chest tightened with each peal of laughter, each joyful sound a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had been unable to hold onto.

He tried to breathe, tried to force air into his lungs, but it felt like he was suffocating like the walls were closing in around him, trapping him in a prison of his own making. Panic surged through him, a tidal wave of fear and desperation that threatened to consume him whole.

He staggered backward, his heart pounding in his chest, his vision swimming with black spots. The café spun around him, a dizzying blur of colors and shapes that seemed to warp and distort with each passing moment.

And then, without warning, he was stumbling towards the door, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him, could hear their murmurs of concern, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he could think about was escaping, escaping the suffocating weight of his own despair, escaping the laughter that echoed in his ears like a cruel taunt.

And so, he fled.

In his wake, Bucky caught a glimpse of a familiar, brown-stained leather jacket. He waited for it again. Waited for those dark lashes and those beautiful brown eyes. He didn't get the chance to.

★★

The second time Sam Wilson saw Bucky Barnes was in his own home and in his own front yard.

Winter had settled in. He had spent the past three days trapped in his Brooklyn flat, trying desperately to make sense of his life. Trying to see how this new reality - the reality where he was the one everyone depended on now, had a team to care for as well as a family, and he was finally someone he could be proud of - worked for him. He had done so much of the work for the cause, but Brooklyn wasn't home. His sisters and his nephews were.

So, he packed a couple of bags and headed home for the winter. He would spend his days caring for them and his nights working to make his place homely. He would cook and clean play games and read stories until he fell asleep under the comforting blankets of his warm bed, and he didn't miss anyone. He missed nothing and no one.

That morning, Sam made breakfast for Sarah and the boys. He and his sister swapped childhood stories while the boys ate and listened. This was slowly becoming one of Sam's favorite pastimes. He liked seeing the happiness on his sister's face when he recounted stories to his nephews - the things that brought a tiny, content smile to their faces. And, for a short time, he forgot what had happened. Forgot about the screaming that night. Forgot that he had to run to Brooklyn because the silence afterward was killing him.

Yet, he was better now. He was.

A car horn blared from outside.

Sarah stopped mid-story; her gaze drawn towards the kitchen window. She looked out in surprise and then suddenly at Sam. He looked back at her questioningly. AJ and Cass raced to the window to see it was the one person they'd been waiting in silence for Uncle Bucky. They raced to the front door, each boy trying to be the first one to reach him.

Sarah stood.

Sam stayed in his seat - he looked straight ahead like he was being interrogated. He didn't look at her; he stared at his cup of coffee. He didn't know what to say. His hands were pressed tightly together, knuckles turning white. He swallowed the hunger down.

"I'll go talk to him. Just stay here, okay?" Sarah pleaded because she knew, deep down, that her brother was hurting. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, tell him everything was going to be fine, and that he shouldn't beat himself up over losing someone. But she couldn't do that. That wouldn't help. She knew Sam needed to do this at his own pace.

Bucky stood in the yard, hopeful.

Sam watched from the safety of the kitchen as Sarah stepped out to greet Bucky, her silhouette framed against the winter light streaming in through the window. He could feel the weight of her concern, her unspoken worry for him, hanging heavy in the air like a shroud.

As they exchanged words, their voices muffled by the distance between them, Sam felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart. He knew he should be out there too, facing Bucky head-on, confronting the ghosts of their shared past. But the thought of it made his stomach churn with unease, his mind clouded with uncertainty.

He wanted to be strong, to show Bucky that he had moved on, that he was okay without him. But deep down, beneath the facade of composure, he tried so desperately to maintain, Sam was anything but okay. He was drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions—regret, longing, and an overwhelming sense of loss that threatened to consume him whole.

And as he sat there, alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but wonder if Bucky felt the same. If he, too, wrestled with the demons of their past, haunted by memories of a time when they were more than just strangers passing in the night.

But before Sam could dwell on it any longer, Sarah returned, her expression a mix of concern and compassion. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of support that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

"He wrote you something," she said softly, her voice tinged with understanding. "He said it explained everything."

Sam nodded, his resolve wavering but not broken. With a steadying breath, he pushed himself up from the table, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his uncertainty. As he made his way to the door, he couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter would change everything—that the second time he saw Bucky Barnes would be the beginning of something new, something uncertain, but perhaps, something beautiful in its own right.

Sam hesitated before opening the door, his fingers trembling as he gripped the knob. As he lifted his arm and twisted the handle, a rush of adrenaline filled his body. It was almost too much. Almost all too much, especially since he hadn't seen him since…since he had left that morning.

It felt like years ago.

It was.

"I thought you wouldn't want to see me."

Those were the first words that came out of Bucky's mouth after Sam had stood completely still in front of him and made sure he wasn't looking at him but through. His words sounded hoarse to Sam's ears. Something desperate, broken, and full of regret. Like the pain that lay behind it. And for some reason, it stung even more to hear it coming from the man who caused it.

"I don't."

A small envelope rested between the two of them. Bucky's hand was outstretched, bridging the gap of years between them, but Sam wasn't moving. Bucky wasn't giving up.

His eyes darted to the paper in his grip, scanning it quickly before returning his attention to Sam, a hint of a frown wrinkling his brow. He dropped his hand and tucked it into his pocket, his expression twisting with sadness. His lips pursed slowly, and his shoulders tensed like they were preparing to snap. Confusion flashed behind his blue eyes.

"Sammie, I want to apolo-"

"I can't take personal documents from people like you without a government witness present." Sam was formal - his persona working overtime while he was cracking behind it. His voice held none of its usual warmth, and he was careful to keep his expression blank.

"People like me?" Bucky asked, taken back but the sudden use of formalities. This wasn't his Sam. He was too guarded now. Too closed off. Too distant. Not Sam at all. He didn't nod or try to correct himself, but instead, he continued looking out. Bucky swallowed his pride and nodded finally.

"I'll see you around then."

"You won't," Sam answered simply. Then, before another word could simply between and fix this mess they made, Sam slammed the door.

★★★

The third Sam Wilson saw Bucky Barnes was the evening he decided to put on his best suit. The blue silk shirt fit perfectly across his broad chest and tailored trousers hugged his hips and ass with enough grace to make anybody swoon. The cuffs of his sleeves reached well above his wrists. A pair of dark, fitted sunglasses completed the picture. Even without his hair gelled to perfection, even though his face was clean-shaven, and his skin freshly washed. He was the image of perfection.

Everything from his shoes to his posture to his smile screamed power and authority. It seemed ridiculous to Sam, considering how he'd spent his life running away from that image, but he supposed he was used to the fact by now.

The Hero's Gala had invited him, and he was expected to attend as an honored guest. So naturally he had agreed - even spent all night and morning writing a speech he wasn't sure of. He imagined Steve in his place, and when that familiar voice in his mind told him it wasn't enough, he called it a night and got dressed.

