#while admiring your distorted reflection in his tears

[getouyuri]

secretary!reader & oyabun gojo

[casiia]

[ 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ]

pairing.:. jake sully x reader

genre.:. smut

word count.:. 2.7k

warnings.:. smut (minors dni), subby jake! breeding kink, soft dom reader, size kink, choking, degradation, self degradation, use of "mommy", use of “daddy” (once), use of "good boy", slut and whore, finger sucking, face slapping,  belly bulge, gagging, ONE mention of a gun (not used in the hanky panky), neytiri is a mom alr (IDC GO AWAY)

synopsis.:. jake wants to hold on having kids but you're done with waiting, and you are gonna do something about it

author's note.:. thank you guys for 400 followers! (452) i love each and everyone of you stinkas <3 ik sorry for the wait (a month...my bad) but i hope you guys think this is good (or idc what u think) cuz writing for sub jake was lowkey SO hard. i kid you not i wrote and rewrote this 3 times and the ending is still rushed, but what ele is new. ENJOY YOU SLUTS!

“are you almost done?” 

finalizing the braid with a bright yellow bead, you turned the young girl’s head towards the water; her reflection shimmering against the ripples of the river. the girl smiled widely, brushing her fingers through her newly styled hair.

“is that really me?” she turned to you in disbelief, her hands still tangled in her hair as if it were to disappear at any moment. 

“mhm, do you like it, meii?” standing from your kneeled position, you stretched your legs with a grunt, your knees popping loudly at the change. following her as she crawled closer towards the stream, a smile grew on your face as you watched her reach into the water,  her face becoming distorted as the once still water became disturbed.

“i love it, thank you! come, i want to show mother” grabbing your arm with her wet hands, she dragged you away from the open forest and towards the glowing lights of the village. meii stumbled over her feet while waving at her friends – exchanging jokes and shouting teasing remarks as she pulled you clumsily to her home.

“mom, look at my hair! don’t i look so different?” frantically shoving you inside the tent, she let go of your arm with a squeeze, standing proudly in front of her mother to admire.

“you look beautiful, my sweet girl, did you thank y/n?” neytiri reaches for her little girl, pulling her down to press a light kiss to her forehead. she continues to chop at the food in front of her, preparing to add it to fire.

“thank you, y/n!” running over to hug your leg, meii giggled cheerfully, the beads in her hair clinking with each swish of her head.

“you’re so welcome little meiimeii” pinching her cheek with a smile, you patted her head softly, letting her cling onto you for just a moment longer. 

“meii, why don’t you go play with your friends for a little bit. just make sure to be back home before eclipse.” neytiri waves off her daughter, her ears twitching at the high pitched giggles and the fading sound of footsteps.

“here…let me help you with that.” dropping to your knees in front of neytiri, you reached for a bundle of the bright green veggies, tearing and picking at the leaves. a comfortable silence settled around the two of you, the faint and distant sound of the fire crackling set you at ease.

“thank you for doing meii’s hair. she’s been feeling left out upon her friends, i’m sure she’s boasting to them right now about how good of a job you did” neytiri glances up from her cutting board, only to let her eyes linger on yours for just a second.

“it was no problem, i like spending time with her. in fact–” a deafening cry cut you off; immediately alarmed, you hastily stand and make your way to where the noise was coming from. a crib. “neytiri, would you mind if i just held him for a bit? i hate hearing him cry like this.”

“please, go ahead. my poor boy can’t go a couple minutes without crying, he’s a fussy one” 

leaning down to pick up the aggravated baby, you cradled his head against your chest, patting his back as you rocked him against you. his intense sobs turned into hiccups, a now calm state washing over his tiny body.  “he’s beautiful, i can’t wait to have children of my own.”

“hm, have you not been trying? you and jake sully have been mated together for a while, surely i thought you would at least have one child running around causing havoc.” with a lighthearted laugh, neytiri puts down her knife, stretching her arms high above her head and sitting back to watch you hold her baby in your arms.

“jake doesn’t want to have children yet, he’s too immersed in this life of fighting.” brushing a strand of hair out of the baby’s eyes, you drop your head with a heavy sigh. “i want to respect his wishes, but everyday when i see the children playing amongst the clan…i can’t help but feel a little saddened. perhaps i’m being selfish—“

“nonsense! it is selfish of jake sully to deprive you of such joy, just because he wishes to continue his path as a hero. if you are ready to be a mother, then make him realize you are done waiting.” neytiri’s tail swishes angrily behind her, eyes wide with emotion. she put a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it encouragingly. “you should talk to him, take initiative. that’s what i did, and look where i am now.”

“thank you neytiri, if you don’t mind, i think i will go talk to him.” flashing her a reassuring smile, you carefully handed her baby back, leaning down to press a kiss to his small forehead before heading out of the lightly lit tent and to your own home.

✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

“i want a baby”

“what are you talking about?” jake looks up from his half built gun, setting it aside to welcome you with open arms. leaning back and pulling you into his lap, he smiles against your skin as he peppers kisses all over your face. 

“i’m serious, jake! i know you said you wanted to wait but i’m done.” pushing his face away from yours with a sigh, you put both of your hands on his large chest, putting a small distance between the two of you. 

“you know what i think, baby. don’t you want to live a little longer, a kid would just get in the way” jake shakes his head with a chuckle, rubbing up and down your sides in an attempt to soothe your frustrated state.

“don’t say that. children are a beautiful gift from eywa…do you doubt me as a mother?”

“what? why would you even think that” jake furrows his eyebrows in confusion, his wandering hands stopping to rest on your hips. “i’m mated to you for a reason, i know you will be an exceptional mother and do well when carrying my children.”

“then why make me wait? i’m done living this wild life, i want to settle down.” repositioning yourself in his lap, you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers toying with the loose strands of hair that fell from his braid and staggered around his shoulders.

“i’ll give you a baby, but i’m busy right now” jake presses a wet kiss to your shoulder, before trying to wiggle you off of his lap.

frustration showing in your brow, you grip onto his shoulders, squeezing your thighs against his to stop his movement. “you’re not listening to me…”

“i’m listening to you, baby. i want kids as much as you do but daddy’s busy. m’not gonna say it again”

“no. i told you, i’m done waiting.” you tut with a laugh, watching his face morph into one of disbelief.

“watch what you’re sayin—“

“nuh uh. you’re gonna let mommy use you, yeah? be a good boy and put a baby in me” pushing him to lie down, you straddled his waist, letting your fingers teasingly dance across his exposed skin. 

“do you understand?” smirking down at him, you roughly grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at you. 

“yes, i—“ 

“yes, what?”

“yes mommy, gonna be such a good boy f’you” jake whines, his ears flattening against the side of his head as submission overtakes him.

with a satisfied nod, you tilt his face up to meet yours, giving his jaw one final squeeze before letting go. “good boy.” licking your lips slowly, you bowed your head down to reward him with a kiss. sloppy and wet, he mewled into your mouth. his calloused fingers find their way to the back of your beaded top, pulling lightly at it.

you slap his hands away with a scowl, grabbing his wrist and pinning them next to his head. “no touching until i say so, do i have to go over the rules again?” nipping at the tip of his ear, you teasingly pinch his sides in warning.

“no! no, i’ll be good. m’sorry i couldn’t help it” with wide eyes, he watched you shake your head disapprovingly. your smaller figure slipped off his lap and pried his legs apart, settling yourself in between his thick thighs. pressing your lips to his neck, you smiled against his skin, quiet moans filling your ears as you suckled a pretty purple hickey under his jaw. trailing wet kisses down his torso, you wrapped your arms around the fat of his thighs, lying in between them. feathering light kisses along his dark blue stripes, making sure to linger longer as you neared his groin.

“mommy please…”

“be patient, pretty boy. i’ll give you what you want.”  slowly untying the strings of his loincloth, you tossed the fabric to the side, revealing his semi-hard cock. “you’re not gonna move a muscle, okay? m’not gonna let you cum if you disobey me.” wrapping your fingers around the base of his cock closest to his pelvis, you looked up at him with a smile feigning innocence, his cock twitching in your grasp.

“please mommy! need you bad” pushing himself up onto his elbows to get a better look at you, whining loudly when you squeezed his girth, blowing a cold puff of air over the head of his cock just to watch him writhe under you. “please no teasing.”

“oh poor baby, why shouldn’t i? you’ve been teasing me all this time, making me watch women of the clan play with their children while denying me of that joy.”

“m’know! i’m sorry, was bein selfish…please, forgive me!” jake grunts when you press your tongue flat against his slit with a happy hum. dollops of clear precum leaks from his angry blue tip, oozing onto your awaiting tongue.

“momma forgives you, just promise to give me all your cum, kay? i’ll give you the prettiest babies.”

“p-promise! m’so hard, wan’ to cum so bad.” jake spreads his thighs further for you, his tail swishing erratically from under him, the soft hairs tickling your shoulder. throwing his head back with a loud moan as you continue to suck around his tip, his nails dig into his thighs, obeying your rules in not touching you.

pulling off of him with an audible pop, you pat his thigh mockingly, crawling out from your spot in between his spread legs. “i know, baby boy. but m’not gonna waste any of your cum, need it inside f’me.” untying your own loincloth, you then delicately pulled your beaded top over your head, revealing every inch of your body to him.

“fuck. you’re so beautiful, please, let me touch you.” jake, now sitting up with balled fist, you can feel his eyes burning holes in your figure as he stares at you with need, his now fully erect cock twitching painfully.

“i’ll allow it, since you’ve been so good for mommy” a quiet giggle escapes you when he instantly reaches out to hold you, tugging you impatiently into his lap. reaching down to grab his aching cock, you pump him one last time, shushing his whines as you tap his sticky tip against the inside of your thigh. 

“inside! please, it hurts.” dipping his head down to lick your uncovered nipples, he purrs into your chest, large hands groping your breast. 

“be strong, boy. y’know how much i hate it when you complain.” rubbing his veining cock through your slicked folds, you moaned softly, prodding his bulbous tip against your clit. your fingers sticky and wet from your mixed fluids, you relaxed in his arms, pushing your digits past his parted lips.

“momma loves you so much, yknow that right?” pressing your fingers against his tongue, you pushed them deeper down his throat, loving the sounds of his gags. “how do we taste, kitty?” gurgling out an incoherent response, his wet muscle swirls around your index finger, low whimpers vibrating through your hand and feeding at the hunger in your core. you chuckled at his expression, hooded eyes that were filled with tears, furrowed brows, and chin covered in thick, shiny spit. pulling your fingers out of his mouth, you smeared his drool all over his face, cheeks sheer with his saliva. 

“sucha dirty boy, you like being treated like my slut don’tcha?” patting his cheek with a coo, you kissed his puffy eyes before licking away the tears that spilled down his face – the subtle taste of salt coating your tongue. 

“love it. m’love you too, know you’re gonna look so beautiful carrying my future.” leaning into your touch with a content sigh, he nips at your collarbone, hips jerking with urgency. the weight of his fat cock presses against your stomach, leaving a sticky residue on your striped blue skin. 

slapping his wet cheek with a groan of displeasure, you shook your head disappointingly. “what’d i say about being patient?” rubbing at the red mark that formed on his face, you leaned down and pressed a loving kiss to his cheek. “you promised to be a good boy, tell me what’s wrong.” 

“want to stop hurtin…wan’ fill you up with my cum.” whimpering as you continued to stroke the sore on his face, faint sobs wracked from his chest when you lightly grazed his leaking tip. 

“if you want mommy to make you feel better, quit whinin and beg for it like the good little whore you are.”

“please mommy, i’ll be good for you for the rest of the night. let you use me, milk my cock for cum. won’t complain anymore i promise! please, please, use me like the whore i am.”

“that’s better, you better keep your word. m’not playing with you.” leaning back to spit on his length, you pump him once, squeezing his tip and aligning him with your dripping cunt. sinking down on him with a shaky moan, you grip his shoulders, hissing lightly as you stretch painfully around his girth. “fuck baby, so big.”

“ngh- fuck you’re so tight.” throwing his head back with a grunt, he leans back on his elbows, watching you bounce on his cock through his thick lashes. “feels s’good, mommy.”

steadying yourself on his chest, you bit your lip with a groan, his already throbbing cock filling you up. “look at that baby, fuckin into my stomach.” with his balls smacking noisily against the globes of your ass, you press down on your bulging tummy, watching the imprint of his dick grow with each swivel of your hips. 

“gonna put a baby there, watch your belly swell with my cum.” his head hitting the floor with a soft thud, he pressed his palm into your abdomen, mewling as you clenched around him. “fuck don’ do that, don’t wan’ cum yet.” 

“cum for me, pretty boy. m’not close to done with you yet.” staring down at where the two of you connected, you spread your folds, watching his thick and veiny cock disappear inside on you. pressing your thumb down on your puffy clit, you dropped your head with a moan, circling the sensitive bud hastily. 

“oh fuck, c-cumming!” grabbing your hips with a bruising force, he dug his heels into the ground, bucking his hips into you as thick ropes of his cum spurted from his throbbing cock and deep into your cunt. 

“mm, such a good boy f’mommy. not lettin you go just yet, give me another and cum with me this time why don’t you. i know you can do it”

🏷.:. @theseuscmander @vmptears @sullybby @fanboyluvr @theunfortunateplace @roxannedaybreakermidnight @asd3ku @1-800-call-a-milf @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @honeymilkshakesblog @ellabellabus07 @kyber4crystal @riiyah-baaby @pandoramyst @babyymeme @arminsgfloll @queenbrownie18 @goddesslilithmoriarty @jkeluv @mj2606k @n3t3y4msm4t3 @tojigirl @bewbz2110 @neteyamsprincess @dizzythediasy @neytirishottie @netemoon

[boytouya]

like real people do

pairing ★ dabi x male reader

genre ★ fluff, angst, fluff, fluff, fluff, fluff...

warnings ★ manga spoilers, blood (crying)

w.count ★ 1440

request ★ “I nearly sent an ask to Slutouya thinking it was you for the 4th time💀 I want request headcanons of bath times with Dabi where he lets you take care of him, wash and baby him.” -anon

a/n: why did i realize that you said headcanons after i wrote it- i’m so sorry!! taglist in the reblogs <3

A single droplet of red makes way to cool water, swirling in different directions until it relaxes into a pale shade of baby pink. Touya’s back rests against the cool, porcelain surface of your bathtub, his cold staples pressing into his shoulder blades. Grooves of torn skin, rotten and purple, carry flashes of pain across his torso, his neck, his arms, his jaw. But with you, it feels numb. The gentle caress of water on his skin is almost heaven, soothing to his broken skin as he presses his head against your hands. Touya doesn’t complain, not when you fill a cup with water and pour it over his white locs of hair. Not when your fingers massage his scalp so tenderly, not when you hum to him.

His eyes, squeezed painfully shut with stress he didn’t know was building behind his skull, open slowly. You. You were his boy, his everything. The reason why he watched the sun rise, the reason why his touches across your skin would linger. The reason why he looked forward to the next morning. Even if it was filled with pain. You’d be there. You made life worth living. Maybe he cared too much, maybe there wasn’t really someone there for him, maybe he was making it all up. Maybe one day you’d disappear into thin air, leaving him with a wreckage of his own body and soul. And maybe it wasn’t genuine. Maybe it was a facade. Maybe you weren’t his boy, and he was yours. But he hoped, and he pleaded to anything, anyone that you were. He knew he was yours. And he hoped to God you were his. He loved you. Tenderly, tragically. He loved you.