By the time Sam had arrived, the hall was filled with hundreds of people mingling and talking. He had hoped the noise would drown out the sound of his heart drumming against his rib cage. After a quick hello with a few of his acquaintances and an apology to a few other guests he had been avoiding, he made his way to Carol Danvers - his second in command when it came to in-field battles.

"You look pretty, Cap," She whispered to her glass as she raised it to her lips. That brought a chuckle out of him. Nice and warm.

"You don't look bad yourself, Danvers." Carol smiled brightly at him, her blue orbs softening, a small smile playing on her lips. Sam was happy with himself for not breaking eye contact with her, the tension between them long gone and replaced by mere familiarity. Friends.

The evening was beginning to pass by quicker than he would like. The count was slowly winding down, and New Year was coming closer by the second. He was about to excuse himself, to excuse himself and leave as fast as he could when he spotted him. Bucky. In a corner booth, hunched in a shadow, the man in question staring down at his drink and seemingly lost in thought.

He wore a completely black suit. His clothes were sleek and elegant. His hair was styled up, falling in neat waves over his forehead. His jawline was sharp, his cheeks smooth, and his cheekbones defined by the subtle curve of his lips. His eyes were a brilliant shade of green, and the corners were crinkled in an attempt to conceal the pain that had settled into his features. Sam found himself taking a tentative step forward.

Sam, however, found himself and walked to the door. He whispered suddenly, 'Come to me' and 'Come home' in his mind. In a far, far corner of it. Even if there was a moment where Bucky could hear him, Sam was sure he wouldn't come. Not after he offended him.

The light of New York and the cold air rushed to Sam. He breathed deeply, allowing the fresh scent of crisp winter air and snow to fill his lungs. The balcony was quiet beside the sudden hum of music that was happening on the inside. He let go of a breath and inhaled it back in deeply.

He didn't even hear the door open behind him.

"It's nice to see you again, Sammie." Bucky's voice was quiet yet firm, carrying some trace of its former sweetness and gentleness. Sam's whispered yearns had paid off, but to what extent?

He was unsure.

Sam turned around to face him; his arms crossed as he looked Bucky straight in the eyes. He didn't know why his body betrayed him by reacting in such an unfriendly manner; he knew it was irrational, but he couldn't stop it. It felt as if a fire burned deep within his chest.

"It's Captain, now," Sam was more than elated to say that. "Is it still James?" The name tasted like ashes in his mouth, but somehow, Sam knew that if he let them linger for too long, he wouldn't be able to say it anymore.

Bucky nodded. "You've never called me that before," he whispered, his eyes never leaving Sam's. There was an unspoken plea there, begging for forgiveness, begging for understanding, begging for friendship. For all of that, Sam gave nothing. I shouldn't have to, he thought.

"How's the Lightening Squad or whatever you call yourselves?" Sam questioned, turning his gaze from Bucky to the lights of the city. They were a vibrant red, their colors shining so beautifully beneath the night sky.

Bucky shrugged lightly, following Sam's gaze. They both knew that Sam knew who the Thunderbolts were. They had caused enough trouble between the two of them. It's hard to figure out a name like that.

"Thunderbolts, and we're good." He grinned softly.

"That's great," Sam said with forced enthusiasm. He could feel the disappointment seeping into his tone. Bucky didn't seem to notice it, though, because he was busy taking in his surroundings once again. Sam could tell. His fingers wrapped tightly around his glass, his knuckles white, his breathing shallow. His lips parted slightly, revealing pearly whites that shone in the bright lights of the city. Sam seemed just as affected by it as he was by everything else. "It's uh-" Buck hesitated for a moment, "-Nice out tonight, isn't it?"

It was.

But Sam seemed distracted. "Cap…"

Finally, Sam smiled and nodded towards the city before him, "I sold the apartment here," His eyes twinkled from something unsaid yet, "And I moved back home."

He waited for Bucky to say something, anything, but the only sound he heard was his own calm breathing. Bucky nodded slightly, his eyes glazed with a sort of wonderment that Sam hadn't seen on his face since he first met him.

There were a million things Sam wanted to say, to ask. His mind buzzed with unspoken words, with the longing he felt deep down but couldn't voice. The tension between them hung heavy in the cold night air, each of them waiting for the other to break the silence, to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.

"You should told me," Bucky joked, but there was truth in there, "I would have come and helped you move boxes, Old Man."

Sam's jaw tightened. "You weren't exactly around to tell," he replied, a bitter edge to his words. "James."

He hated himself for saying it, hated the way that name rolled off his tongue so easily, so seamlessly. He tried to swallow the lump of bitterness forming in his throat. But it remained. And it kept growing, pushing its way past his teeth, past the tightness in his chest, and making the edges of his vision blur.

The silence was tense.

Bucky leaned his back against the railing and pushed his hands in the suit's pockets - he wouldn't control his hands if they found their way to his. If his body somehow winds up on his and pleads with Sam to take him and take him back. Nor could he stop himself if Sam planted a rejection to his ears, and his body decided to swan dive over the balcony. So, he placed his hands in his pockets.

"You know, I didn't know have to face you," Bucky confessed. "I wasn't - I'm not the same person."

Sam's eyes softened slightly, the anger within him dimming. "You didn't have to face me," he said quietly. "You just had to be there."

Silence hung heavy in the air. Neither one of them dared to speak. They couldn't bring themselves to, no matter how much they wished they could. The cold wind blew harshly through their faces, bringing goosebumps to their arms. They both pulled their coats tighter over their shoulders and sighed in relief as they saw one another.

Bucky stepped closer, the tension between them electric. "I'm here now," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I want to be here, with you, if you'll let me."

Sam opened his mouth to answer but stopped short when a voice interrupted him, "Captain." He turned towards it and looked towards Carol, who was leaning out the door. Her eyes shifted between Sam and Bucky.

"Danvers," Sam gained her attention again. "You need something."

Her eyes widened a bit. "Right. Sorry," her eyes darted from Sam to the man standing beside him. "They're asking for you to come make the speech." Carol had a suggestive look on her face, and Sam knew if he could read minds she was making every dirty joke in the book. He ignored it.

"Or I can just improvise," Carol offered - her eyes matching the lights of the party, "So, you can… catch up." She smirked knowingly, nodding towards Bucky before she closed the door gently. Both men watched her disappear into the party. Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, his mind spinning with thoughts and feelings that were threatening to consume him. The atmosphere was suddenly stifling and thick, and Sam couldn't stand to hold it any longer.

Sam leaned over the balcony, watching the city lights. He hated them. They blocked the view of the stars. Maybe, that's why he decided to move him. It had nothing to do with the possibility of running into Bucky Barnes

"I thought 3 years apart would be enough time. I thought I could just rip you from me," Sam was confessing, laying his cards on the table, "And I would somehow feel whole. Yet, we're still connected." He shook his head with a small smile. Something Bucky had never seen from him. His heart ached.

"Of course, we are." He added. "I ripped out so much of myself, and I'm left with nothing. This big. gaping hole and the only thing I can think to fill it with is more you. I don't want to."

Sam stopped and finally looked at Bucky. His Bucky. The one that was broken and bruised, but still beautiful. Bucky took a tentative step forward. Sam didn't stop him. "I'm sorry," Bucky's pleading expression was painful to watch. "You know that I am."

Sam felt his resolve crumbling, the walls he'd built around his heart beginning to fall. He took a deep breath, the weight of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He fought to keep himself steady. "I know." He managed. The pain that was evident in Bucky's features tore through his heart like knives, but he continued anyway. "I know, but I also know it's going to take me a while to just exist outside of you. I've been living my life always following behind. First, Steve, and now, you. I need to be alone right now."

He was struggling to even utter those last few sentences. "After you left three years ago and never came back, never utter a word, I felt like someone had just carved me open and left me there to bleed out. I don't want to feel that ever again. So, I need to protect myself first and figure out how to fix it. Fix me."

A torrent of emotions surged within him, a mixture of guilt, regret, and a deep, abiding sorrow for the pain he'd caused.

He felt his chest tighten as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart, making it hard to breathe. Sam's words cut through him like a knife, each one a reminder of the times he'd turned away, the moments he'd let slip through his fingers. The memories of their friendship, the laughter, the camaraderie, all of it now tinged with a sense of loss and missed opportunities.

Bucky's mind raced, filled with the haunting image of Sam's eyes, once so full of life and determination, now clouded with a weariness that seemed to seep into his very soul. He could see the cracks in Sam's armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface, and it tore at him to know that he was partly responsible for that.

A wave of self-loathing washed over him. How could he have been so blind? How could he have let things get this bad? The weight of his mistakes pressed down on him, almost suffocating in its intensity. But beneath the guilt, there was also a flicker of something else—a glimmer of hope. Sam had said it was going to take time, but he hadn't shut the door completely.

The tear that had escaped was soon joined by others, cascading down his face as he struggled to find the right words. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. "Sam… I'm so sorry," he choked out, his throat tight with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted this."

He took a tentative step forward, his hand reaching out as if to bridge the gap between them, to offer some form of comfort, but he hesitated, afraid that his touch might be unwelcome. Bucky's eyes searched Sam's, looking for any sign of forgiveness, any indication that his words were getting through. He could feel the desperation in his own heart, the burning need to mend what was broken, to heal the wounds he'd inflicted.

He felt exposed, raw, as if his soul had been laid bare. The vulnerability was terrifying, but it was also liberating. For the first time in a long while, he was letting go of the mask he'd worn for so long, allowing himself to feel, to truly connect. And in that moment, despite the pain and the uncertainty, there was a spark of something precious—a chance for redemption, for renewal.

He spoke again, "I'll wait," He promised. "Wait until you want me again. Wait until you think I fit back into your life, and we'll pick up right where we left off." He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts. "I'll wait for you. For us."

He waited for a beat. His heart dropped. And then it skipped a beat. And then a beat…

He exhaled slowly, staring into Sam's eyes, hoping for something - anything. A response. An acknowledgment. Anything to show that he wasn't alone. He wasn't giving up. He wasn't letting go of Sam. Not yet.

The countdown to midnight began in the distance, voices chanting in unison as the seconds ticked away. The final seconds of the countdown echoed around them, and as the clock struck midnight, the sky above erupted in a blaze of color. Fireworks lit up the night, their vibrant bursts painting the darkness with streaks of red, gold, and blue. The sounds of celebration from the party behind them faded into a distant murmur as both men turned their gazes upward, watching the spectacle unfold.

For a moment, they stood side by side, their differences and distances seeming to fade in the glow of the fireworks. Bucky had never been one for making wishes, but as he watched the sky light up with a kaleidoscope of colors, he found himself wishing for something with all his heart. He wished that Sam would come back to him, that they could find a way to heal together, even though Sam was standing right beside him.

As the final fireworks faded, leaving trails of smoke and the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air, Bucky smiled, "Happy New Year, Sam."

A hand was placed on Bucky's back. Sam was closing the distance with a warm embrace the both of them needed. A hug. They melted into it. Welcoming the feeling and neither wanting to pull away. This was the closeness they'd craved. Sam's hunger was nowhere to be seen.

"Happy New Year, Bucky."

[just-an-anon-reader]

Well, hello there dear author! ^^

I wanted to ask for a platonic request with all the boys (Rise!Donie, Rise!Raph, Rise!Mike and Rise!Leo) in wich reader is an early teenage girl (12-13-14) that lives with the gang at their place and that has very bad trust issues, like, she is kind and willing to spend time with the boys but rarely talks and never lets anyone touch her if it's not strictly necesary.

And one day, all of a sudden when Leo went to her room to wake her up and tell her that breakfast is ready he finds her still sleeping but having a really bad nightmare. Leo wakes her up and tries to calm her down by words but then the reader gets up of bed and tackles him into a hug while crying on his chest.

And she becomes slightly clingy to Leo anly talking to him and him being the only ine allowed to touch her.

And while he presumes to his brothers that you choose him and not the other's on who to trust the rest of the rottmnt brothers are like "From all of the four, you chossed him-? Like- really (y/n)?"

Feel free to Ignore this request if you feel the need to! And also don't forget to sleep a good amount of hours, eat well and stay hydrated! ^^

Trust Us

Summary: You were abandoned. You were unloved and unwanted. So when Splinter found you and added you to the family six years ago, the fear and anxiety that filled you then, still fills you now. 

Warning: A bit of angst, topics of trauma and anxiety attacks. 

P.S: Wow! I never thought someone would actually want me to write their ideas. Like hOw?? But thank you for requesting! This was so fun to write and I hope I did your idea justice~ 

Somehow, someway, Splinter found you. A young five-year-old girl, lost. You were left unloved and unwanted. And yet, for reasons he hasn't fully explained to you, he took you in. He gave you a home and loved you as he did with his sons. He made you a Hamato. And that's how you now find yourself on the side of a ramp that's too high to be safe, quietly cheering on as the teenage turtles fought for the longest who could stay in the air without falling on their turtle butts. It's been six years since that day, and you've always been grateful to your adoptive family. Yet despite that, no matter how much you loved them, you couldn't find it in yourself to open up to them. To tell them about the fears that have buried themselves deep inside your heart, or about the uncertainties that plagued you every single day. You didn't know what you needed for you to come out to them. Maybe it was time, but you've had plenty already. Maybe, it was for someone to approach you, not like the turtles or Splinter didn't try. They really did at first, quite obnoxiously at that. But over time, they learned to wait for you, and they respected that. You wanted to tell them, shout it out even. But time and time again, you can feel yourself sink back into the loneliness that had never once left you since that day six years ago.