Tonight, he’d stare at the cool water rippling in your bathtub and ponder. About you, about himself. A gentle shade of pink, the same as the limited space of healthy skin on his face when you said something to get back at him. Tonight, he’d let blood red tears trail down his face while he loses himself in the sound of your voice. Your humming, your laughter, your positive affirmations. Tonight, he’d listen. No arguing, no awkward jokes after you compliment him. He‘ll give in, just this once, for you. Maybe even for himself. A gentle kiss on his shoulder pulls him back to reality, Dabi’s eyes shifting upwards through his eyelashes to stare up at you. A bit silly from his angle, but everything he’s always wanted nonetheless. ‘Tense’ is the word your lips form, and he can feel his eyebrows press together in confusion. Your hand, steady against his quivering shoulder, presses down gently and- oh. His shoulders are tense.

It’s a shame he cant bathe for too long, not with skin grafts. But he enjoys it anyway, shifting his weight against the bathtub so he can face you, even with suds of soap ruining his hair. He can tell you pushed it back just to kiss his forehead, and there he goes...turning just as pink as the bloodstained water. Just about everything he knew was bloodstained these days. Soaked and overflowing, spilling over the edge until he’s drowning in it. It’s thick and merciless, creeping through his staples and stitches and-

You flick water at him in his direction, a sweet smile on your face. It reaches your eyes, high on the apples of your cheeks. So perfect. You’re so perfect. A pretty boy with pretty hair, pretty eyes, pretty skin. He lifts his hands, mimicking Frankenstein for a moment (which he deems as ironic, considering he was the embodiment of such a thing) before wiggling his fingers. Droplets of water land on your face, resting on your cheeks as your hands shoot in front of yourself. The sound you make is ebullient and loud against the tiles of the bathroom. He wished he could bottle it up, keep it safe around his neck and open it whenever he needed a mood boost. All to himself, something to get drunk on over and over.

Touya can’t quite place the sound of his laugh. Airy and tarnished, completely vacant of the bright boy he used to be. But he laughs anyway. He lets it float into the air, even if it falls on his thrawn ears, anomalous to even himself. You seem to never care, your eyes glazing over with something luminous whenever you hear it. He’d never admit it out loud, but it hurts his chest. The catch lights of your eyes reflect the dim lighting of your bathroom, and he can see himself in their reflection. Through your eyes, there’s nothing distorted. Nothing wrong with him, nothing out of place. Through your eyes, he carries the secrets to the universe. Beneath the sleeve of scars is something magical, enchanted and special. But Dabi remains stubborn— slow with handing you his heart. But you knew, and he knew. The best of him belonged to you.

Your warm hands cup his cheeks, just as he’d done with you several times. Sure, a bit of soap had smeared across his face, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Touya can feel his heart do somersaults in his chest, beating against his ribcage as his heart begs him to say something. Give himself to you, offer his hands to sit atop yours, to engulf your own in his kindling flame.

Though the water had cooled long ago, the air against Dabi’s skin burns. Sets his skin on fire, surrounded by shades of blue, the same as his flames, the same as the blue chrysanthemums he gave to his mother in the hospital. It isn’t unfamiliar, Dabi is adjusted to the feeling of burning. Searing through his skin, tearing apart his grafts and leaving him weak. Weaker than before, on doe legs that can’t seem to keep him up. But that’s when he’d turn to you. He’d lean on you. He never uttered a word, not when it counted. Not about you, not about his feelings towards you, but his brain would sing about it all day. All night.

“What're you thinking about?” Dabi whispers into your palms, his eyes fluttering closed. Droplets of water rest on his long eyelashes, collecting at the tip of each strand until he blinks them away. You could only conclude that it was therapeutic for him, and it felt a bit intrusive to watch him relax in your hands. He was yours to hold, to collect the remains of his shattered bones and put back together. Something so raw, so disgusting, but so completely, utterly, undeniably Dabi.

“Just you,” You sigh longingly, dipping the discarded cup back under the water to pour it over Touya’s head. He can feel your movements against the undulation of the water occupying the tub, tilting his head back upon instink. He bares his neck to you, in its full vulnerability, no longer wrapped in bandages that were stuffed with mangled gauze. He lets your feathering touches linger, the corners of his lips blooming into a small smile when his ears pick up the sound of a twinkle in your voice. It’s small, but it’s beaming. Shining against the edge of the tub, illuminating his face. You pinch the skin on his cheek ever so gently, admiration bubbling inside your core when he swats at your hand. “What're you thinking about, Stitches?”

Dabi’s face scrunches up, his nostrils flaring as his staples pull at his skin. The nickname, though a bit unoriginal, was in homage to that cute patchwork bear in Animal Crossing. He didn’t quite understand why you thought of him, seeing as the character was cute and cuddly, but he couldn’t say he didn’t like it. Because he did.

“This tub is big enough for two people.” He says instead, pulling your hands away from his scalp, though the rhythmic circles against his skull were good enough to lull him into a peaceful sleep. He only ever got those when he was with you. He knew you couldn’t join him, he was probably sitting in the bath for far too long anyways. But there would always be a next time, and next time he’d do the same for you. Whisper sweet words into your skin when you thought he wasn’t listening, cup your cheeks with his large hands, press his palms against the softness of your skin when you get tense. But for now, he’d relish in your familiarity. You were his sanction.

[yandere-daydreams]

Twelve Days of Christmas - Day Nine

Prompt: Gifts.

Pairing: Yandere!Malleus/Reader (Twisted Wonderland).

TW: Emotional Manipulation, Implied Imprisonment, Burning, Threats of Bodily Harms, and Slight Marking.

“Lilia claims it’s a human tradition.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at Malleus’ tone, his usual composure infected by something playful, a childish lilt that only grew more jovial as appeared behind you, his larger form soon draped over yours. Sitting at the vanity he’d provided, your arms resting on the wooden table-top, you could see his reflection in the circular mirror, a soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth, one that was soon obscured as he pressed a soft kiss into the edge of your jaw, then your cheek while you bit back a laugh. You’d never expected him to be so affectionate, behind closed doors, but you couldn’t say you minded. Not when it came to Malleus.

You couldn’t complain, either. You were his guest, here, in the Valley of Thorns, in the castle he’d insisted on whisking you away to after your graduation from Night Raven. It was sweet of him, honestly. He’d given you a room for weeks, let his servants dote on you as they did him, so it was the least you could do to tolerate the sudden change in his demeanor, to grin as you felt gloved fingers brush against your neck, followed by something metallic and warm to the touch. You didn’t look, though, not yet, keeping your gaze fixed on him. You wanted it to be a surprise, even if Malleus didn’t seem to remember part of your ‘tradition’. “You’re a few days early,” You started, more out of habit than anything else. “And it really isn’t necessary. I already feel like I’m leeching off of you, more jewelry probably isn't going to help.”

“Then think of this as a present for me.” If nothing else, you adored his sincerity, how genuine the fondness in his voice seemed - so sweet, you thought you could’ve been sick. Without thinking, you leaned back, letting your head come to rest against his chest as he fiddled with something above the nape of your neck. Malleus was many things, but he wasn’t unpredictable. Already, you could feel the shape of a necklace, weighted down and pulled taut. You could feel it getting tighter as he messed with the clasp, but you didn’t say anything. If it needed to be resized, you could bring that up later, assuming Malleus’ attention didn’t jump to his next gift first. “Your company is all the repayment I need.” You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or, it did little to dampen his mood, at least. “Anything I can do to make your time here that much more enjoyable, I’ll do. It’s not like I’m at a loss for resources in my own kingdom.”

It was a jarring reminder, despite how casually he brought it up. It was easy to forget about his status when there was so little to remind. From what you could gather, the fae hierarchy was steep, and although Malleus didn’t try to keep you away from his guards or his staff or any of the other nobles, they kept their distance on their own. It was traditional, you guessed. You weren’t his partner, not officially, but it would’ve been easy to assume you were. It wasn’t like Malleus ever made an effort to address the rumors.

There was a soft click, the scrape of metal against metal. “You can look, my love. I know you’ve been avoiding it.”

Well, you couldn’t say he was wrong.

It was a necklace, you were right about that. A band of intertwined silver threads, braided loosely into a pattern of dipping and rising strings, all joining together to hold a row of small, rounded emeralds in place, all perfectly cut, all perfectly sized, all perfect. It was just the kind of thing you’d come to expect from Malleus, but there was something else to it, a shine that was just a bit brighter than it should’ve been, a level of quality that no craftsman would’ve been able to achieve naturally, regardless of their talent. Subconsciously, you leaned towards your reflection, trying to get a better look, but the necklace didn’t shift as you moved, every stray coil remaining still, as if it’d been fixed to your skin. Your smile dropped, but Malleus didn’t seem to hold a similar concern. He only let out a breath of a laugh, his hands soon settling on your shoulders, too busy admiring your reflection to realize that you might not be doing the same thing.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” The question was innocent enough, but there was a hollow ring to it, something that fell between rhetorical and purposefully one-sided. You didn’t answer, you didn’t even try, but Malleus didn’t seem bothered. “I may have actually been a little selfish with this one, in all honesty. I knew it’d make you look stunning, and I couldn’t resist.” You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the mirror, from the chocker slowly growing warmer around your neck, but you could feel Malleus kiss the top of your head, his lips lingering longer than they should’ve, as he went on. “It’s nothing you’ll have to worry about. I just noticed you don’t put my gifts to use, very often. I’m not angry, but the jeweler guaranteed that this piece would come with a certain enchantment to help with your forgetfulness.”

You didn’t need him to explain further. “I can’t take it off.”

“You can’t take it off without my help,” He corrected, gently. “If you want to try, I’m not going to stop you. But, I promise, it won’t be--”

You were tearing at the chain in a moment, clawing at the cords, doing anything you could to get the damn thing off of you, but your resistance didn’t last long. As soon as you made contact with one of his glowing, distorted emeralds, the entire necklace seemed to start to burn, smoldering with a heat so intense, it was all you could do to pull away while just your fingertips were singed. It felt like sticking your hand into a hearth. It felt like having someone drip molten iron onto your collar. Like the gems were coals taken from the pit of a fire, and Malleus was suddenly sadistic enough to string them around your neck and insist it was supposed to be a gift.

You buckled before you could catch yourself, jerking forward and relying on Malleus to catch you. Your whole body was shaking, still trembling with terror and dread and pain, but if he noticed, and he had to notice, he didn’t care. Instead, Malleus occupied himself with the necklace, bringing up a hand to toy with the band of silver, never once hesitating as you flinched and tried to pull away. If anything, he only seemed more confident, more affectionate. “Don’t act so disappointed. This is a present, after all, and a rather thoughtful one, at that.” He paused, waiting just long enough to smother his chuckle, just long enough to pull you much closer than you ever wanted to be to him again.

Just long enough for you to catch the edge of his grin, as it flashed across his reflection.

“I could always resort to an uglier method of teaching you to appreciate my charity, if you don’t want to accept it.”

[daisybeewrites]

July — d.j.

for @dreamcxtcherr ‘s 3k writing challenge. congrats lena!!

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mention of car crash/death, mention of alcohol consumption, daisy cries, i think thats it lmk if not!!

ship: R x daisy johnson

okay y’all… first ever anggstttttt!!! i’m way too excited about it. if you want a fully immersive experience, i recommend listening to july by noah cyrus slowed + reverb

(gif uncredited on pinterest (ugh, i hate that. credit a gif if you use it!! im trying to find the owner)) update — found owner

It was another mission. Another nightmarish fire-fight where you almost lost a limb, almost lost a friend, almost lost your life. Twenty-four hours later and you’re back home, safe.

Well, as safe as you can be when your engagement is on the verge of breaking off.

You stare at the simple ring on your left hand. White gold band, a tiny amethyst set to the left of a diamond. There was a nearly identical one lying next to the sink, the only difference being the switched places of the glittering gems.

You know she didn’t do it purposefully. You had both been exhausted after what was supposed to be an in-and-out mission turned into a hostage situation. Daisy did what she always did as soon as you were home — take off her gauntlets, wash her hands in the sink, grab a snack, and hop into a steaming shower.

But you still can’t stop yourself from staring at it, eyes fixed, hands shaking, breath held and mind racing.

You used to join her. You would wash each other’s hair, ease each other’s sore muscles with delicate touches on tender purple-black bruises. She would lean into you, letting you braid her hair and falling asleep in your arms, drifting into a deep slumber. It was intimate, lovely; it was normal and perfect.

Taking a sip of your room-temperature beer, you slide off the cool granite of the kitchen island. You had a new routine after missions now, you just had to get used to it.

You hear the shower shut off, bare feet pad into your cosy bedroom, and the door shut with a loud creak. The minute squeak of the mattress tells you that Daisy flopped into bed.

A ghost of a smile lights your face. It looks more like a grimace, you think, as you check your distorted reflection in the green glass of your beer bottle. Chucking the empty bottle in the recycling, you run a hand through your dirty, salty hair. The comfy sweats you changed into an hour ago would need to be washed, the dirt still adorning your skin rubbing off on the black material. You exhale before heading down the hall towards the bathroom.

The tiled room is filled with steam, the mirror fogged up so that only a blurry outline of your silhouette could be seen. You are unrecognizable.

How fitting.

The quick, cold shower you take does nothing to ease your mind or body. You wipe the mirror in a circle, taking out a first aid kit.

With all your cuts bandaged and the proper creams Jemma had snuck to you and Daisy applied to your fresh bruises, you headed into the hallway in your towel.

Daisy is standing in the kitchen, lilac lounge shorts you bought her last Christmas showing off her tanned and scarred legs. She looks warm and soft, a very different Daisy than the superhero who had broken a mob boss’ legs just hours before. Her hair is wet and in braids. You frown. You always braid her hair.

If she hears you, she doesn’t turn around, so you take a moment to admire her. Ten seconds, that’s all you give yourself. It was a stressful mission, if you stare too long she might snap. From the back, you can’t see the dark circles you know are there, but you can see the tension in her shoulders and the slight tilt of her head as she ponders what to eat.

You say nothing as you go to the bedroom to change. You find a black pair of SHIELD sweats and an old, holey t-shirt you vaguely remember stealing from Fitz. A presence at the doorway catches your attention.

“Hi,” Daisy says tentatively. Your breath caught in your throat, your lungs holding the air captive until Daisy spoke again.

“I missed you.”

Your eyes widened. Maybe tonight wouldn’t end with one of you on the couch, clutching a six pack while the other cried as quietly as possible, tucked into cold, lonely sheets.

“Braiding my hair, I mean,” She clarified. Her fingers twisted together, rigid posture giving away her nerves.

The air felt humid, as if the open window had suddenly sucked all the AC out and let the mid-summer heat in. Your memory flashes to the last time you and Daisy had a normal, happy conversation.

The edges are fuzzy, but the pure joy in Daisy’s chocolate eyes is clear. Fairy lights strung haphazardly around the living room, a movie playing in the background, your lips on hers. Blankets make a ceiling over your head that shut out the rest of the world, this moment was only for you two. You played with the thin metal band on her ring finger, she ran her hands through her hair. Her matching ring scratched your scalp lightly. You both smile as you pull away. You whisper childhood stories, laugh at the funny parts and offer melancholic smiles at the not-so-lighthearted parts. You were happy.

That night you got the call — Lincoln Campbell, yours and Daisy’s best friend, had wrapped his car around a telephone pole coming off of a long shift at the hospital. His blood alcohol was almost .40.

Eggshells littered the house from the time you got back from the funeral. One wrong word, Daisy would snap and spend hours punching a bag until her fingers bled. You would fill those hours with whatever was closer — wine or your car keys. You pulled yourself out of your head, realizing you should answer her.

“I missed it, too,” You breathed.