It was a slow Friday. There was no mutant who needed stopping or oozequitoes that needed zapping. Today's itinerary? Sleep in, game, snack, and sleep some more. For the turtles anyway. You were usually the early riser of the gang. So imagine Leo's surprise when he woke up at 9:30 to an ominously silent lair. Mostly anyway, Splinter's snores could still be heard loud and clear.

 "Maybe she's turning a new leaf." Leo thought to himself, shrugging as he made his way to the kitchen.

 The only reason he woke up was because of his demanding stomach. It needed nutrients. And what could be more nutritious than pizza on a slow Friday? Finding some leftover pizza, which were surprisingly left untouched, he threw them into the microwave setting it at high heat for three minutes. It was already quarter to ten and you still weren't up. Worried, Leo grabbed and plated the last two slices of his double leftover and slightly burnt pizza, and walked towards your room.

 "Heya~ I got you some leftover pizza. They're a bit burnt, but I think the bitter aftertaste adds to the flavor."

 No response. He tried again, knocking on the door this time. Again, no response. Maybe you weren't in your room. He presses his head to your door and is shocked to hear painful groaning from behind it.

 "I don't know what going on in there, but I'm coming in."

 Turning the knob and finding the door unlocked, he rushed in to see you writhing in bed. Beads of sweat dripped from your forehead as your face contorted to one of pain and your eyes were screwed shut. Leo realized you were dreaming. Not exactly a pleasant dream, but a horrible nightmare. He rushed to your side, the food he brought forgotten on the floor. He went to shake you awake but stopped midway. You didn’t like to be touched. You hated it. And so, he tried calling out your name, telling you to wake up, and borderline shouting at this point. But you didn't and instead, you started to struggle much worse. You tossed and turned in your sheets as the frown on your face deepened. He had no other choice. Gently he placed his hands on your shoulders and began shaking you awake.

"Hey! Come on! Wake up! It's just a dream!"

 You suddenly jolted up, forcing Leo to back up, or else it would've been a direct forehead collision. He quickly let go of your shoulders, raising them as if saying that he didn't mean to touch you.

 "I-"

Whatever it was that he was going to say you didn't hear. Much to his surprise, you rushed to embrace him. Arms wrapped tightly around his mid-section as fat tears rolled down your face and stained his blue-striped pajamas. Unsure of what to do, he slowly returned his raised hands to your shoulders and rubbed them comfortingly. When you didn't flinch away from his touch, he gently wrapped his arms around your sobbing form and embraced you, shushing you and cooing out words of comfort. For a while, you both stayed like that. In between your sobs, you told him about your dream, about the fears that ate you from inside, and the never-ending anxiety that plagued you day in and day out. Leo silently embraced you, humming now and then to let you know to keep going and that he was still listening to you. Finally, erratic breathing slowed and you softly whispered, "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing for you to be sorry about. Just glad you trusted me enough to tell me. Come on now, give me a smile."

 Hand on your chin, Leo pulled your face from the crook of his neck and smiled down at you, and smiled back. It was probably your ugliest smile with tear stains down your cheek and snot dripping from your nose. But, to be honest, you've never felt so free of the weight that used to crush you.

Since that night, you and Leo have undeniably become closer. They noticed. Who wouldn't though? You spoke to Leo more by at least 545 words, according to Donnie's calculations. And every time Leo would see you lose yourself in your mind, he would sit beside you and nudge your shoulder. The most surprising part was that you would lean towards him instead of flinching at the touch. At some point, Raph couldn't take it anymore and said, "Really? Like really? Of the four of us, it was Leo? Not like I'm jealous or anything, but Leo, really?"  

[philhoffman]

Ending an awfully rough month with one of the gentlest films for this week’s Monday Philm: A Late Quartet (2012), dir. Yaron Zilberman. Hard to pick just ten shots for this post when the movie—and Phil as Robert Gelbart—are so gorgeous throughout.

In the brief making-of featurette Discord and Harmony, Phil talks about how this isn’t a film where someone is dying, no one is robbing a bank—it’s just about life and regular people going through real struggles in their relationships, reckoning with their lives up to now. That really allows the characters (and actors) to shine, making use of the smallest nuances to show how the quartet has fallen out of tune.

So many little things I love about this film, especially on this watch—Robert’s damp, messy, fresh-out-of-the-shower morning hair at the start. His impression of Daniel’s accent. The balance between the cold, undersaturated blues and greens of New York City in the winter and the rich warm tones found in the music, in bed, in the concert hall. I’m not too familiar with Christopher Walken’s career but he brings such a quiet sadness to Peter’s loneliness. Imogen Poots is overacting but it’s kind of camp? Robert’s gives a little laugh, and PSH’s voice is so deep, so bass, it rumbles the speakers on my old TV a bit. For a film about music, there’s an awful lot of silence—which serves as tension, cut softly by an up-bow or violently by Robert’s outburst. 

Especially loved the scenes of Robert jogging through Central Park, because in less than a month I’m gonna be running through Central Park in this year’s NYC half marathon! It’s a funny, full-circle moment when I think about it, since Phil is one of the primary reasons I’m running it to begin with!

I started rambling a bit here so I’m just gonna throw it under a cut:

I’ve mentioned before that Phil confided in a friend that he felt this was his best performance. It’s interesting to watch A Late Quartet with that thought in mind. His friend partially agreed, later writing that this performance was the start of what should’ve been—the next, deeper, more powerful, incredible chapter of Phil’s career. He is so clear-eyed, so in control of his body, in sync with the story and his fellow actors and the music. He took violin lessons and was quite good, apparently to everyone’s surprise lmao. Robert’s pain goes so deep, uncertainty and doubts and fears of not being good enough stretching back 25 years, and PSH shows it with the tears in his eyes, a quavering voice, glares of restrained fury and deep breaths.

Anyone at all familiar with Phil Hoffman is probably aware of how hard he was on himself—almost comically, often infuriatingly humble and/or self-critical, take your pick. So I’m glad he was proud of this performance and recognized his own strengths here. He was and is so loved, outside of his work, just for who he was, for being himself, someone so many people would move heaven and earth for. I know I would love him anywhere, doing anything. I’d love him if he fulfilled that fantasy of running away to work at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, unknown and unrecognized, or his other idea of moving to France to teach English, or if he stayed at the deli forever. That’s just how the stars are crossed. But I’m also grateful for what he did do, the souls he brought forth from his own, the lives he lived onscreen and left for us. It’s acting and it’s art and it’s so much more.

Feeling especially emotional tonight because it’s the end of February, the longest shortest month, and this has been a particularly terrible one. It’s one of those illogical quirks of love and grief that he is the reason this time is unbearable and he is also the reason I am able to bear it. Gd, words fail. I just didn’t know what life meant until I met him, is all. Love you in the snow and love you in the sun, Phil.