Daisy made a small, unintelligible noise before collapsing against the door frame. You froze for only a second, your mind racing through possibilities. Was she bleeding internally? Was it her back again? Did she get shot and not notice until now?

You leap over to her, catching her as she crumbles to the hardwood floor.

A quiet sob wracks her chest. Your hands hover over her slouched back, unsure how to comfort her. At this moment, Daisy feels foreign. Her sudden vulnerability alerts you to how she’s been holding her emotions in for god knows how long.

“Daisy…” You start, hesitantly.

Daisy hiccups loudly, another wave of tears washing over her.

“Tell me to leave, I’ll pack my bags,” Daisy cried, “But I don’t, I-I don’t want to lose you!”

Burning tears gather on your lash line, threatening to fall at her words. You never could stand to see Daisy cry.

Your brows furrow slightly in confusion before you realize what Daisy is talking about. After Lincoln’s death, you two had fought increasingly more often until Daisy locked herself away or spent the night at May’s, and you went for drives until your car ran on empty. On those nights, bottles of wine disappeared from the cabinet without a trace.

Daisy sits up, stamping down her sobs, seemingly resigning herself to the fact that you aren’t going to say anything. Her trembling lip and red eyes pierce your heart. The astronomical distance between you two seems atomic now. You reach out quicker than lightning, shushing her cries and rubbing her back.

“Do you want to go?” You asked after a while. Your knees dig uncomfortably into the floor, your shoulder hurts from the ridges in the doorframe.

Daisy sniffles, her hair falling into her face as she looks away. You crane your neck down, carefully tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You know I’m afraid of change, I guess that’s why we’ve stayed the same,” You sigh, your chest constricting and squeezing the broken glass pieces of your heart.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to continue, “But if you want to find a new life, someone who loves you better than I do, darling, I understand.”

Daisy is still frozen, stare burning holes in the floor. You’re glad that the two of you are at home, the poly-tectic adaptive materials hidden between the walls keeping the house from collapsing. By the slight groan of the foundation, you can imagine Daisy could bring down a mountain with the amount of pain she’s in.

Which can only mean one thing.

“I’m not enough,” You stated. It wasn’t a question. You glance down, a glint in the low light cast from the lamp on the bedside table catching your eye. She has her ring on…

Daisy finally, finally shakes her head ‘no’. You let go of a breath, guilt building every second that passes. She isn’t happy. You shouldn’t be happy that she’s staying.

“Feels like a lifetime, we’ve been trying to get by while we’re dying inside,” You say, gently.

Daisy snaps her eyes to yours, a desperation in them you recognize as grief.

“So much of the past year has been consumed by grief. We never took time off, we never talked about it. I’ve done a lot of things wrong, loving you being one,” She whispers.

You nod, there is no denying that you each had a part in getting to where you are now. Delicately, you grab her hand. She squeezes it, a rush of small vibrations traveling up your arm. Your chest flutters at the familiar affection.

“So have I,” You assure her. She gradually falls towards you, exhausted. You let her rest her head on your shoulder, her breath evening out as her arms wrap around you. You feel hot tears flow down your face, fall onto her hair. Slowly, you pull Daisy closer to you.

Hours later, the sun peeks over the top of the mountain range in the distance. You had adjusted the two of you sometime around two a.m., no longer able to feel your legs from how the floor cut off your circulation.

Sometime around three, you had gathered the courage to move Daisy to the bed, trying hard not to wake her. She had only turned over and not let go of your hand.

You haven’t slept at all tonight, thoughts spinning until you force yourself to pause and count to ten, only to repeat the pattern.

You know what you have to do. You know what’s best for the both of you. You’ll leave, pack your bags and find a place to stay until you can scrape up enough money to rent an apartment. You’ll go to therapy, learn to live without Lincoln, without Daisy. Eventually, Daisy will heal, too. You both have the team at your backs, no matter what happens. She would be okay.

But you know you won’t. The fear of losing Daisy, of losing your life, your home, yourself stops you. You can’t move on. You can’t move forward.

You know that the big changes it takes to heal could cost you Daisy. So, you stay the same. You give into fear. You’ll never be enough, never love Daisy right, never quite heal fully — and neither will Daisy. But you still stay.

You’ll always stay the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ahhhh how was it? did you love it? any feedback? want more? put any thoughts/feelings/questions/concerns in the comments or my ask box!! i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you enjoyed reading it even more!!

<<3

[wallwriterstuff]

Her Reflection ||Marcus Volturi x Reader||

Warnings: Angst city central, descriptions of grief and depression

Words: 2741

Taglist: @royalvolturisblog @thelastemzy ​ @ferb13 ​ @raindancer2004 ​ @a-avaunce @broskibowser ​ @alecvolturiswifeforever ​ @college-is-coming @perfectcolortreestudent @volturidoll13 ​ @vamp-army

Summary:

A request for @like-rain-or-confetti

Marcus is resolute in his grief, so much so he has refused Corin’s gift many a time. When you show up, he can’t help but realise that perhaps his centuries of suffering were enough, that the contentment you offer is far more permanent than Corin’s. Maybe,  just maybe...Didyme sent you to him to give him one last chance at the happiness she loved to spread about.

You were a wonderful find.

Aro had been delighted to see you in his thoughts. He had been forced to leave the safety of Volterra for a business trip, the accounts of their business front needing attention every few decades to keep up the ruse of a modern, evolving company with changing leadership and new blood in its crew. The journey to Rome had been uneventful until they found the rogue little newborn tearing holes in a small residential area they had had to pass through. Demetri had quickly found the little fiend and as Aro took his face in his grasp, the images had raced through his mind, the regret he hadn’t taken your offer to help him strongly resonating through his body as it was mercilessly torn apart.

“Oh…Demetri…find this one.” He had murmured. Demetri did, and you had been amongst the guard now for eleven months. It had been a surprise to Marcus when you showed up with his brother as you didn’t seem to fit the Guard’s image – he wasn’t sure you knew how to be intimidating. It was clear you hadn’t come of your own volition, you were far too intelligent to be deceived into thinking Aro’s offer to join was real and clearly saw you actually had no choice at all, but still you came with a gracious smile, like you’d rather be nowhere else. After so many centuries of living and travelling as nomad you had confessed to Marcus a place to settle was nice, and despite so much time on your own you had a warm and welcoming nature that just drew the others to you.

It was all too easy to find your place when your place seemed to be everywhere and anywhere. As bitter and cautious as they were, even the twins seemed to warm to you rapidly after a few discussions. Marcus was mildly intrigued at first, but he didn’t really see enough of you to form any solid opinion on you. He only knew what he had heard, and what he had heard was that you were helpful and kind, quick to soothe pain and anger in others even if it festered in yourself. It sounded so awfully familiar to him that the raw ache in his chest, one that had never really gone away, throbbed so badly he was forced to turn his face to avoid your visage when you entered the room. Still, your voice was sugar sweet, melodic and soothing, it was a balm somehow to that pain. Months later he couldn’t say he was rid of it, he never would be rid of the pain he was sure, but it had dimmed somewhat.

His intrigue had turned to infatuation quickly when he finally let himself cast a glance at you. You were attractive to him, very pleasing to the eye though not in an exaggerated way. What made you beautiful was your personality, and it was what brought so many to your side in their efforts to win themselves a chance at capturing your affections. You turned down one after the next, the bonds you chose to make with the rest of the Guard purely founded on friendship and nothing more. Even when you grew those you coveted most it never came close to anything romantic and he was somewhat glad of that. He didn’t want to be the reason you never knew happiness, but he couldn’t help but wish that perhaps you might find it in him. There were other complications with that of course, because how could you ever give yourself to someone so broken? Was he even capable of love? How did you find happiness in someone devoid of it? He had felt it once before and this was so similar…

You had shown up more and more in the throne room, guarding them as they read. If you ever noticed his stare you didn’t say or make it obvious, but you did catch his eye once or twice and the smile you gave him warmed him inside. It had felt awful the first few times because how could he betray Didyme like that? How was it right, how was it fair, that he might get to feel any semblance of joy after his mate had gone unavenged? Was it even possible to fall in love again? Perhaps the centuries had worn away that original bond, but even that felt like a disservice to Didyme’s love, her kindness. It was enduring in ways that nothing else was. Then it hit him, you reminded him of her. The bond he could form with you was not so different to the one he had shared with her, you were too similar for it not to be.

Didyme’s gift had been happiness, the aura so inviting she had infected everyone around her with it, and while you didn’t share that gift you shared that personality. Marcus understood then, why the colour had returned to the halls as he walked them, why the sunshine seemed warmer on his skin as he passed by windows. It was you. Yet more complications came with that revelation because he was growing ever more restless (in his own lethargic way) and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hide it. How did he tell you he had grown to love you for the very same reasons he had loved her? It was like looking at her reflection distorted in a mirror, a different face and different person but the same kind of heart. You had different passions and opinions and a slightly lethal edge to your physical prowess that he found gave him comfort, for it reminded him you were not her and you were able to defend yourself in ways she hadn’t been able to, but it also finally gave him the courage to admit that yes, he did love you, he did love you and he loved you because though you were like her you were not her.

Marcus didn’t want you to think about Didyme though when you spoke to him, he didn’t want you to see yourself as a replacement for a great, epic love. Unbeknownst to him, you had enquired about the sad king the moment you arrived. Marcus’s entire being radiated such grief and pain that it had been impossible not to ask about him, and given your easy to talk to nature (and the fear of what would happen to you if you unknowingly stuck your foot in your mouth) many a guard had happily told you the reasons for his depression.

“Didyme was beautiful.”

“Didyme was always so kind.”

“She made a whole room light up when she walked into it.”

“It was the greatest love story our kind have ever seen.”

Every statement had only made your heart hurt for the man more and more. His pain was so palpable, but his interest was also obvious. For a man so broken by the loss of such a momentous love it was surprising to say the least, but you also weren’t complaining. You had no desire to see anyone feel like he did, to be so trapped in darkness, and you had made it your mission to make the throne room feel a little lighter whenever you walked into it. Marcus was rather attractive in his own way, even with the corners of his mouth pulled down and his eyes so devoid of light. You were sure with a real smile he would look radiant as his eternal youth dictated he should. The day you got to see that first wisp of a smile was the day you became more determined to see it more often. Most people had gotten so used to overlooking Marcus unless he was called upon that you were able to share subtle looks and smiles from across the room with nobody really noticing – you smiled so often it wasn’t an unusual thing to see.

It was getting close to an important anniversary, important in Marcus’s mind anyway. You had been with the Guard for almost a year and people had started to notice the effects on the quiet King. Marcus had taken to wandering the halls more often than before, enjoying the library and the music room. The Gardens would be off-limits for a while yet, the tree planted in Didyme’s honour still blooming strong every year due to Aro’s careful upkeep and too much for his heart, his eyes. It was while admiring a painting in the hall that he came across you.

“Surely, after the length of your stay with us, you have seen this piece before?” his voice was soft, a slight rasp from the disuse and lack of satisfaction in his life that had lasted so long it was difficult to get rid of it. He felt like a schoolboy when you smiled at him, and for once he embraced the feeling rather than trying to shun it.

“I have, still it amazes me.” You confessed.

“There are larger pieces.” He mused.

“Size does not guarantee quality.” Your response was accompanied by a cheeky smile that made his own lips twitch upward, that ghost of a smile upon on his lips making you sigh contentedly. Twice in one day? It must have been vampire Christmas. For a while, you stood in silence and contemplated the painting before you. It was a simple piece of artwork, the Tuscan countryside interrupted by a quaint little cottage.

“What do you see?” Marcus asked you quietly. Head tilting, you hummed thoughtfully.

“I see peace.” You voice was decisive and he couldn’t help but frown. Peace? He had studied art a lot over the centuries and he had to admit, he had never once looked at this piece twice as something he could profoundly evaluate. It was a field, it was a cottage, it was…something that felt very literal in what it was.

“Peace?” he questioned.

You hummed. “The colours are so warm, and the hills just keep rolling. This landscape stretches forever, an endless path of golden light. There is always something to look forward to ahead but so much beauty around that cottage that you would be equally as happy to stay in that moment. To be able to see the beauty in what’s around us…that is the key to peace to me.”

Marcus could only stare at the painting, trying to see what you saw. He had seen nothing but grey for so long that the warm colours still felt faded. He couldn’t really remember what true peace felt like until he became brave enough to stand beside you. You radiated it. You were so content in life it was impossible not to feel the peace of mind you carried with you everywhere you went.

“What do you see?” you asked him. He didn’t dare stare into those wine-red eyes, sure his words would flee him. Marcus cleared his throat slightly, contemplating what to say. The truth was, he hadn’t seen anything in art ever since he began to study it. He had never seen metaphors or symbolism. Art had the potential to be beautiful and breath-taking but he had lost his ability to see it, until recently. There was…something, he realised, the more he stared at it.

“I see a cottage,” he said slowly, “But it is plain. Plain yet…surrounded by warmth. Isolated, and yet beautiful…it is…it feels as though, it could be home.” There was a deafening silence after he spoke, his words carrying more weight than he had first realised, weight you clearly felt. Marcus had lived in darkness, in agony and despair, in shadows, but with you there was light, joy, and beauty. He could live that way again if you allowed him the chance to. He could find that beautiful home in you. His hand was slow, reaching for yours. For a while the tip of his little finger touching the side of your hand was all he felt, not brave enough to go any further but so desperate to. When your fingers twitched, curling around his own to link your pinkies and hold his hand loosely, he knew instinctually that you wouldn’t let go. You would help him take that last step into the light. He didn’t need to be afraid.

“Master-“

“Marcus,” he amended softly, “I wish for you to call me Marcus.”

You nodded. “Marcus, then.”

A startled little laugh escaped him, because Didyme had once said the exact same thing to him. Unknowingly, you had replicated their very first exchange. Surprised red eyes stared up at him – you had never heard him laugh before. He seemed just as shocked since he wasn’t sure he was capable of such a sound anymore.

“You…you are so like her.” he sighed wistfully. In an ideal world she would be here, but…wasn’t this ideal? A second chance was unheard of amongst their kind and he was desperate to grasp it with both hands, but he feared holding too tight and shattering the hope he was unknowingly placing in you.

"Her? I...oh...Marcus..." you trailed off. Marcus finally met your eyes, the depth of sadness in his expression something you knew now you would never be able to fully alleviate, but you could meet him in the sea of his despair and keep him afloat, couldn’t you? This kind man deserved better.

“Forgive me. I had no wish to startle you, but you remind me so much of…of Didyme.” He whispered. Your expression softened, but there was no pity there, no sympathy, only gratitude. His honesty was applaudable and the courage it must have taken to say her name, that he felt safe enough to attempt such a feat with you of all people…you were grateful. Grateful to share this quiet moment with a man you had come to greatly admire, grateful to be held in such high esteem by him.

“That makes me truly happy to hear.” you confessed. Marcus frowned, looking confused.

“It does?” he questioned. You smiled, giving your interlocked fingers the slightest squeeze. Marcus slid his palm against your own, fully taking hold of your hand now he was more confident his affections were not about to be rejected.

“The day I arrived you looked so sad. I asked around, not wanting to say anything I shouldn’t and upset you further. The tales I heard, the descriptions I was given…it is an honour to think I might remind you of her in even the smallest of ways.” Your reassurance was like a warm blanket. Feeling cocooned and safe, he lifted your intertwined hands to brush the lightest of kisses against your knuckles. The tender gesture would have made you blush if you still had the ability.