[focusfixated]

10, 18, 35 for the writing questions please! :)

thank you for asking!!

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

i'm going to talk fic, because that's what i write. i think it's very important for everyone to know that at the very base and core of my being there lie two stories: the good life, by sinsense, and will as it moves towards deed by yeats. i don't really know how to explain why it's those two specifically. there is so much brilliant writing in fandom that's moved me over the years. but the fundamental shift that happened in me when i read these stories, and the way that certain phrases still come to mind years later, feels like something you might call a haunting.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end.

this is a bit more of a niche one, but i chose it because i like it a lot, and it's extremely personal, too. a passage from avoir trente ans:

As the docklands get busier, Max walks back into the city. He orders coffee in bad English, tries to figure out how to get a local bus-pass with the help of an old Chinese woman with an accent as pronounced as his, then takes a ride down to the beach, broken headphones playing his music in half. He lets the algorithm choose what to put on at random, not letting himself underscore his journey with his own woeful choices: songs for being alone on a bus. songs for missing home. songs for wondering if you made a mistake. When he gets to his destination – Brighton Beach, stop A – Max hops off and walks down a salt-bleached boardwalk. The sun burns harder here – Max can feel the holes in the ozone above him, like a dam’s collapsed in the sky, sloughed away the clouds and atmosphere and released months of pent-up light in a hot, hazy torrent. The beach bends around the coast in big, scooping curves, lapped up in front by flat, foam-edged water, buffered in the back by scrubby bush-trees. Out to the side, the urban silhouette of the city skyline juts up against the block-blue of the sky in one even, primary shade. No one else is here, looking at him, looking for him. The loneliness is strange. Asynchronous. A decalibrated setting that’s tilting him off balance, like his very existence is used to being propped up and the scaffolding’s come down, leaving him lurching against nothing as he overcorrects. He figures he’s going to have to learn to live with it. He takes his shoes off, digs his toes into the sand, and lets the tide come up to meet him.

i wrote this for the film matthias et maxime in the grip of a weird and wild time that included the disintegration of a close friendship and a move across to the other side of the world with no job or place to live. i put all my feelings about home, loneliness, familiarity and newness into it.

this passage was straight up just my life at the time. the slightly melancholy bus rides. the abrasively hot summer. the independence, the loneliness, the uncertainty, the freedom.

it was a toss-up, while i was writing it, whether there would be a happy romantic ending for matt and max or not. in the end, my decision was very strongly coloured by channelling what i wanted for myself into max's experience - for him to find his feet, his confidence, his independence, to allow himself to discover without fear, to be a whole person of his own before letting any strands of his old life take him back.

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

the thing is, i'm a big fan of writing advice and experimenting with rules other people have taken onboard to improve their practice, in the hope i might find something that works for me and helps me improve, too. not everything will work for every writer, but i don't think i'm quite confident or talented enough to presume any rule needs to be chucked out of the window when i haven't yet found my own way of doing it better. it's just a case of remembering you don't have to adhere to anything that doesn't work for you.

writer ask here!

[pumpkinnning]

⭐️ for the ask game!

Hii thanks for asking ! Love yr fic too btw !

(tw body horror)

For Sanctuary AU I want to talk about the dream sequence/memory Charles has about seeing the witch being taken away as a kid and the suitcase full of gory stuff - it's actually a scene that was originally planned for much earlier in the story (ch 8 I think) and it originally was the first hint that Charles had magic but then I realized it was maybe too on the nose/out of nowhere and first I wanted to build this sense of longing where magic is Seb's world and Charles really wants to be part of it, and then this starts bringing things to the surface ; and for the reader to be in the same space of uncertainty for a bit ; it also ties magic more into their developing feelings for each other and vice versa.

This memory is about Charles growing up associating magic with danger, loneliness and social exclusion. So, unsurprisingly he's pushed it down, but meeting Seb has changed this. However, it still terrifies him.

The part with the intestines and eyes in the suitcase is about his fear of exposure, visceral feelings, "listening to his guts" and "being seen" and stuff like that, which will happen if he taps into his magic because magic in this universe is not just energy transfer, it's a very personal and emotional thing that reveals a lot about you and is influenced by your psychology. And overall like he says earlier denial is a key coping mechanism for him, born from a place of survival, perfectionism, not wanting to disappoint people/himself, and having this gap btw his romantic ideals and reality. And so I wanted to make his choice to use magic for the first time to save Seb heavier and more meaningful so it makes sense to have this scene right before that ! He is absolutely sacrificing something. Ofc he is a decent person and would try to save anyone like this but would it have worked, against a lifetime of repression, if it hadn't been Seb ? Not sure.

+ and also it's linked to the drunk conversation they had earlier about their pasts. Because even though it sucked I don't think Charles is right saying it just made everything worse. It created this deeper kinship between them. And after these conversations about wanting too much and loving too much, there's this sense of like 'okay now I am going to pull all these parts of myself I have hidden for so long into the light even though I hate it, for you, there's something about that that feels a bit grotesque and excessive about this kind of vulnerability but it's still worth it!' & maybe it's the only antidote against fear and horror etc because fear and horror also have this excessive, monstrous quality of breaking your perception of the world/yourself or sth

Anyway not sure where i am going with this but writing wise, from ch 8 onwards I did a lot of reshuffling of scenes, in the first draft a lot of them were in a very different order (the beard shaving scene was much later, for instance). And I have been thinking a lot about how in big plotty stories you can really change the emotional impact of a scene (without necessarily changing the scene much) depending on where you put it in the sequence of events and ! yeah !

[firefly-in-darkness]

Head & Heart

Pairing → Captain Syverson x Female Reader

Characters → Captain Syverson

Summary → Will you give in to your heart or follow your head?

Warnings → A little bit of angst...

Betas → @princessmisery666 - thank you as always // all mistakes are my own.

Prompts → Mistletoe for @winter2112rose Christmas Event challenge…

A/N → I'm a little out of sync with the posting schedule for the event. But I'm getting back on track to share their story - if you’d like to be added to the tag list then drop me an ask ✨

PREVIOUSLY // A Captain’s Christmas Series List

Firefly’s Masterlist

Your body tingled with anticipation of what was to come. The excitement and desire of what the night could lead to was palpable in the small space of the cab of Sy’s truck. Yet the moment you stepped into his apartment, it morphed into nervousness and uncertainty. You peeled off your coat and scarf, hanging them on the hooks by the front door while your body, heart and mind fought over what you should do next.

Tentatively, you followed Sy into the apartment and towards the kitchen where he grabbed a couple of beers by their necks and removed the caps with a simple twist. His arms flexing under the black Metallica t-shirt. The want for him was growing as he handed you the bottle, and you took a gulp while he nodded towards the lounge.