“She was truly a miracle in my life, yet for all the ways you remind me of her, you seem to have just as many differences between you two,” he murmured, “I confess…I admire the reflection of her I see in you, but I love the little things that mark you as separate from her. It felt wrong to do so, yet I could not help it.” Pursing your lips, you tried to calm your racing thoughts as Marcus watched you for any hint of reaction. He had been open and honest, taken a brave step, and he needed you to meet him halfway lest he retreat back into the shadows. Living in hope was no foreign thing for you and you didn’t just meet him halfway, you anchored him in that hope so he might never retreat again.

“It would be a privilege to help you remember what it is like to be loved.” You assured him. Marcus gave you another small smile. Over time, those smiles grew and grew until they crinkled his eyes at the corners. Some days he laughed. On one rare occasion you had gotten him to dance with you in the music room to the record playing on the gramophone. Bit by bit the light returned to his eyes until he beamed so brightly when he saw you that it was obvious to everyone the Marcus they had once known had been partially revived. Grief was a constant companion but it no longer crippled him, and in the safety of your embrace Marcus felt so far from the shadows he was certain for the first time in centuries that he was finally free of them.

[mimosaeyes]

If things don’t work out and he loses Jon tomorrow, Martin wants to remember him happy.

Post-199. Jon and Martin reflect on what has and could have been. 1.4k

Thanks @emberidzae and @distortion-noodles for the quick beta!

As they emerge into the hallway, Georgie pokes her head out of what must be her and Melanie’s bedroom. “Blankets and such are down that way,” she says, pointing. “Help yourself, yeah?”

If Martin weren’t observing Jon so closely, he might have missed the way he jumps at the words. Jon recovers swiftly, though. “Right. Thanks, Georgie.”

Martin hasn’t yet closed the door behind them. He leans back into the room to relay the information to Basira, only to find her already nodding and waving him off without looking up. “I heard her.”

She’s leaning against the table they’d all stood around while arguing about the plan. In her hands are two flat metal discs on a chain. It takes Martin a moment to place where he’d last seen them: hanging around Daisy’s neck.

He was slipping too far into the Lonely at the time to really pay attention, but Martin did notice that the dog tags disappeared after Daisy swore to resist the Hunt. He’s always assumed she got rid of them, destroyed them in a bid to purge the memory of her work for Section 31 — and the less than legal things she did besides.

“Found them while tracking her,” Basira explains, clearly guessing his train of thought. “She stopped wearing them, but she still carried them around. As a reminder, you know? Until…”

Until she gave in to the Entity calling her name. Until she left her humanity behind to protect her friends.

Martin swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. “If you need to talk, Basira—”

“I’m good,” she cuts him off. “I’m managing.”

He knows it’s the truth; they’d had plenty of time to catch up at the base of the cliff while Jon was recording. So he nods and leaves it at that, saying only, “Come find us anyway, if you change your mind.”

Her expression softens even as her voice takes on a wry edge. “Go on,” she chivvies, “go be soppy with your boyfriend somewhere else.”

“Somewhere far away from you, you mean?”

Basira snaps her fingers. “Got it in one. Always knew you were the smart one.”

The bedding Georgie mentioned turns out to be a huge pile of unrolled sleeping bags and unfolded blankets. The sight is amusingly incongruous for the three seconds it takes Martin to realise that these used to belong to the cult members, who have since been dragged back to their domains.

Gingerly, he steps forward to take what they need. Jon helps, his face stony.

They duck into the first empty room they come across and lay down enough padding to save their backs from the hard floor. Martin fusses with the makeshift bed while Jon stands and starts pacing.

Everything in Martin is saying to go to him and wrap him up in another hug, make up for the one Jon had pulled out of while his hands were still shaking and his cheeks still wet with tears. But he watches the tense lines of his body and thinks that Jon would only flinch away from comfort if he offered it again. So he sits down, leaving some space for Jon to join him when he’s ready, and waits.

It takes several minutes for Jon to look up at him. When he does, he bites his lip and says, “I’m sorry. It’s already been decided, I know, and I’m sick of rehashing the same old arguments with you.”

Martin lets out a short exhale. “I know. If the plan doesn’t work — I don’t want to spend our last hours together fighting.”

Jon blanches a little. “Hours,” he repeats softly, starting to shake his head. “I wish we had more time.”

“You don’t mean, uh… put it off, do you?” Martin doesn’t think he does, but it’s worth clarifying.

“What? Oh, no. Of course not.”

The huff of laughter that accompanies Jon’s words is gratifying. Martin decides to lean into it. “Because that would be a truly record-breaking act of procrastination,” he points out.

Jon smiles lopsidedly. “Speak for yourself. You haven’t seen me try to start writing an essay in university.”

“Fair enough,” Martin concedes, smiling back at him.

After a moment, Jon sobers again. “I mean, maybe we wouldn’t have been together, if not for all this, but — if I had to do it all over again, I think I’d waste less time. I’d… I don’t know, I’d tell you I’d missed you while I was abroad. Maybe admit that there were a couple of times when I didn’t really need your help looking something up, but called you anyway, so I could hear your voice.”

Martin blinks, momentarily surprised. Then he crows, “I knew it! I knew there wasn’t really a place called Desert Bluffs. I looked for mentions of it in statements for days, and the whole time you were — ha, you were bluffing.”

Good-naturedly, Jon rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m terrible at coming up with fake names on the spot.”

“But that would mean…” Martin furrows his brow at Jon. “That was when you were in America. And you already…”

Jon has been gradually closing the distance between them as they’ve talked. Now he eases himself down next to Martin, as always favouring the leg Sasha had once dug a worm out of with a corkscrew, and says simply, “Yes. I already knew I loved you. Maybe I wasn’t in love with you, not yet, but… yes.”

Martin will never get used to hearing Jon say he loves him. He knows he does, and it still takes his breath away every time. But right now, with a handful of hours until the morning, it makes him feel like the air has been punched out of his chest.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I wish we’d gotten our act together sooner.”

Beside him, Jon pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping one arm around his legs and extending his other hand in Martin’s direction. Martin holds onto his hand, and they stay like that for a spell.

They’ve made an unspoken compact to not only avoid fighting on this last night, but also to keep things light. They’ve had so few wholly good days together, Martin reflects. If things don’t work out and he loses Jon tomorrow, he wants to remember him happy. He wants to make the time they have count.

He nudges Jon, letting his voice grow teasing again. “Hey. If I got to do it all over again, I’d ask you out on a kayaking date.”

“That’s... pretty specific,” Jon remarks.

“Tim gave me the idea. Early, early on, when he would make fun of me for having a crush on the boss. I’d bring you some tea and come back to my desk to find he’d texted me a link to a nearby kayak rental service. It was a different one each time, too.”

“You have to admire the commitment.” Jon pauses. “Can two people even fit in the same kayak?”

“I thought of that. There are tandem kayaks. I was going to win you over with my superior rowing skills.”

Jon laughs. “I think it would’ve worked.”

From just outside the door comes a rustling noise. Basira, probably, holding an armful of sleeping bag and looking for a place to bed down for the night.

After she goes past, Jon says ruefully, “We should probably get some rest.”

He looks about as tired as Martin feels. But everything now seems tinged with an air of finality. If they go to sleep, it might be the last time they curl up together. And it’ll make the morning come sooner.

It’s irrational, but he blurts out, “Not yet. I… I’m not ready.”

To say goodnight. To say goodbye.

Jon cants his head at him, and Martin wonders how transparent his thoughts are, playing across his features.

“Me neither,” Jon murmurs. He leans in closer and presses a kiss to Martin’s forehead. “Me neither.”

They stay up and talk, facing each other in bed. Neither of them has ever had a sleepover at a friend’s place, they discover, and yet this feels like that. Jon tells him about the lake he and Basira traversed, making it sound absolutely dreadful without Martin there to help with rowing. Martin starts describing Life of Pi and other movies Jon may never get to watch. Several times, he asks if Jon is sleeping with his eyes open, then laughs as he denies it.

In the end, Martin doesn’t even remember falling asleep — only that Jon is there with him, and that’s almost enough.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[fanficsrusz]

I WANT TO KI__ YOU CHAPTER TEN - DARK! JOHN WICK

Warnings: Kidnapping, Dub-Con, Non-con, Stockholm Syndrome, Being Restrained, Breeding, everything bad.

PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. IF YOU FIND ANY OF THESE WARNINGS TRIGGERING, THEN DO NOT READ. BY CONTINUING TO READ FROM THIS POINT ON, YOU ARE AGREEING THAT YOU ARE COMFORTABLE WITH ALL OF THE ABOVE WARNINGS. I DO NOT ACCEPT ANY RESPONSIBILITY IF YOU FEEL TRIGGERED BY THE FOLLOWING CONTENT SINCE THERE HAS BEEN PLENTY OF WARNINGS. IF YOU FEEL LIKE ANY OTHER WARNINGS SHOULD BE ADDED THEN PLEASE POLITELY DM ME AND I WILL ADD THEM.

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Summery: After failing to fulfill his contract, John takes a liking to y/n and his liking soon turns into a dark obsession

I want to ki__ you playlist

A/n: It feels like ages since I updated this story but I'm finally back. I wasn't too sure what I wanted to happen in this chapter but hopefully i've done okay.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter and I look forward to reading all your comments and feedback. If you liked this chapter then please reblog it. That is how writers like myself are able to spread out work to other people, especially because there have been a lot of issues with tags lately. Thank you ❤️

Chapter one 

<<< Chapter Nine          Chapter Eleven>>>

Love is confusing. It comes and goes instantly. There is no warning, no sign of when it  will suddenly strike. It’s unpredictable, untamable and it’s scary. Love never says 'I want'. Love asks 'What do you need?'. Love asks 'How can I help you?'. Love listens with patience and empathy. Love is demonstrated in how someone takes actions to care and make self-sacrifice where necessary. Love says 'Let's thrive together.' Love offers a helping hand, a full heart and an open mind. Love is warmth. Love is safety, the thing that makes you forget about everything else in life. Love is John.

John offered y/n those things. He gave her what she needed, what was best for her. He took away all the bad things in her life, all the things that kept her up at night. She no longer had to think about when her next paycheck would come and worry if she had enough money in order to afford the rent. She didn’t have to worry about every little noise she heard outside or the distant screams that she was sure was a cry for help. 

But at what point does love turn into obsession? 

John only meant her good. He didn’t mean to scare her, to hurt her and deep down y/n knew that. In some ways, she loved him too.

The longer she stayed with John, the longer her thoughts constantly drifted to him; he was her everything. Insanity stole into her mind like a deranged thief, taking what was important to her, adding new dangerous ideas, seeding a new personality and muddling up the rest. 

New sparks of ideas that once she would have dismissed as bizarre started to grow roots, deep roots, they started to make sense in one revolutionary eureka moment after another, cascading out of control, luring her further and further from the self she once knew, until she was so deep that she no longer recognised herself, making new connections in her new distorted reality that she grew to love. 

After a while, her mind had formed an inescapable maze, a prison without walls.

Y/n held her hand over her mouth, the other rigidly clutching the white of the shirt she wore, her eyelids shut so tightly that they began to fidget and shudder from the force, as if the very corners of her eyes were being pricked with a needle, crying silent tears that ran past her plump, red cheeks and over her knuckles until finally dripping onto the floor with as much a sound as the woman's hushed agony.

She stood paralyzed in fear, the scent of perturbation invaded the room. Her terrorized feet refused to move and all her hands agreed to do was to stay covering her frightened face. Yet the excited buzz in her stomach continued to grow, the deep burn from inside that John had put there.  

She hated that she loved it, that she loved him. He was insane, delusional, a man driven by his own sick desires and she was nothing more than a stepping stone that helped him achieve his goals. But she couldn’t help but fall for him. However, she was scared; there was such joy and so much pain. 

Before John, y/n had only ever really loved two men, and they were so very different to each other. John was some holy blend of them both. So, she was happy to have met him, she just wished it was under different circumstances but she had never wanted any form of eternity until now, she never saw the point, until John. 

y/n lifted her head and stared into her distorted reflection of the metal cooker topper. It wasn't even shiny, yet she could tell from her reflection that she was a mess. John stood behind her, watching her every move carefully but his eyes still lit up with love and admiration for her. He admired everything about her, from the way the breeze blew her hair to the softness of her voice. To John, she looked like some kind of water sprite even when she thought she looked terrible. 

As y/n watched the twisted smile form on John's face, fear curled up inside her and clung to her ribs, settling uncomfortably in her chest. She didn’t doubt the feelings she had for him were there to stay, reminding her of its existence every time she opened her mouth to breathe, but it was getting hard for her to deny.

The panic started like a tightening of the chest, as if her muscles were trying not to let another breath in, but instead to die. Her tiredness made her head hang limp like wet laundry on a cold still day. She felt like every muscle was giving into gravity and she couldn’t control it any more. Then the breathing came, shallow, lungs unable to move much against her suddenly heavy ribs. Her mind became static, thoughts making no sense, repeats of horrors once forgotten. 

Beneath her feet the wooden floor felt soft, not as much as even a firm carpet, but not right for oak planks. y/n moved to the turn around, her back sliding against the edge of the counter, her legs brushing against the mildewed cupboard door. It was hard to make out the details of the room through blurred eyes, but after a while she could make out the features of the room. It was the same as it ever was, just abandoned, old, dusty. 

Forgetting the floor she tried to move forward forward, "I can’t- I can’t" Her only response was the creaking of a door moving lazily in the breeze. It was all too much for her: John, her emotions, her new life - she couldn’t cope. 

y/n staggered backward, her mind swirling, her breaths shallow until she fell in a heap to the floor.  On the way down she knocked over a vase but y/n didn’t even notice. All she was aware of was the loud crash that filled her ears and then the warmth around her.  John was a blur as he ran towards her, eyes wide and voice muffled through the ringing in her ears. 

She felt it break - her sanity, much like the vase that also fell onto the floor beside her.  Her last shred of normalcy shattered into a million pieces. The shards laid on the floor glittering in the sun, who knew breaking down could look so beautiful. She knew there was no hope in trying to put them back together, so she wouldn’t even try. she just sat there staring at John as his lips moved but no noise came out.

At first there was only silence, a misty haze upon the horizons of her mind. That's where she normally kept everything, in her mind. That was until now. She could feel the hard painful lump in the back of her throat as the tears continued to fall. Slowly her breathing hallowed itself and a small but intense pain struck the top nerve in her head. Before she knew it there was shouting, they were hers, yet they seemed so distant and she couldn’t even make out what they said.

Her remaining thread of strength frayed before breaking completely, sending her plummeting over the edge and into the darkness. Hysterical sobs shook her small frame, threatening to tear her apart from the inside. She fought to reclaim control over her body, shocked by the sounds escaping from deep within her chest but the calm never came.

“y/n!” John shouted over and over, trapped in a mantra as he tried to get her to answer him but all he got was cries.

John slowly pulled her closer to his chest,  wrapping his arms around her tightly before he gently squeezed. His embrace was warm, and his big, strong arms seemed very protective when wrapped around her frail body. The world around her melted away as she squeezed him back, not wanting the moment to end. Wrapped in a warm swaddle of his chest and arms, y/n’s tears seemed to die down, as if his hug was a sort of medicine to her pain. She didn't want to leave. It felt as if when she was in his arms all her pain went away - mental and physical, mostly the depressing pain.

John had never seen y/n cry like that, so deflated. Her loose shoulders still shook softly, her hands hanging limp around him, making no attempt to conceal or even wipe away her own tears. Aside from her reddened face she was so grey looking and her hair was dishevelled. John had seen others cry like that, normally when they begged for their lives before he killed them, and in every case it was a transition from a person with hope to one without. It was how they all begged for their lives; It was how John had cried when he lost his child; it was how John cried the day his wife passed. It was a kind of crying that showed the child underneath, that the pain had cut right back through the protective layers acquired in maturity.