Do you give in to your desires? Or do you just walk away now before anything further could happen, spare your heart of its inevitable break when Sy returns to his post in the Middle East? Your stomach dropped at even the thought of walking away from him, you would never do that to yourself, let alone him.

You knew you were being quiet and that he’d picked up on it. He was too hyper aware of people and their surroundings to have not noticed. Years of being in the army had taught him that, who to trust or to make split-second decisions that could be costly. There was no denying you had marvelled at the man that had reclined on the couch, his arm resting across the back, open for you to join him when you were ready. He was powerful yet gentle, a mixture of sarcasm and self-control, a man of impeccable taste in music and had been very, very, attentive to your needs.

There was clearly something between you, even after all these years. You had pushed down your feelings and hoped they’d disappear over time, yet it’s clear that you were drawn to one another. And like a gravitational pull, you had taken the seat beside him.

The fear remained as to whether you could handle the hurt and loneliness that was sure to follow whatever transpired between the two of you, platonic or otherwise.

A large hand cupped your face and brought your gaze to his. “We don’t have to do anything, darlin’.”

You smiled and leant into his palm, relishing in his touch. “I’m not sure right now, Sy.”

“Well, ‘cos of Christmas tradition, can I at least get a peck on the cheek?” He smirked at you and pointed upwards.

You spotted the mistletoe hanging off a photo frame of Sy and his army buddies, just above the couch. Your heart soared at the sight, it was as if fate, or Christmas magic, was helping you make the decision, overriding the turmoil in your head.

With a smile, you leant forward. “You’re worth more than a peck on the cheek.”

Sy pulled you closer, his arms wrapped around your torso in a warm embrace. Soft and chapped lips met in a delicate kiss; your hands braced on his broad shoulders. The whiskers of his beard scratched deliciously across your skin and the kiss was an exchange of passion and longing filled sighs. You pulled back, breathless, and rested your forehead against his cheek, basking in the scent and heat that emanated from him.

“Much better than a peck, darlin’,” Sy chuckled deeply, the rumble in his chest flowed through to yours. “How about we watch a movie?”

You looked up at Sy and nodded, he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips and then leant away to get the remote from the coffee table while your heart swelled tenfold at his tenderness. He pulled the blanket from the back of the couch over you both and he tucked you under his arm and you instinctively rested your head on his muscular chest.

Your heart had won this time.

To Be Continued...

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[plush-rabbit]

Uncertainty in the Household

Picture Perfect Series

TW: talk and action for miscarriage, slight manipulation

Word Count: 4.1K

A/N: I wanted to explore the reader and Danny’s relationship in this chapter, so i hope you like it, first part is p rough with the whole miscarriage, so you're free to skip to after the second - if you're uncomfy with that

-

Tears fall into your palms as your fingertips dig into your scalp, your belly- while still early in the pregnancy, still feels as if it’s protruding, and you sit on the shared bed, a faint smell of cigarettes and alcohol lingers in the air and you’re alone. For now, at least. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were Danny who was the father. You want to kid yourself, to tell such lies that he could be the father, that sleeping with- that being forced into whatever sick game Ghostface has with you- that he didn’t impregnate you. You blame yourself. You should have taken the morning after pill, you should have purged yourself of everything and anything to make sure that you didn’t let yourself have his child. Your stomach twists and turns, a thin veil of acid on your tongue and you wonder how to explain this to Danny. If you even should. It’s still early, maybe you could get rid of the child before anyone has to know. Your eyes widen and you sit up, your eyes scanning the room and you let out a breath, nodding to yourself.

You can get rid of the child. No one knows. You made sure to throw away the pregnancy tests in a dumpster at a park and rip the receipts before anyone could ever see. No one has to know.

Loneliness, while always being your aggressor, has finally worked in your favor. You rush to put on your clothes, ignoring the burning desire to cry, your purse in your hand, you walk to the front door, pausing to leave a note to your partner.

“Went out, I’ll bring dinner.” Something short and simple. Marked with a little heart at the end that makes you feel a bit sick, like it’s something like a lie that you’re telling him. You place the pen down and grab the car keys, rushing down the steps. Each step down the stairs is something that feels heavy, chains around our ankle and the child- no, you can’t call it that. You know you’ll get attached. You’ve heard about the tactics that are used to pressure vulnerable people into keeping their unborn children, and you won’t be one of those. You can’t. Not now and you’re sure not ever. The car purrs to life, the steering wheel a bit too hot from being under the sun and you wait, letting the cool air fan against your already hot body and you reverse out of the parking lot.

-

You return with tuna, alcohol, fenugreek, a peppermint and aloe vera plant, a thin bag that is filled with peaches, different varieties of caffeine that you can already taste, and pineapple. Your hands ache, the base of your fingers sore from the heaviness of the bags that you stubbornly carried up to the apartment. You were not going to make multiple trips, that much was certain about your day. You hear his voice before you see him, a greeting cut off as he realizes just how much you’re carrying. Danny’s eyes widen, and he rushes off the couch, taking bags away and your palms are redden from the indents of the bags.

“Are we having a feast?” His hands are inside a bag and he pulls out wrapped fish, and he stops, turning to you, a tight smile on his lips that you don’t recognize. “I didn’t know you liked fish.” He places it down and watches as you carefully place a clinking bag down onto the table. “Alcohol too, huh? What-” he turns to you, a nervous chuckle filling the space of his words- “Did I forget a special date?”

You shake your head no, already biting into an unwashed peach, trying to ignore how many hands and bacteria have touched the fruit before you. “Just-” you speak with a full mouth and turn your head, covering your mouth with your hand and taking another bite. You swallow and take a gulp of air. “I was just craving fish is all. Why? Do you not like fish?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that I- I just wanted soup, and-” your smile falls and he shakes his head. “I can get soup tomorrow. How long until the fish is down?”

“Actually-” you reach into another bag and pull out two containers- “I was able to buy some sushi on the way home.” You pull out a pack and slide the container to him. You spare him a glance as he stares at the sushi with an odd, angry feeling. “Oh, I’m uh, I have tomorrow off, by the way.” You meet his eyes for a minute and he gives you a nod, allowing you to continue.

“You’ve been throwing up lately,” he adds, taking a bite from his plate. Your heart sinks and you try to mask your emotions, turning around to grab a bottle opener from one the drawers. “I’ve been worried, you know. Maybe-” the chair squeaks and when you turn, he’s sitting down, an unopened beer beside his plate- “I should take tomorrow off too and we can go to the doctor. Just to see if you don’t have the flu or-” he tilts his head, his lips twitching- “if it isn’t anything else.”

A part of you wants to tell him your fear. You don’t want to be pregnant, and you hope that if you manifest it enough, it’ll be true. But you also fear that he wants a family and you’ll be the one ruining it for him. Maybe you aren’t even pregnant. Maybe it’s just needless worry over a few faulty exams, but you can’t risk it. Not now. Not if it has the chance to be someone other than Danny’s.

With a bottle opener in hand, you walk towards Danny, his eyes on you the entire time. You place the bottle opener beside his drink, a hand on his shoulder and the other brushing back his hair, combing it to the side. His hands leave his meal and rest against your hips, his gaze up at you and there’s a hint of a smile at his lips, and you lean down, pressing your lips over his scar that adorns his forehead.

“We have bills to pay Dan,” you mutter, “at least one of us should be responsible.” You close your eyes tightly to avoid tears spilling over, the hand on his shoulder tightening and when you pull away, he looks unbothered for a moment before giving you a forced smile. “Let’s eat, okay? You can tell me about your day.”

-

All it takes is one doctor appointment to confirm that you are not pregnant. It was just a scare. And as if life and everything else in control of you wanted to laugh, you bled through your underwear on the ride home. The vomiting in the morning was your body simply pretending to have the signs, your mind so strong that it created a falsehood of pregnancy, just because you were so scared and sure of it.

Life is odd for the moment. You tried so hard to get rid of the unwanted child and they were never there to begin with. You had to go through with the nervousness that consumed you. The call to the doctor, the waiting, the glances that Danny gave you as if he knew something. You wonder if he did know. He isn’t dumb, a bit dense when it comes to your feelings, but he’s smart in a way that matters. You hope that he doesn’t know, for both your sake and his. The little scare will be something that you take to your grave, hoping that it’ll remain just that.

The fan is turned on with a simple swipe of your hand against the light switch, the room filling with white noise. You sit on his couch, your body stiff as if it were the first time that you had visited his home. You still remember how it was. Dirty. You hadn’t expected that from him. There was trash all over, a sort of musty smell and an empty fridge. He hadn’t seemed embarrassed, but rather mildly inconvenienced even though he was the one to invite you over. However, now the place is as clean as it can be, the musty smell now replaced by a slight twinge of alcohol and tobacco, but with an overlapping floral scent from one of your candles. You can’t help but wonder if he minds that you added bits and pieces of yourself into his home. He calls it your home too, almost too eager to make sure that you know that you belong here, but even so, it doesn't feel like your home. It’s too empty, too devoid of your touch. You still feel as if you’re a guest, waiting and cleaning, tending to him when he needs it.

The simple fact of the matter is, this isn’t your home. Your stuff, your personal items that you decorated your home are still in boxes shoved under the bed. You miss your home. “I miss my home,” you say to yourself, tears pricking in your eyes. The rent was cheap, and the landlords were kind enough, but it’s gone. The place scooped up by some stranger and the thought has your stomach rising.

You’ve thought about leaving here. Perhaps not Danny, but maybe that would be a consequence of you leaving. It was too rushed. You were too scared of Ghostface invading your life again. You made a rash decision that the both of you now have to pay for. He lost his space, his privacy and you can tell he holds some resentment, the way he slams the doors close, how he locks the rooms and won’t speak to you until he needs something, until he’s pressuring you to kiss him with a half-hearted apology on his tongue.

You glance at the coffee table, old and cracked, the paint on the wood chipped and revealing the unfurnished finish. The photo frame is cold, a slight layer of dust over it, concealing your nervous smile and Danny’s wide one. He isn't happy, but he’s smiling. You both only have a few pictures with each other. It isn’t much, and you’re surprised that the photographer wouldn’t want more, but it can’t be helped.

The photo is placed back on the table, and you lay down on the sofa, grabbing at the throw blanket that you added. Your arms act as a pillow underneath your weary head, and you stare at the photo, training over how his arms are wrapped tight round you and how close that he holds you.

-

Daniel walks into his shared apartment with you, and he immediately spots your shoes in a different position than when he left. He frowns, walking further into the apartment, his eyes scan the room, his eyes landing on a crumpled bag of fast food on the table, the drink creating a water ring on the table. It isn’t like you to be so careless.

The drink rattles in his hand, nothing but cold liquid is inside the container. His bag is heavy as he leans it against the wall on the floor, and he finally finds you. You’re asleep on the couch, your body curled with the decorative throw blanket covering your body as the fan spins above.

He lowers himself to watch you, your soft breaths and the way your face is relaxed. You’re asleep and it brings him back to a time where you were under him, where night concealed him and he was able to hover above you. It’s much different now, you’re still scared but he’s able to kiss you, to have you rake your nails down his back and hold his hand as if it’s the only thing to keep you sane.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, your skin soft and blemished with faded scars that he’s studied meticulously night after night. You wake up with his fingers tracing over your face and he doesn’t make a sound, everything about him is stoic and he wonders how you are seeing this situation in your eyes. Are you scared? Do you know? Are you pregnant? What are you thinking of him at this very moment? You blink slowly at him and he’s reminded of a cat, watching and tired, and there’s a burning desire in him that wonders what you would do if he strangled you right now. Slowly, his hand lowers, his knuckles brushing over your cheekbones and down your jawline, touching against your pulse on your neck and he feels it quicken. Your eyes never leave his and he doesn’t look away. He’s sure that he could convince you that it was a joke or that maybe it was just a dream that you had. It’s been a while since you had such a vivid dream.

Your hand creeps from under the blanket and you hold the back of his hand, moving it back to your face, letting your lips press against the side of his palm in a soft kiss. “Danny,” you say in a sleepy voice as your eyes close. “How was work?” Your hand that holds his becomes limp and he watches as it slides down his hand, catching on the cuff of his sweater until it dangles off the couch.

It wasn’t smart of him to invite you to live with him. He was too reckless, too needy and desperate to have you beside him that he just wasn’t thinking. Even if you are naïve and easily pulled into a false sense of security, he can’t just explain his costume, he can’t explain the knife and all the careful cleaning kits that he has. This is all too risky.

But he can’t throw you out either. He’s become attached. You’re like a pet to him now, and as every disgruntled man says on television, don’t name something or else you’ll get attached. And now he’s fallen victim to it. It’s nice to have such an easy fuck around, to know that he cold do whatever he wanted to you and you’ll stay here with him, because the other option is much scarier. The corners of his lips pull upwards and he pulls his hand away, fixing the blanket above you and he rises from his knees with a sigh.

“Another dead body,” he says with a chipper voice that he can’t seem to hide. “All signs point to our residential serial killer.” It’s much too risky to have Ghostface visit you, you thought this as your safe haven, you have to know and think that it still is, but fuck does he miss your fear and how pitifully you cried. “You never told me why you hated him so much.” He has to bite the inside of his cheeks when your brows knit together. “I know he’s a killer, but did he ever hurt anyone close to you?”

Your eyes shift and you pull the blanket closer to you, the folds stretching across your frame and showing the curves of your body. “I’m not sure, I just-” you catch his eyes and he sees you visibly shrink away from him- “I’m scared of his mask.”