“Don’t cry, Princess-” he placed a soft kiss onto her forehead and knelt down onto his knees as he brought her closer to his chest, “-everything will be okay, i’m here”.

Even Though y/n could hardly breath between her sobs, she reached out and hugged John tightly, a hug so warm yet so different from a motherly embrace and y/n felt her mind slowly calm. How could it be that she hadn't seen John’s love for what it was before? Pure. Unselfish. Undemanding. Free. She felt his body press in, soft and warm. This was the love she'd waited for, prayed for. She inwardly thanked God and hugged all the tighter. A love like this was to be cherished for life. 

When they finally parted after several minutes, tears stopping and breathing normal, y/n felt his absence as a cold wind, wishing she could keep him wrapped around her like a well worn sweater for always.

John smiled and held her at arm’s length, his eyes softening as he watched the way she brushed her tears away from her reddening cheeks. 

“Feel better?” he asked and y/n only nodded, unable to form any words under his gaze. 

“Good, let’s get you cleaned up” y/n cocked her head to the side, not sure what he was talking about until she followed his gaze down to her arm.

A deep wound was sliced in the flesh of her lower left arm. It heavily oozed out blood and there was a bluish-purple bruise forming around it. y/n lightly pressed her index finger against the center of the cut and sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spiraled all across her body. She wasn’t even aware of the cut caused by the vase until that very moment. Colorful spots contoured the sides of her eyes and y/n  had to bite her lip from the pain of it all, the adrenaline that numbed her pain slowly fading away.

“Ow” she whimpered out and John pulled her finger away. 

“Stop that” he whispered and pushed his arms under her armpits, lifting her from the floor. y/n said nothing as John led her to the bathroom again and gently placed her onto the side of the bath. She watched as John shifted through the cupboard, pulling out different bottles of medicines before finally turning back to her. 

John gently lifted her arm and turned on the tap, holding it under the running water. The water enveloped her as closely as her own skin. Every new sore stung  as John tipped a bottle of TCP up-side-down before he poured some over her cut. y/n winced as the pain swirled without mercy, penetrating to the cells that should have been protected by smooth skin but lie open and raw. 

y/n hissed at the pain and John hated to see her like that but it was the only way to avoid infection. 

“Sorry” John simply said, eyes not leaving the cut as he softly dabbed it with a cotton bud, wiping away any blood that remained in the cut before examining it for any more glass fragments that may be hiding inside. The simple touch sent a wave of butterflies coursing through her veins, their fluttering wings easing the dread that had settled inside her as she stared at John. 

“Why don’t I hate you?” she blurted out and John seemed to tense at her words. 

“What?”

“I should hate you. You- you raped me” her voice grew quiet with every passing word and John stopped his movements, turning the running water off before turning his gaze to her - firm and stoic. 

“I didn’t - rape you” he said sternly and y/n bit the inside of her cheek as she looked down at her cut again. “Didn’t  you want it? Didn’t you want to have sex with me?” he asked after several seconds of silence.

“I - I don’t know. That’s what’s confusing me.”

John exhaled heavily and moved to sit next to her on the side of the bathtub. 

“Did I hurt you?” his voice was low, much like a child who had been told off and y/n shook her head. 

“No -” y/n turned slightly, facing him and grabbed onto his knee as she drew reassuring circles with her thumb. “-You didn’t hurt me. You never have. I just don’t know what to feel right now. I should hate you but I dont and I know you're mad at me and-”

“You think i’m mad at you?” John interrupted, reaching his hand up to grab onto her hand, stopping her movements. y/n stilled for a moment in his touch until she felt him push her away.

"I can feel the pain that swirls in your brain, y/n, the confusion. All the stories you keep telling yourself as if they hold answers. They don't. People do things because their emotions are driving them that way... all those things that hurt you, princess, had nothing to do with you at all”

y/n lips formed a tight smile as she played with her fingers. She couldn’t explain her thoughts, her feelings, her fears. They stirred together in her head and threatened to boil over at any second and John only made it worse; his eyes showed the kind of gentle concern her grandfather used to have yet his actions said something different. 

John laid his hand lightly on her shoulder, and instead of flinching like she usually did, y/n  was soothed by it. He had spoken with a soft voice that calmed her more by the way it was said rather than the actual words. It felt as if she was wrapped in a blanket of his care. How could she not fall in love with him now that she could see how much he truly loved her? 

“I just don’t know what to feel. It’s like I love you but I know it’s wrong. You hurt me, scared me, took me away from my life, yet I don’t want to go back-” she inhaled deeply, “I just don’t understand what I feel. Normally I can talk to someone about my issues and they could give me some advice but I’m pretty sure this isn’t something that most people go through” she chuckled softly, her heart sinking as she felt John shift beside her. 

“I never intended to hurt you” he whispered before standing up.

y/n’s eyes followed John as he moved, his normally stoic face having turned into a frown before he disappeared out of the bathroom. Y/n sat there, staring at the empty doorway for a second, preparing herself to follow before John quickly re-appeared.

Her eyes formed half crescents as she stared at the face she had grown to love but her smile dropped and heart sank when her eyes caught the glint of the knife he held in his hands. 

“John?” she croaked out, breath catching in her throat as she pushed herself to stand, taking a step back. She didn’t understand. Was he going to hurt her? She had just confessed her emotions to him and now, this?

“I’m sorry” he said softly, his hand lifting almost robotically whilst he stepped forward. y/n closed her eyes, her heart stopping as she waited for everything to be over, to feel the knife sink deep into her skin but it never came. 

Instead she felt his presence linger just in front of her before John did the unthinkable - he shoved the knife into y/n’s hand.

 y/n opened her eyes slowly, her eyes wearing a puzzled expression as she studied John's sunken eyes that were trained on the floor. She held the knife, twisting it under the artificial bathroom light, her confusion exaggerated by the dark shadows around her eyes as she glanced at the weapon in her hand.

 Although rust had already set in on the handle of the knife, the blade was strong and jagged - more than enough to hurt John or even kill him. She had the perfect opportunity to do it, to end everything and go back to her old life.. She could already see him in a pool of darkening blood, it would be so easy. 

“I don’t understand - I” y/n started

“I want you to stab me - hurt me, just like I hurt you” his voice was quiet and his eyes never left the floor. y/n glanced upward to look at John as he stepped closer to the blade. Y/n’s mouth pursed but remained slightly open and loose. Her eyes were fixed as if she was staring into a dark abyss and she slowly blinked. 

With a shaky hand, she lifted the knife, holding the pointed weapon to John’s stomach. She knew exactly where to stab for it to be fatal - she had learned a lot as a nurse. It was now or never; she had to make a choice. All she had to do was push the knife forward and it would all be over.

TBC

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[written-on-the-trees]

Spencer Charnas Fanfic - The Jangly Man

The Trees’ October 2020 Writing ChallengeDay 3/31

Prompt: Ghost Stories

Word-count: 1450 words

Content Warnings: non-graphic murder

Summary: Everyone in Freya's home town knew the story of the Jangly Man - it was their local urban legend...but that doesn't explain why her boyfriend Spencer seems so confident about the story...  

A/N: Also known as my first attempt at writing anything scary, also also known as my friend made me watch a tiny bit of Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark and it scared the shit out of me, enough that it stuck with me long enough to make me write this. Anyone else out there a fan of Ice Nine Kills while being absolutely terrified of horror films? Please come chat to me, I don't want to be alone.

“Let me tell you the story of the Jangly Man…”

      Beside her, Freya’s boyfriend Spencer rolled his eyes and scoffed under his breath.

  Freya was a little surprised - the story of the Jangly Man was a bit of a local urban legend, so how Spencer had heard of it she didn’t know - but she didn’t really blame him. The story wasn’t the scariest of ghost stories; it was wasn’t believable enough to actually make anyone thing it was true. Even as kids, it had only really been scary because they all recognised the old house it was set in. Now they were adults, it wasn’t even scary enough to keep them out of the old house…though the cold and damp was making Freya regret coming.

  How some old acquaintances from school had managed to convince her to spend Halloween sitting in a freezing, damp, abandoned old house instead of in the warmth of her parents’ house, Freya wasn’t entirely sure. She was only back in town to introduce Spencer to her parents, and now the pair of them were stuck drinking shitty beer and listening to even shittier ghost stories.

  It was ridiculous.

  Aaron started going on about the story of the Jangly Man - how he was murdered by a man who wanted to marry his wife, but came back from the grave to enact his revenge, dropping down the chimney in the pieces his wife’s admirer had cut him into, before reassembling himself and the couple he found in the bed, only to find out that that couple wasn’t his wife and her new lover. Driven mad by rage and coming back from the dead, the Jangly Man started roaming the town, breaking the necks of anyone and everyone he came across ad tearing them apart, in case they were his wife or her lover. It wasn’t anything special when it came to ghost stories, and soon enough Freya was leaning into Spencer’s side and swirling her beer around in her bottle, watching the light of the torches people were holding reflect off the liquid.

  Spencer wasn’t paying any attention either - or at least Freya thought he wasn’t.

      “First his head fell into the cold fireplace, then his hands - ”

  “First it was his feet.” Spencer suddenly spoke up.

  Everyone turned to look at him in surprise - even Freya - but only Aaron asked what Spencer was talking about: “What?”

  Spencer shrugged: “The Jangly Man’s feet were the first thing that came down the fireplace. Then his body, then his arms and his legs, and his head was last.”

      The room was silent, with even Aaron looking a little surprised, because they’d all heard the story a million times, and it had always been told with the Jangly Man’s head dropping down the chimney first. But that wasn’t what struck Freya as strange.

  It was the quiet confidence Spencer said it with.

  He wasn’t rolling his eyes anymore - he was wearing the smirk he got when he was talking to someone about something that he knew he knew more about than them, and that…was unsettling to Freya. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but it just did.

      “No?” he asked, looking around the group and pulling a confused face (one that Freya knew him well enough to know was fake, even though she didn’t know why he’d want to fake it) before shrugging: “Maybe I heard a different version.”

      The group bought it…but something still felt a little off to Freya.

  She still could put her finger on why, so she tried to ignore it, leaning in closer to Spencer’s side and forcing herself to smile as he cuddled her closer. It was all perfectly normal, from the smell of his cologne to the weight of his arm around her shoulders to the way he always seemed to feel a few degrees cooler than Freya did. It was all exactly the same as she was used to, but…but try as she might, Freya couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. No matter how much time passed, she couldn’t shake the feeling.

  It niggled at her, buzzing around in her brain and distracting her long after Aaron had moved on to other ghost stories, to the point that Spencer turned to her and asked her if everything was alright. She was half a second from saying no, and asking if they could just head back to her parents’, when Aaron declared that they should play a game of hide and seek.

  Freya couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less…but Spencer smiled, and suddenly she felt like she couldn’t say no. Not because he looked happy…

  …because he looked terrifying.

  He pulled her to her feet along with everyone else, following them to the weird room upstairs that was the center of the house, overlooking the stairs and the entrance hallway. There was no time for Freya to voice the way she felt - before she could get a word in edgeways, Aaron was asking who wanted to be the first seeker, and Spencer was volunteering, with a glee in his voice that turned Freya’s blood to ice.

  Spencer started counting, and the group headed out into the hallway to find hiding spots.

      “One, two, three…”

      Just before Sarah, Aaron’s fiancé, could close the door, the counting stopped. The group paused, and turned as one to see what the problem was, only to freeze when they saw Spencer.

  Moonlight had broken through the clouds, and hit Spencer full-on through the window, illuminating him against the darkness.

  Only he didn’t look like Spencer anymore.

  In the moonlight, his skin was unnaturally pale - he was had never been the most tanned guy, but now his skin had a sallow, death-like pallor…and it was bisected by thick rope-like lines around his neck and elbows and God only knew elsewhere. His eyes were milky white, but Freya had no doubt he could see out of them. The way his eyes fixed on their group was too focused for him not to see them.

      He smiled, the expression grotesquely wide and reveal sharp, pointed teeth that were blackened and stained, before reaching out towards Freya: “Not exactly the way I wanted to tell you.”

      Freya didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. She could recognise all of the details instantly.

      Spencer was the Jangly Man.

      One of the other girls in the group screamed, and it took Freya a few seconds to work out why - because Spencer had moved, only it had been way too fast for her to see him do it.

  The girl who had screamed dropped to the ground - she fell down onto her front, but Freya could see her eyes, staring blankly up at the ceiling from where Spencer had broken her neck…broken it so violently that her head was twisted one-hundred and eighty degrees so she was looking over her own back.

  Adrenaline took over, and the group scattered.

  Everyone ran for the exits - the unlocked doors and empty window frames, but Spencer was too fast. It took him no time at all to pick them all off one by one, with the shouts and screams of his victims piercing through the sound of Freya’s heart pounding in her ears, until she realised that they had stopped…and she was the only one left to scream. The thought made her look over her shoulder, sure she would see Spencer waiting to snap her neck, only to see nothing but an empty house.

  She turned to climb out the window in front of her - and came face to face with Spencer’s chest.

  Freya clenched her eyes shut as two icy hands came up her cheeks, shuddering as she felt Spencer lean in close enough for his breath - so cold, too cold to be alive - to skate over her skin.

      “I did say this wasn’t the best weekend to meet your parents.” he muttered, his voice so deep and distorted it was barely recognizable, even though his mouth was right next to her ear: “Still, I suppose I was going to end up here anyway.”

      Freya waited for the hands on her face to move, for him to break her neck like he had everyone else’s…but when his hand moved, it was only to tilt her face to the side, the move scarily gentle compared to what she knew he could do. What he was about to do.

  But then all he did was softly kiss her on the cheek.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow, babe.”

      And then he was gone.

[pamphletstoinspire]

Maundy Thursday - April 1, 2021

Today is Maundy Thursday

This day, Maundy Thursday (also “Holy Thursday” or “Shire Thursday”1) commemorates Christ’s Last Supper and the initiation of the Eucharist. Its name of “Maundy” comes from the Latin word mandatum, meaning “command.” This stems from Christ’s words in John 13:34, “A new commandment I give unto you.” It is the first of the three days known as the “Triduum,” and after the Vigil tonight, and until the Vigil of Easter, a more profoundly somber attitude prevails (most especially during the hours between Noon and 3:00 PM on Good Friday). Raucous amusements should be set aside…

Feast of Holy Thursday

by Fr. Francis Xavier Weninger, 1876

The Church observes the fast of Lent with the intention of preparing her children, in as perfect a manner as possible, for the glorious Easter-tide, that they may arise from a sinful, tepid, and imperfect state to a pure, holy, and even saintly life–a life most precious in the sight of the Lord. It is, therefore, the earnest wish of this most tender mother, that each of her children be penetrated with the greatest horror of sin, and, that every Christian, as he arises from the death of sin, shall also make fast the sepulcher of tepidity in which his soul has been for years, perhaps, buried. To this wish, and to the manner in which its realization can be accomplished, I will direct the attention of all whom I address during these three days of grace, asking them to consider with me the lives of three persons of whom Holy Scripture makes special mention in the history of the passion.

The first of the three is Judas, as he sat with the Lord at the Last Supper. Let us follow him until we behold him commit the dreadful crime which sealed his eternal ruin.

That the infinite merits of Christ may be effectually bestowed upon us, the first and most essential condition is, that we renounce sin entirely and forever, and thus, with hearts perfectly cleansed from the dust thereof, render ourselves worthy of the Table of the Lord, and thus, at this holy Easter-time, receive His precious Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity. A glance at Judas, the traitorous Apostle, will promote this condition of heart.

He is a mirror in which we may behold sin in all its depravity; in which every sinner, especially if he be a member of our Holy Church, may see reflected his own image, disfigured and distorted by the malignity of the crimes he has committed. This will be made clear to you today,–the day, upon which, in ages long gone by, our loving Saviour bequeathed to us His sacred Body and Blood.

O Mary, refuge of sinners, obtain for us a perfect knowledge of our sins and the grace of true repentance, that we may make a sincere confession of all our offenses against the law of God! I speak in the most holy name of Jesus, for the greater honor and glory of God!

Several circumstances conspired to render the sin of Judas so enormous, the first one of which was his exalted position. He had been selected from among the millions of men who had lived up to that period on earth, and who would live until the end of time, to be constantly in the society of Jesus. Oh, what an honor! In proportion to it, therefore, his fall was immeasurably great.

Another serious aggravation of his crime was his abuse of the graces bestowed upon him to fit him for his vocation as one of the twelve Apostles,–one of the favored few who, for three years and a half, enjoyed the privilege of walking with the Saviour of mankind. He had, therefore, before him the most perfect example of virtue; he heard all His admirable discourses; witnessed His many miracles; beheld even the body of Lazarus, already touched with the blight of decay, arise at the word of the Lord, and yet all this was without effect! Oh, what emptiness of heart! what an abuse of grace! For his sin there was no excuse!

The next aggravating circumstance was the terrible indifference of Judas. Christ, in order to watch over and rescue the soul of this ungrateful sinner, endeavored to win his love and awaken his interest by selecting him from the twelve Apostles as the one to whom He entrusted the care of His own temporal affairs and those of the other Apostles. As a mark of confidence, He gave into his charge the alms they received to procure the necessities of life. This gave him occasion to speak often with the Blessed Virgin Mary, who followed Jesus, with other holy women, to minister to the wants of the little band. And yet Judas remained cold and indifferent to all these proofs of the searching love of Christ for him. Unhappy wretch!

Thirdly, the sin of Judas was enormously aggravated by his astonishing obduracy. Even, though already guilty of the basest treason, he dared to place himself, with the rest of the Apostles, at the table of the Lord– the Last Supper! There Christ, elevating His voice, pronounced those awful words: “One of you is about to betray Me!” Awe-stricken, the disciples asked, in trembling tones: “Is it I, Lord?” Judas remained obdurate. And again the Son of God broke the deep silence, saying: “The Son of man indeed goeth, as it is written of Him: but woe to that man by whom He shall be betrayed; it were better for him if he had not been born.” Terrible sentence! Mighty enough to move the mountains to their very foundations, and to penetrate to the inmost recesses of the ocean caves! And still that obdurate heart remained untouched; nay, he even dared to ask: “Is it I?” Then the divine eyes of the dear Saviour rested with loving pity upon him, as He replied: “Thou hast said it!” Obdurate still, his heart closed to the softening influence of grace; he received the Body and Blood of Christ unworthily; and thus, for the first time, was the sacrilege of an unworthy communion committed, and in that moment Satan took possession of his heart!

Fourthly, the crime of Judas was enormously aggravated by the incredible baseness of the treason. To betray his Lord and Master–his Saviour, who had given him such testimonials of His love–for thirty pieces of silver, the price demanded for slaughtering a head of cattle!–Can more unprecedented baseness be imagined? The enemies of Christ would gladly have paid him ten, fifty, a hundred times more for his most abominable treason had he but asked it. And with what bold assurance did he perpetrate the crime! He kissed the Saviour–the token of friendship to become the signal of treason! What greater hypocrisy can be imagined!

The last and most terrible characteristic of the crime of Judas was that hardness of heart which, culminating in despair, condemned him on the very day of redemption, when Christ gave Himself a willing sacrifice to die that he and all sinners might enter eternal life. This miserable being, unable to bear the weight of his crime, perished by his own vile hand! Oh, horrible sin! Oh, incomprehensible atrocity! Yes, well might Christ declare that it were better for that man had he never been born.

O sinner, you who, while listening to my voice, endure the gnawings of that worm which never dies– the reproaches of a guilty conscience–do you not shudder at the picture of that monster who, chosen of Christ to be one of His dearest friends, betrayed his Lord, and then put an end to his own wretched life? He longed to escape from the night of despair which darkened his wretched life; but the refuge he found was the deepest, blackest pit in the abyss of hell! Oh, that the tree upon which the despairing suicide ended his days, and the halter which deprived him of his life, were here before you, that you might witness the agony and pain of the faithless Apostle who betrayed the innocent Jesus! What a mirror of sin in all its blackest deformity! What a hideous reflection is therein presented! Sinner, do you not recognize it as your own? Do you not find it a perfect representation of your iniquitous soul? And O! may the grace of God so touch your hearts tonight that you repent, and tears entirely blot out that hideous image!

Many of you have, perhaps, heard an anecdote connected with a celebrated painting of the “Last Supper.” One who had been a dear friend of the painter happened to offend him so deeply that the painter, in order to make him feel his wrath, in depicting the traitor Judas upon the canvass, gave to him the face of the friend whom he had loved so well. When the king, who had ordered the picture and was well aware of the recent enmity, first saw and examined it, he smiled, and, turning toward the knight, said: “Excellent, my lord; you are drawn to the very life!”–Yes, sinner, look at the picture of Judas; you, too, are drawn to the very life!

What increased the malignity of the sin of this traitorous Apostle was the sublimity of his election. Sinner, Christ has also chosen you from among the multitude of nations who have lived and are living still in the darkness of infidelity and heresy! You are a Catholic! Glorious dignity to which you have been elevated through the infinite mercy of God; and yet, through your own choice, by the commission of mortal sin, you became a child of Satan. Oh, what a deep and damning fall!

What also aggravated the guilt of Judas was his wanton abuse of the graces granted him by the Saviour, that he might live and die as became a worthy Apostle of the Lord. What a multitude of graces, O sinner, has not God bestowed upon you through your call to the true Church? With what frequent instructions and encouragement have you been favored! how many confessions and holy communions have been vouchsafed to you! how many holy masses have you heard! and yet these graces have yielded no fruit! Oh, fatal instability of the human heart!

The treachery of Judas was aggravated by the manner in which he abused the grace of God. Imitate him not; but pause before it is too late! Judas was coldly indifferent to that love which impelled the Son of God to go in search of him, that He might win a return of love. Sinner, you know how mercifully Divine Providence has followed you! how lovingly the Saviour has gone in quest of you! Take courage from the very fact of your having come hither tonight. It is an effect of the endearing love of the Good Shepherd, who longs to bring you once more to the protecting shelter of His fold. Oh, hide no longer; but meet that loving Guardian, and let Him guide you home.

What rendered the sin of Judas so terrible in its enormity was his shocking obduracy of heart. You, also, are guilty in this regard; for, although you have received all the graces with which he was favored, you have also been endowed with many which were never bestowed on him. Judge, therefore, whether his obduracy was greater than yours.

Furthermore, Judas never had an opportunity of approaching the Sacrament of Penance. You enjoy that privilege; yet, perhaps, for years you have looked upon it with cold indifference, if not contempt. It may be that you have allowed years to pass without making a confession; or that, when you have attempted to blot out the sins of your life, you have but added to the long list of your crimes the damning guilt of sacrilege. And why, O sinner, is this? Because your heart refuses to give up its darling passions, and you continue to commit the same offenses as of yore. Judas did not, of himself, petition for the Holy Communion; while you have presumed to challenge the priest to open the tabernacle and place the Sacred Host upon your guilty tongue, that you may drag the Body of our Lord into the mire of your heart. When the agony of despair drove Judas to hang himself, he knew not of the prayer that went up that day from the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the cross: “Father, forgive!” Neither had he the example of the millions who, for nineteen centuries, have been guilty of grievous sin, yet repented and found grace, as you have ever before your eyes, O faithless child of the Church!

Judas betrayed his Lord but once, and upon that very day the grace of God forsook him and he perished miserably, while for you Christ has waited for years; and oh, for His dear sake–for the love of Him who, for three and thirty years, suffered cold and hunger, contempt and derision, and, at last, a painful death on the cross–let Him not wait in vain!

The crime of Judas was increased by the unprecedented baseness of his selling his Divine Master for thirty pieces of silver; but is there not some sinner in this very Church whose darling passion is impurity? who would betray his Saviour for the gratification of the most shameful desires? Is there no drunkard listening to my words who, to gratify his depraved and vicious appetite for drink, would give, if not his own existence, why, then, the lives of his wife and little children? Yes, I say the lives of those whom he is bound to love and cherish, for he is slowly murdering them by his neglect! You, then, O drunkard, betray your Master for a price even more base than thirty pieces of silver! Yes, sinners, by your crimes–be they what they may–you have all betrayed Him over and over again for the basest considerations!

Judas betrayed the Son of man with a kiss–the token of friendship and love; and the faithless Catholic would fain pretend to be a friend–an adorer of Christ–while he crucifies Him by his interior life.

Judas yielded to despair and hanged himself; but, for the love of God and His blessed mother, I beseech you, poor sinners, let the resemblance between you and the wretched suicide stop before you yield to the temptation of despair! He forgot Mary! Had he hastened to her, and implored her to intercede with Jesus for him, she would, doubtless, have done so, and Judas would have been saved. Do not imitate him in this forgetfulness of Mary. Fly to her; throw yourselves at the feet of the Mother of Mercy and refuge of sinners. Judas did not hear the words of Christ upon the cross: ” Woman, behold thy Son; thy Child.” You, beloved Christians, who have yielded to the tempter’s voice, may listen to them in spirit and in faith.

O Mary, Mother of Mercy, grant to my fervent prayer a gracious answer, and obtain tonight for every Christian present here, who, listening to the tempter, has betrayed thy Son, the grace of sincere conversion, that in these days of grace he may be reconciled to God, and no longer be deaf to the voice of grace. Pray for him, O dearest Mother, that, when appalled at the weight of his sins, the demon of despair draws nigh, he may remember the dreadful fate of Judas, and fly for refuge to thy maternal love–the surest haven for all repentant souls. Amen!

“Now, there was leaning on Jesus’s bosom one of His disciples, whom Jesus loved.”–John xiii, 23.

We all know the four divisions of the day–midnight, day-break, noon, and eventide; and each of them is marked by a special divine fact which speaks in the most emphatic manner to the heart. At midnight Christ entered the world; He was born in a poor stable at Bethlehem; and in the birth of this little Infant we behold the coming of Him Who was the Expected and Desired of nations. At midday was raised aloft the cross by which He redeemed the world. At earliest dawn the Saviour, bursting the trammels of the grave, arose to life once more, and gave to the world a splendid proof of His divine power. But there remains an eventide, glorified indeed through the divine love of the Saviour, which led Him thereon to leave us the most precious, the most sweet, the most consolatory legacy that a God could bestow. It is the evening of Holy Thursday, when the Sacrifice of the New Law was instituted to bless the children of men.

Where is the Christian who can speak or even think of this evening without the most holy sentiments of love arising in his heart as the scene of the Holy Paschal Table, round which Jesus and His disciples were seated, rises up before his spiritual view? What mighty love was that which impelled the Son of God to institute this Most Holy Sacrament, that He might remain with us even to the consummation of the world! What a pledge of this faithful love! And, of all the Apostles, none more fully realized this than St. John, the disciple whom Jesus loved; and who, on that evening, enjoyed the privilege and happiness of being nearest the Lord at the Last Supper, and of leaning his head on the bosom of Jesus. In the whole course of his life St. John never forgot that evening. He styles himself the disciple whom Jesus loved, and to whom this great grace was granted; but gives us to understand that we also are permitted to participate therein in its plenitude, for he says expressly: “Those whom Jesus loved, He has loved until the end of time.”

Yes, we may all, through the grace of Holy Communion, not only rest on the bosom of our Lord, but receive Him into our hearts. That we may do so with the purity of soul and fervor of love which distinguished the communion of the beloved disciple, let us glance at him as he sat at the Paschal Table on this happy eve. O Mary, obtain for us some portion of that ardent love which inflamed the heart of the beloved disciple toward thy divine Son! I speak in the most holy name of Jesus, for the greater honor and glory of God!

To receive the Blessed Eucharist in as perfect a manner as St. John, depends, first, upon the preparation we make to approach the Table of the Lord; and, secondly, on the manner in which we make use of His presence in our hearts, rendering to Him our gratitude after the example of St. John.

But, alas! with too many Christians, the first requisite is wanting. Even in the time of St. Paul, as the Epistle for today asserts, many of the faithful did not make due preparation, so that there were frequently communions which, if not unworthy, yielded but little spiritual fruit. St. Paul writes: “Therefore many among us sleep, because they do not judge themselves, before they approach the Table of the Lord, whether they are worthy to receive His Body and Blood; “from which we are to understand that, even if they were not in a state of sin, the coldness of their hearts, and the little degree of fervor they evinced, prevented them from deriving the benefits and graces which were poured forth upon St. John after his fervent reception of the Body and Blood of Christ. I said: “Even if they were not in a state of sin;” but, of course, if the sin were mortal, such a communion would not only be ineffectual, but a fearful sacrilege.

That our reception of the Holy Communion, therefore, may be indeed like that of the beloved disciple, it suffices not that we are free from the guilt of mortal sin; but we must leave nothing undone to cleanse our souls from the dust of venial sins and deliberate imperfections.

The ceremonies attendant upon the institution of the Most Holy Sacrament, as described by St. John, are a proof of this. Jesus washes the feet of all His disciples; and our Lord’s answer to St. Peter shows that this act is emblematic of the removal of every defect and imperfection from the soul. Therefore, did St. Peter exclaim: “Lord, not only my feet, but also my hands and my head.” But even yet this is not the perfect preparation for Holy Communion. St. John was next to Jesus. This illustrates the ardor and fidelity with which he followed the Lord from the very moment he was called by Him. He was one of those three highly-favored Apostles who were permitted to be in the closest proximity to Jesus, and who enjoyed the privilege of beholding Jesus in His transfiguration on Mt. Tabor; and, even among those three, he was the only one who followed Him to Calvary, and beheld Him on the cross.

This feature in the life of St. John–“the disciple whom Jesus loved”–should awaken in us the desire and resolution to make the most earnest efforts to please God, and so become more and more like that Divine Model, and, like St. John, to be faithful unto death.

But the generality of Christians care not to follow the admonition of Christ: “Be ye perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect;” and here we can find the cause of so many tepid and fruitless communions. Should any one ask why we feel so little fear of venial sins and trifling imperfections, I would say: As the fervent love of St. John is wanting, so also are the hunger and thirst of his heart after sanctity, lacking in the hearts of many who go forward to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. Whosoever loveth truly, my dear brethren, avoids everything, great or little, that might grieve or offend the beloved object; and the more ardent the love, the more earnest the effort to please. St. Paul tells us, in the most explicit manner, that there is no communication between light and darkness, between Christ and Satan, between heaven and hell.

The very ceremonies made use of in the administration of Holy Communion show how essential to its worthy reception is a repentant heart; for the Church has prescribed that the “Confiteor” be recited aloud, so that every communicant may make another act of sorrow for the most venial imperfection which rests upon his soul before he opens his lips to welcome the Lord of heaven and earth into his heart. But what urges us on and strengthens us to emulate the saints in their zealous imitation of Jesus is love. “The love, of Christ urges us,” cries out the Apostle.