His mouth fills with saliva as he thinks about just how frightened you are. “What a shame, I was hoping to get into roleplay.” He could think about you know, how you'd hit and scream, how he could pretend that it was all part of the act and just hold you down, thinking about how you would put the pieces together and sob.

“That isn’t funny,” you say in a high-pitched voice, already cracking and sitting up to lessen the distance between the two of you. He rolls his eyes in response, standing up from his crouch with a hiss between his teeth. “People are dead,” you whine, as if he hasn’t been keeping up with the news with you. “He killed people.” You’re much more emotional than he thought, but you’ve held your mouth for so long, suffered in your silence and in your vulnerability; it's only natural you would have such strong emotions.

“Relax, it was a joke.” He takes off his jacket and tosses it beside you, watching as you pull yourself closer, further away from his jacket and only staring at it with confusion, as if he dared to have the audacity to throw something your way.

“A dumb one,” you say with with a pout, gripping tighter onto the blanket.

“I said relax,” Danny says in a stern voice, already done with the conversation. He may have been the one to start it but he was hoping for a more playful one, or rather one where you go along with him rather than try to fight him.

“Whatever,” you huff, and he sees you bundle the blanket in your arms, pushing yourself to the further end of the couch, looking at the wall with furrowed brows as your hand tries to discreetly cover your pout.

“Great,” he says sarcastically, turning around and walking towards the fridge. “Now, you’re angry,” he says loud enough for you to hear.

He rises back up with a bottle in his hand, toying with the cap, letting the ridges play against his fingertips. You don’t respond and he can feel his anger start to rise, something thick that lodges in his throat and makes it impossible to swallow. You aren’t answering him. Usually this would be a good sign, something that means he still has you wrapped around his finger, but it feels different. You aren’t moving from your spot, and you aren’t apologizing to him. He puts the bottle down, and runs his hand down his face with a heavy sigh.

“I think,” your voice is small, and he can barely hear it, but he can, “we both rushed into this… relationship. We should have taken it slow.” When you turn to him, he sees that your eyes are wet and you try to take steady breaths but to no avail. “I’m happy with you, but I don’t think we were thinking clearly when we chose to-” your eyes glance around and you look away from him- “to do this.”

His jaw twitches and he watches you, anger boiling inside of him, white-hot that makes it impossible to think and if he could, he'd grab the knife on the counter and stick it in your back but he can’t. Copper fills his mouth and he turns on his heel, the bedroom door slamming behind him, loud enough that he can hear your yelp and loud enough that it makes his ears ring. He wonders what the neighbors would think of it, but he can’t really bring himself to care. He’ll find an excuse, he always does.

His name is muted through the door and he rummages through the closet, pulling out a worn backpack and knocking a few clothes off the anger that he steps on. You enter the room just in time to witness him opening your drawer and throwing your things inside without a care.

“Danny?” Your voice sounds so fearful and it makes him stop for a second, and when he looks at you, your foot slides back out of the room. You’re terrified of him right now. “Danny, what are you doing?” You ask in a small voice, as you take a tentative step inside the room.

“You want to leave right?” He asks in a condescending tone, stepping closer to you with the back held tight in his hand. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll help you pack.”

“I didn’t-”

“Didn’t you say that we rushed into this?” With every word he stalks towards you and he tosses the backpack onto the bed, only to miss and have it slide down, the contents inside spilling onto the floor. You look away from him and that only adds fuel to the fire that is tarnishing him from the inside. “Didn’t you?” He shouts, slapping his hand on the dresses, rattling your bottles of perfume and creams. He stares at you, his nostrils flared and jaw tight as he tries to keep a sense of composure. “Did you or did you not?” He asks, his voice eerily calm as he lets his nails drag along the wall. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry, Dan,” you cry, your eyes spilling over with tears. “I wasn’t thinking. Please, I promise, it was just a long day and I’m sorry.”

You’re pathetic and not in the way that he wants you. He turns around and you grab his arm, latching yourself around his forearm. His name is on your tongue and before you have a chance to finish it, he turns around, his hand raised, and mouth pulled into an ugly snarl. You let go of him immediately and try to shield yourself, but he aims for the wall instead. His palm stings and you let out a choked sob.

He can’t think. Not with you here. Not with his emotions running so high. Not when his palm stings and there’s something dark brooding inside of him. He takes a deep breath and he forces himself to look at you. You stare up at him with worry creasing your features.

“It's okay,” his words are still tense, but your body lowers its defenses slightly, and he knows he’s on the right track. “I was angry.” He pulls his hand away from the wall and rubs it with his other, the palm of his hand a light shade of pink. “Why don’t we have dinner, huh?” He tries to give you a charming smile, but it falls flat. “We’ll talk about it over dinner. You know-” he reaches for your hand and grabs it in both of his- “like couple’s therapy or some shit. How does that sound?”

You break away from his gaze, glancing at the floor, and he knows your habits and tics by now. You’ll scan the floor, and look up at him and smile and nod. You play your part so well, and if he had to be honest with himself, he can’t lose that. Not yet. Not when you’re so dependent on him and him on you. He waits for our smile, to give you his own to show that he’s okay, that his anger has subsided for now, but you never give him that. Your mouth parts open and there are tears in your eyes, your hand shakes and grows clammy in his. He calls your name, but you don’t respond. Your breath is ragged, sharp inhales and shaky exhales, and he follows your gaze to the floor under the bed.

In the corner of his eye, he spots white and his nails dig into your skin. “Go get me a beer, I’ll-” he looks down at you and your eyes are stuck, glued to the floor where you can see the face that has haunted you- “I’ll clean up, okay? Just give me a moment.” It isn’t enough, you’re still looking where the mask lays, the bottom half of the face peeking from under your undergarments. Your mouth opens in a silent question and when you look back at him, you’re scanning his face. His body runs hot, his mouth going dry and he says the only thing that can come to mind. “I told you I wanted to try roleplay.”

“I thought you were,” you hesitate, and your tongue peeks to wet your lips, “I thought you were kidding,” you say breathlessly, your words slow as if you were hypnotized and the truth of the matter is, is that you are. You’re ruined by the mask that lies on the floor, the mouth of it the only thing that you can see. You peel away from him and have your back turned to him, your arms coming up to give yourself a hug. “I’ll go get you a beer,” you say in a daze, and when you turn back, your smile is weak, and you can’t look at him for long, your eyes magnetized to the mask on the floor.

He’s left alone in the room, his nails digging into the palm of his hands and red in his vision. The worst part of it all is that he can’t go out tonight. Not when you saw his mask. You’re naïve, and easily spooked, but even you could put two and two together. Even your suspicions would start to rise as you questioned why there was a murder the night he went out. Why Ghostface hasn’t come back for you. You’d suspect him and he can’t have that, not when you’re already so fearful of him.