But many Christians are wanting in this divine virtue; and thus it became necessary to proclaim that precept, the very existence of which should be considered a reproach by the lukewarm children of the Church: “Thou shalt receive the Blessed Eucharist at least once a year.” O dearest Christians! the soul of a St. John, burning with ardent love for God, required no such command. He hungered and thirsted after that divine food as the heart panteth after the fountains of water. St. Catherine of Sienna, frequently said to her confessor: “Father, I am hungry.”

When this love consumes our hearts, the second condition necessary to receive all those graces and blessings, conferred by a worthy reception of Holy Communion, will not be wanting–thanksgiving. But if it be a sad truth that many approach the Table of the Lord without due preparation, it is equally to be lamented that a still greater number receive the Body of Christ and turn away without a word.

This was not the case with St. John. Judas received Holy Communion, and his soul was instantly enshrouded in the deepest gloom of a night wherein there glimmered not the faintest ray of hope; and, after having received it from the hands of the Lord Himself, he arose, and rested not until the purchase-money, for which he had betrayed the loving Redeemer, was clutched fast in his avaricious hand! What a contrast! St. John, absorbed in love and joy, can find no words to express his gratitude.

Yes, Judas is also a type of those who receive Holy Communion without a sigh of thanksgiving. With the cold hand of despair clutching his treacherous heart, he leaves the abode of love and peace, and rushes away to satisfy his greed for gold! Behold these models of a worthy and an unworthy communion, and consider well which one shall be your choice!

Yet Judas is not to serve merely as a warning to the unworthy communicant; but also to those who, after receiving, plunge directly into the stir of worldly affairs and schemes to increase their wealth. Alas, that temporal interests should so soon draw them away from Jesus! We may well be astonished, and exclaim, with St. John Chrysostom: “How can it be possible that Christ becomes so soon indifferent to you, that you can devote but a few brief moments to render to Him acts of adoration, praise, and thanksgiving for a grace so infinitely great, for a happiness so exquisite as to render man an object of envy even to the angels, and for which a lifetime of thanksgiving would not be sufficient!”

And if, my brethren, you again ask whence arises this neglect, I would again reply: From a want of that love which burned in the heart of St. John. Those who love, long to be with the object of their love. When blessed Armella, whose dearest joy it was to spend hours and hours before the Blessed Sacrament, even when she had not the happiness of receiving Holy Communion, was asked why she did so, replied: “Because I love.” And, beloved in Christ Jesus, by frequently visiting Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament we will grow ever in the love and knowledge of Him.

St. John knew and loved Him in a greater degree than the other Apostles, because he was always nearest Him; and, at the Last Supper, his resting-place was the Sacred Heart.

Obtain for us, therefore, we beseech thee, St. John, some faint reflection of the ardent fire of thy love, that we may, by lives modeled upon thy own, show our gratitude and love to God; and, when we approach the Table of the Lord, may we taste the happiness which filled thy heart when thou didst receive the Body and Blood of Christ. Then will we, while still on earth, already taste the bliss of heaven, to which celestial joy the Church refers when she prays: “Lord, grant that we may forever rejoice in the delight of Thy Divine Majesty, which a worthy reception of Thy Body and Blood will afford us even here below.”–Amen!

by Dom Prosper Gueranger 1870

The Church intends, on this day, to renew in a most solemn manner the mystery of the Last Supper: for Our Lord Himself, on this occasion of the institution of the Blessed Sacrament, said to His Apostles, “Do this for a commemoration of Me” (Luke 22:19).

Jesus is in the supper chamber, where the Paschal lamb is to be eaten. All the Apostles are with Him; Judas is there also, but his crime is not known to the rest. His disciples stand around Him. The ceremonies prescribed by God to Moses are religiously observed. At the beginning of the repast, Jesus speaks these words to His Apostles: “With desire have I desired to eat this Pasch with you, before I suffer” (Luke 22:15).

During the repast, Jesus, who reads the hearts of all men, utters these words, which cause great consternation among the disciples: “Amen I say to you that one of you is about to betray Me – he that dippeth his hand with Me in the dish, he shall betray Me” (Matt. 26: 21, 23). The sadness with which He speaks is enough to soften any heart; and Judas, who knows his Master’s goodness, feels that they imply a merciful pardon, if he will but ask it. But no: the passion of avarice has enslaved his soul, and he, like the rest of the Apostles, says to Jesus: “Is it I, Rabbi?” Jesus answers him in a whisper, in order not to compromise him before his brethren: “Thou hast said it!” But Judas yields not.

The legal repast is over. It is followed by a feast, which again brings the disciples around their divine Master. It was the custom in the east, that guests should recline two by two on couches round the table: these have been provided by the disciple who has placed his house at Jesus’ service. John is on the same couch as Jesus, so that it is easy for him to lean his head on his Master’s breast. Peter is on the next couch, on the other side of Jesus, who is thus between the two disciples whom He had sent, in the morning, to prepare the Pasch, and who represent Faith and Charity. The second repast is a sorrowful one, in consequence of Jesus having told the guests that one of them is a traitor. The innocent and affectionate John is overwhelmed with grief, and seeks consolation in the Heart of his dear Lord.

But the Apostles little expect a third supper; Jesus has not told them of His intention; but He had made a promise, and He would fulfill it before His Passion. Speaking, one day, to the people, He had said: “I am the living bread that has come down from Heaven; if anyone eat of this bread, he shall live forever, and the bread that I will give is My Flesh for the life of the world… He that eateth My Flesh and drinketh My Blood, abideth in Me, and I in him.” (John 6: 51 et seq.) As it was both His Flesh and His Blood that He promised us, He waited till the time of His sacrifice. His Passion has begun; He is sold to His enemies; His life is already in their hands. He may at once, therefore, offer Himself in sacrifice, and give to His disciples the very Flesh and Blood of the Victim.

As soon as the second repast is over, Jesus suddenly rises, and, to the astonishment of His Apostles, takes off His upper garment, girds Himself as a servant with a towel, pours water into a basin, and prepares to wash the feet of the guests. It was the custom, in the east, to wash one’s feet before taking part in a feast; it was considered as the very extreme of hospitality, when the master of the house himself did this service to his guest. Jesus is about to regale His Apostles with a divine banquet; He wishes to treat them with every possible mark of welcome and attention. But in this, as in every other action of His, there is a wealth of instruction: He would teach us, by what He is now doing, how great is the purity wherewith we should approach the holy Table. “He that is washed,” says He, “needeth not but to wash his feet” (John 13:10); as though He would say: “The holiness of this Table is such, that those who come to it should not only be free from grievous sins, but they should, moreover, strive to cleanse their souls from those lesser faults, which come from contact with the world, and are like the dust that covers the feet of one that walks on a dusty road.” Having finished washing the feet of the twelve, Jesus resumes His place, side by side with John.

Then taking a piece of the unleavened bread that remained from the feast, He raises His eyes to Heaven, blesses the bread, breaks it, and distributes it to His disciples saying: “Take ye, and eat; this is My Body” (Matt. 26: 26). Then the Apostles take the bread, which is now changed into the Body of their Divine Master; they eat: and Jesus is now not only with them, but in them. But, as this sacred mystery is not only the most Holy of the Sacraments, but moreover a true Sacrifice; and as a Sacrifice requires the shedding of blood; our Jesus takes the chalice, and changing the wine into His own Blood, He gives It to His disciples, saying: “Drink ye all, of this; for this is My Blood of the new testament, which shall be shed for many, unto the remission of sins” (Matt. 26: 27-8).

Such is the history of the Last Supper, of which we celebrate the anniversary on this day. But there is one circumstance of the deepest interest to us, to which we have, so far, made only an indirect allusion. The institution of the Holy Eucharist, both as a Sacrament and a Sacrifice, is followed by another: the institution of a new Priesthood. How could Our Savior have said: “Except you eat the Flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His Blood, you shall not have life in you” (John 6: 54), unless He had resolved to establish a ministry upon earth, whereby He would renew, even to the end of time, the great mystery He thus commands us to receive?

To offer the faithful an outward expression of the greatness and the unity of this Supper, which Our Savior gave to His disciples, and, through them, to us, the Church forbids her priests to offer private Masses on this day, except in cases of necessity. She would have but one Sacrifice to be offered in each church, at which the other priests are to assist, and receive Holy Communion from the hands of the celebrant.

The Mass of Holy Thursday is one of the most solemn of the year; and although the feast of Corpus Christi is the day for solemnly honoring the mystery of the Holy Eucharist, still the Church would have the anniversary of the Last Supper to be celebrated with all possible splendor. The color of the vestments is white, as it is for Christmas and Easter; the decorations of the altar and sanctuary all bespeak joy, and yet, there are several ceremonies during this Mass which show that the holy Bride of Christ has not forgotten the Passion of Her Jesus, and that this joy is transient. The celebrant intones the angelic hymn, Gloria in excelsis Deo! and the bells ring forth a joyous peal, which continues during the whole of the heavenly canticle; but from that moment they remain silent, and their long silence produces, in every heart, a sentiment of holy mournfulness. This is to show us that this world lost all its melody and joy when its Savior suffered and was crucified. Moreover, the Church would hereby remind us how the Apostles (who were heralds of Christ, and are figured by the bells, whose ringing summons the faithful to the house of God), fled from their divine Master and left Him a prey to His enemies.

The holy Sacrifice continues as usual; but at the solemn moment of the elevation the bell remains silent. When the time of Holy Communion is near, the celebrant does not give the Kiss of Peace. Our thoughts turn to the traitor Judas, who on this very day profaned the sign of friendship by making it an instrument of death. It is out of detestation for this crime, that the Church omits today the sign of fraternal charity: it would too painfully remind us of the sacrilegious hypocrisy. Another rite peculiar to this Mass is the consecration of the Hosts needed for the Mass of the Presanctified on Good Friday. The reason is that tomorrow the Church suspends the daily Sacrifice. Such is the impression produced by the anniversary of Our Savior’s death, that the Church dares not to renew upon her altars the immolation which was then offered on Calvary; or rather, her memorial of it will be by fixing all her thoughts on the terrible scene of that Friday noon. The Hosts are reserved from today’s Mass because tomorrow the celebrant does not consecrate, but only receives and distributes the reserved Hosts.

But although the Church suspends, for a short time, the oblation of the perpetual Sacrifice, She does not wish that Her Divine Spouse should lose any of the homage that is due to Him in the Sacrament of His love. Catholic piety has found a means of changing these trying hours into a tribute of devotion to the Holy Eucharist. In the church there is prepared a richly ornamented Altar of Repose where, after today’s Mass, the Church places the Body of Her Divine Lord. Though veiled from their view, the faithful will visit Him in this His holy resting-place, pay Him their most humble adorations, and present Him their most fervent supplications. Thus a concert of prayer, more loving and earnest than at any other period of the year, will be offered to our Jesus, in reparation for the outrages He underwent, during those very hours, from the Jews.

As soon as the Mass is over, a procession is formed to the Altar of Repose. The celebrant carries It beneath a canopy, as on the feast of Corpus Christi; It is not however exposed, as on that day of Its triumph, but concealed under a veil. Let us adore this divine Sun of Justice, whose rising at Bethlehem brought gladness to our hearts: He is now setting; soon His light will be eclipsed. Our earth will then be buried in gloom, until on the third day, He will rise again with renewed splendor.

After the procession, the celebrant returns to the sanctuary. He goes to the altar, and takes off the cloths and ornaments. This ceremony signifies the suspension of the Holy Sacrifice. The altar shall be left in this denuded state, until the daily offering can be again presented to the Divine Majesty; that is, when the Spouse of Holy Church shall arise from the grave, the Conqueror of death. He is now in the hands of His enemies, who are about to strip Him of His garments, just as we strip the altar. He is to be exposed to the insults of the rabble; for this reason, the Psalm selected to be recited during this mournful ceremony is the 21st, wherein the Messias speaks of the Roman soldiers dividing His garments among them: They divided My garments among them, and upon My vesture they cast lots.

Customs

As to customs, many families have a practice of visiting the tabernacles of three or seven nearby churches after the Mass on this day as a sort of “mini-pilgrimage” (any nearby Catholic churches will do). Some families visit the churches directly after the evening Mass; others go home and wake up in the middle of the night to make the visits (though since churches are rarely open all night these days, this would be hard to do). The spirit of the visits to the churches is keeping vigil in the Garden of Gethsemani while Jesus prayed before His arrest. Matthew 26:36 “Then Jesus came with them into a country place which is called Gethsemani; and he said to his disciples: Sit you here, till I go yonder and pray.”

In Germany, Maundy Thursday is known as “Green Thursday” (Grundonnerstag), and the traditional foods are green vegetables and green salad, especially a spinach salad. In Latin countries, Jordan almonds (“confetti”) are eaten today and also throughout Eastertide.

Back when Kings and Queens of England were Catholic, they, too, would wash the feet of 12 subjects, seeing the footwashing rite also as an example of service and humility. They would also give money to the poor on this day, a practice is said to have begun with St. Augustine of Canterbury in A.D. 597, and performed by Kings since Edward II. Now the footwashing isn’t done (it was given up in the 18th c.), but a special coin called “Maundy Money” is minted and given to the selected elderly of a representative town.

On this day, one may gain a plenary indulgence, under the usual conditions, by reciting the Tantum Ergo (Down in Adoration Falling).

[remys-lucky-franc]

Return to Coney Island - An Astoria Fic - Cerberus x MC (Grace)

I got a request for some Cerberus x MC Date Fluff from the lovely @mcbatty​ :)  Thank you so much for requesting and I really, really hope you enjoy this!

Cerberus is just the sweetest, most joyous boy and I just want wrap him up in a big hug!!  (I've only read his first season!) I am a huuuuuge sucker for soft boys with sad stories.

I've written this with my MC's name (Grace) but if you'd prefer to read it with a different name, let me know and I'd be more than happy to edit it in for you.  

Word count ~1800  //  Image Credit:  http://nyc2way.blogspot.com/

No triggers or warnings on this wee fic, it's just fluffy and feel-good! <3

---

"Grace, do you need help?  What are you doing?"

Cerberus pokes his head around the door-frame, muscled arms folded  across his broad chest as he shakes his head smiling at his girl; she's packing food into a tote bag on the counter.

"You know they have places we can eat on Coney Island, right?"

Grace zips the bag up and stretches up on her toes to place a kiss on his cheek as she scoots past him towards the bedroom, calling behind her,

"I know, but I thought it would be nice to take some snacks for a beach picnic, then we can get something else later?  Plus, I'm sure you'll manage!"

Cerberus chuckles as Grace reappears in a cute cap and a pair of shades,

"I won't let the picnic go to waste, I promise.  Ready?"

Grace hands him their bag of munchies and links her arm through his as they head out of the door and towards the station.  

---

Cerberus is bouncing on his toes as the Q train arrives, energy radiating from him,

"This was a great idea, Grace!  Really cool way to spend our day off!"

Finding a seat on the busy carriage, their knees bump as the train starts to move.  Cerberus intertwines his fingers with Grace's as she murmurs,

"I thought it would be nice to go back and just have a good time?  When we went before we were on the look out for...  You know..."

Cerberus looks stoic for a few moments, finally commenting,

"We weren't even 'together' yet, last time when we came here."

Grace nods happily as she squeezes his hand,

"But we are now."

The train speeds through Brooklyn towards their destination as Cerberus helps himself to the club sandwiches that Grace packed, laughing as she rolls her eyes, telling him that they were supposed to be for the beach.

Time flies as they chat about work, ideas for vacation and future dates.  Before they know it, an hour has passed and they're ready to disembark at Stillwell Avenue.  Heading out of the station, Cerberus wraps an arm around Grace's waist, planting a soft kiss on the top of her denim hat as he squeezes her close for a few steps, his arms remaining draped around her as they walk.  Grace feels a blush colouring her cheeks at the casual intimacy of his touch: she loves the way he wants to be close to her always, how affectionate he is.

Reaching the beach at the east side of Luna Park, Cerberus lays down a round beach blanket printed to look like a pepperoni pizza, placing their picnic bag down at the end before plopping himself in the middle.  Beaming up at Grace as she pulls a bottle of sunscreen out of her purse, waggling it in his direction, he stretches, pulling the dark grey t-shirt over his head, laughing and taking the bottle from his girl.     Grace stealthily admires his frame from  behind the camouflage of her sunglasses, taking the bottle back, applying some to her arms and sprawling down on the giant pizza beside him.  Grace delves into the bag, tossing a bag of potato chips to Cerberus who catches them effortlessly.  Grace sets up a little speaker on the blanket and connects the 'Day at the Beach' playlist she created especially for today while Cerberus happily tosses chips into his mouth, tapping his foot to the beat, watching  the world go by.  They lie there people-watching, watching the shapes of the clouds in the sky change, soaking in the atmosphere and the sunshine for a while before Grace spots a vendor selling watermelon.  She grabs her purse, ruffling Cerberus' shaggy brown hair then jumping to her feet,

"Wait here!  I'll be right back!"  

Cerberus shakes his head and fixes the hair that Grace mussed up as he watches her jog effortlessly across the sand, his heart  swelling as he watches her.  As she disappears from his line of sight, he takes out his phone and checks the group chat he has with his brothers, waiting for her to return.  Before he's realised, she's back, carrying two watermelons with neon straws in them!  A peal of laughter rings out of Cerberus as he looks at the giddy grin on her face,

"What did you get?!"

Grace giggles as she hands him one, sitting down cross-legged opposite him,

"Try it!!"

Cerberus cocks his head to the side, watching her bright eyes dance with mischief, before taking a big slurp through the straw, blinking hard as he swallows and lets out a small cough,

"That's...  Pretty strong stuff, Grace..."

She beams at him as she takes a dainty sip,

"They scoop out all the watermelon, then blend it with ice and vodka and put it back inside!"

He takes another sip, acknowledging,

"It pack a punch but it's really tasty!  Hey, come here, let's send Orthrus and Nemean a selfie?"

Grace shifts herself so that her back is  against Cerberus' chest as he stretches his arm out, making sure both of them, and their tropical-looking vodka watermelons are in the shot,

"Say, 'Watermelon!'..."

Cerberus laughs heartily as he presses his cheek against hers, snapping the shot as they mouth in unison,

"Watermelon!"

He grins, wide and white, as he sends it, then sets it as his lock screen wallpaper.

---

After having enough sunbathing, Cerberus and Grace gather their belongings, strolling hand in hand along the bustling boardwalk, feeling slightly tipsy from the spiked slushie.  Cerberus pulls Grace towards the carnival games, a flash of excitement in his eyes, spotting the Strongman Game, and the variety of stuffed animals hanging up for the winner...  Grace wraps her arms around him from behind as he stops in front of the game, grinning at the attendant.  He pays the fee and accepts the mallet, staring at the bell, twenty feet in the air.  Graces stands back as he effortlessly swings the mallet in a perfect arc, clean and high, landing squarely on the lever.  The puck flies up the tower striking the bell hard!  Cerberus drops the mallet with a ‘woop’, gathering Grace in his arms and spinning her around and around in the air as she squeals and giggles.  He kisses her as he places her back on the ground, gesturing toward the prizes,

"Which is your favourite, Grace?"

She shrugs her shoulders, scrunching her nose as she answers, sounding almost shy,

"You're my favourite. You choose?"

Cerberus' mouth opens like he's about to say something, but he just winks at her instead, turning towards the attendant, reappearing moments later with the biggest, fluffiest, plush bear Grace has ever seen!  The bear is so large, that he's almost obscured behind it, his head poking around from behind it, cracking up with laughter,

"Did I pick well??  Do you like him??"

Grace wraps her arms around the bear and her boyfriend, laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes,

"Like him?!  I love him!!  And I love you!!"

Cerberus beams as he tries to manoeuver the bear out of the way, with somewhat limited success, to kiss Grace,

"What shall we call him??"

Grace, running her fingers through the bears soft fur, winks at Cerberus as she speaks,

"He's big and soft and snuggly,  just like you.  How about Bear-berus?"

Cerberus disintegrates into hysterics,

"Bear-berus it is!"

---

After playing various other funfair games, Grace smirks at a blushing Cerberus when his stomach growls loudly,

"You wanna get some food?"

He nods quickly as Grace catches his fingers in hers, dancing across the boardwalk towards Nathan's.  The diner is jam-packed and loud with a jukebox playing and patrons laughing and joking, enjoying their day at the beach.  Cerberus, Bear-berus and Grace squeeze into a booth together, ordering a couple of their famous Chilli Dogs with fries and a large chocolate milkshake to share.  She smiles softly as she watches Cerberus tuck into the food:  she loves being with him.  Everything about his is so genuine, so honest.  He makes her feel like she can do anything when they're together.  She feels so lucky to have him.  

Grace has barely touched hers by the time his is gone, and he's ordering a second portion of fries.  His face colours as she tries to hold back a chuckle,

"I knew a portion to share wouldn't be enough!"

Cerberus drains at least a quarter of the milkshake before grinning at her up at her,

"I think Bear-berus ate most of them when we weren't looking...  You know, we should come back here next time Orthrus, Nemean and I all have the day off:  they'd love this."

Grace laughs,

"We may have to call in advance to make sure they have enough food!"

---

Leaving Nathan's, the couple call into the hall of mirrors on their way to the Ferris wheel, giggling and pulling faces at each other in the distorted glass.  Tears roll down Grace's cheeks as they stop in front of one particular mirror that makes her look tall and broad and Cerberus short and skinny, crushed under the weight of the giant fluffy bear; she pulls out her cellphone, snapping a photo of their hilarious reflection and sending it to May.  

Finally arriving at the Ferris wheel, they join the slowly moving queue.  Cerberus toys with Grace's ponytail,

"Last time when we got to the top we never got to enjoy the view, we were so busy looking for Thanatos."

She nods,

"You're right.  But this time, we can really enjoy it properly!"

Bending down, Cerberus kisses Grace gently,

"I enjoy everything when we're together, Grace.  Even the stuff that shouldn't be fun, like queueing."

Grace pulls his lips back to hers,

"Same."

When they reach the front of the queue, Cerberus jokes with the attendant that he needs three tickets:  one for him, one for Grace and one for the bear.  The attendant smiles, telling him that anyone that cute gets on for free.  He beams joyously as he quips,

"Hey Grace, you're so cute you get to ride for free, we only need to pay for me and Bear-berus!"  

Tugging Grace's hand they find their seat and are secured in place by the attendant before they soar into the sky.  Cerberus swings his dangling legs as they near the top, breathing in the fresh air as he turns to Grace,

"This has been a perfect day!"

Grace's head lolls against his shoulder as she sighs contentedly,

"Mmmh-hmmm..."

Cerberus' bright eyes smile as he tips her chin up to look at him, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles,

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

Grace reaches up stroking his cheek tenderly , her eyes flitting between his amber eyes and the warm curve of his lips,  

"I love you."

Cerberus closes the distance between them, whispering against Grace's lips,

"I love you too."

They settle there, happy and comfortable with each other, enjoying the view as they sail through the sky together:  a perfect end to a perfect date.

[tartagilicious]

Can you write a Lawrence/MC after his ending where he leaves one day to go supply hunting and the MC is finally able to escape but she sees him getting attacked by a couple of guys and decides to save him because she ultimately does still care about him then when she gets him back to safety and is taking care of him he asks why she helped him instead of leaving and she just says something like "because I'm not you" then maybe he can reflect. Sorry if that's too detailed lol

I really like this prompt you gave me, personally, though I did change it slightly. I had a fun time writing this. It turned out better than most of my requests usually do!

* no editing on the second half because 😔✌️im sick and I don’t feel like it that’s all lol so I apologise for any mistakes

—

You shudder when you hear the basement door slam shut, suddenly leaving you alone in the all-but-homey basement yet again. When Lawrence had initially saved you from the horde of zombies, he had made sure to mention that there was enough food to keep both of you going for a while — almost as if it was supposed to be equal to a sort of incentive for coming with him and leaving your other friends to die.

But, in retrospective to the virus, it wasn’t necessarily a bad promise.

You had liked Lawrence at one point, and as hard as it may have been to know that, your opinion of him couldn’t change that fast. He was smart, empathetic, and even if you didn’t like it, he always knew what he was doing. There was no choice but to trust in him then, especially when his iron grip on your wrist unfairly startled you into it.

Yet, ironically, it was the last straw when his calculations ended up being wrong.

Supplies dwindled faster when he thought you were comfortable enough to being doing so, but he was stuck when he realised how close you were actually cutting it. You suddenly had to worry about your food again rather than the man in front of you, and it was scary. It really was.

To be so young and stare despair in the face isn’t something you ever pictured yourself doing, but now, you do it helplessly everyday in the reflection of circle framed glasses.

You flip on the light switch again when you’re sure that Lawrence is gone, and immediately sink to the floor. Emotions pour out of you in the form of stagnant breaths, leaving you choking on the musty air. This happens often — you bottle up the very emotions Lawrence encourages you to share, and let them out when he can’t see.

Maybe it’s petty of you. But you don’t care.

Because the last thing you want is for him to see you break down. You’re powerless enough around the boy as it is.

But this time, the swirl of complicated emotions in chest isn’t just from the usual; it’s fear. You had forgotten about the crushing reality of the apocalypse outside, and how hard it really was to survive. No matter how cunning Lawrence pretended to be, life always had the last laugh.

You sit slumped against the wall for god knows how long, trying to find peace in the messy cracks on the walls. But you give up when they begin to blend together, and only finally avert your eyes when you begin to see them shifting.

It has taken you a long time to learn that reality is altered in the place you’re forced to call home. Dark days are filled with pleasant treatment from your so-called admirer, but leave deep scars on you no amount of love can fix. You sadly think that not even your eyes know what to see anymore as you try to blink away your confusion, adjusting to the room around you instead.

The basement had become unfavourable in almost no time flat, with its lonely walls and industrial scheme — and especially the twisted safety inside of it. It was moments like those that you looked at the stairs leading up to ground level and wondered what would happen if you just decided to leave everything behind.

If I left Lawrence, would he hunt me down again?

That thought keeps you grounded every time.

But your intrusive thoughts already have a streak of zero to one, and before you can stop it, your curiosity leads you up the basement stairs implanted deep in your memory and onto the ground floor.

He’s not here, he can’t do anything about it. Stop worrying.

Then you realise that you have no business worrying about Lawrence, someone who is god knows where, when such a mess is in front of you. The hallway’s routine scent of old blood fills your nose faster than you can react, immediately calling up tears. Your memories of the friends you’d lost burn brightly in your head — and the memories of seeing their faces for the last time makes you sick.

In a daze, you turn away and pinch your nose. Tears catch in your lashes and make your vision blurry as you open your eyes while you walk away, but you don’t care. You just want to get away.

Cautiously, you hug your jacket tighter around you as you get closer and closer to the doors. It’s been months since you’ve been let out of the basement, much less outside — and you have no idea what to expect. Did the government make any progress? Or, assuming the worst, has the virus really begun to do lasting damage?

You’re afraid to find out, but with the adrenaline and fear pumping through your veins, you push the doors open without a second thought. It’s a stupid idea, but when you’re stuck between the fear to escape and the fear to stay put, there’s only so many things you can do.  

Sly footed and calm: that’s what Lawrence has always told you to be in the presence of a zombie. But strangely, and thankfully, you don’t see a single other moving thing as you manoeuvre the door to quietly shut.

Time moves slowly as you stand there and think. You’re anxious in the premonition that a zombie will pop out, and because of this your thoughts are jumbled, but you still manage to remember the bare details you’d so scoured over about the safe zone the night before you were supposed to leave with your friends.

It shouldn’t be hard if I don’t stop for anything. You think to yourself. Maybe I’ll prove those men from before wrong and make it there fast.

That would be best.

The fact that you hadn’t thought to grab any weapons alarms you, but you spot what looks like the old remnants of a plank of wood a few feet away and figure it’s good as anything.

It’s slightly heavy to lug along, but you walk fast in your nervousness, so you don’t see the big deal in it as long as you keep pace. And you do so as quietly as possible, scared beyond belief at the possibility of your luck going dry and leading you to encounter exactly what you hope to avoid.

Yet it seems like your luck is about to run out when you hear the unmistakable grunt of a group of zombies. No more than a few, you think, but it’s still a few too many. And like the sensible person you think yourself to be, you’re about to distance yourself from them as fast as possible.

But then you hear something else. Something else distinctly human that you can’t help but stop a second time for. Betraying every nerve in your body that screams for you to move, you stop for the sole chance of finding someone else.

You curse under your breath as you grip the plank tighter in your grip, the pieces digging into your skin as you peek around the corner in front of you — close, and also the very place that the ruckus is coming from.

Though you seriously consider retreating back again when you notice that it’s Lawrence having a hard time. He seems to be handling the small group of zombies around him fairly well, anyway, armed with a short metal pipe and his normal malicious intents.

Still, he’s not superhuman. It’s obvious that he’s getting tired, and might not even last much longer if he lets that get to him.

Would it matter if he dies?

He’s all I have left.

He locked you up.

He doesn’t treat me badly.

He killed your friends.

You have a hard time arguing with the devil on your shoulder on that one. But your good senses, still intact, luckily come back in time to help you figure out what to do in the nick of time.

There’s nothing that will come out of leaving Lawrence to die. As much as you’ve admittedly fantasised about something ripping him away and finally freeing you, you would be at a disadvantage without his guidance. Lawrence’s leader qualities hadn’t gone anywhere, and it wasn’t as if his good traits never existed.

As much as you hate to say it, there’s a part of you that still cares about him.

Gritting your teeth, you rush in and make your presence known. All of your emotion is projected into a hit that knocks a particular zombie back onto the ground, and completely startling Lawrence to an extent that it almost makes you proud.

“What are you doing?” He hisses, but he doesn’t sound angry. His eyes are wild and panicked, but not in the same way you’d seen when he killed that man all those months ago — he just seemed scared. “Why are you here?”

You hold your tongue as much as you can. “That doesn’t matter, focus on what’s in front of you!”

A guttural noise of disapproval makes its way out of his throat, but dissolves upon the movement of his arms swinging the pipe directly into a zombie’s distorted face. You do the same to the ones closer to you, using the piece of wood to slam up to where their chin should be and knock them back a considerable distance so that when they came back, they were easier for Lawrence to deal with.

The system works well with your teamwork, and soon enough, all of the zombies that had gathered are at your feet.

The atmosphere is so tense you expect him to start yelling even there, but surprisingly, he doesn’t.

“Thank you, ___.” He pants, his face slightly red as you just stand there and take in his words. “I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t there to help.”

You nod hesitantly, finally letting the plank rest against your legs as it had grown heavy.

“...But, why did you help me?” He asks this with bunched brows, as if the prospect confuses him. And you’re glad it does, because still, the last thing you want is misunderstanding the way you feel.

“Because I’m not like you.”

Something in Lawrence’s eyes shifts, similar to realisation. If only it was.

“Come on,” You wave a hand reluctantly, motioning for him to follow you. “Let’s go somewhere safer before any more show up.”

He just stares at you, completely uncharacteristically quiet. But you would be lying if you said it didn’t finally make you feel powerful.

Maybe, from now on, things can be different.

— 

read more of my works! ♡

[silverarmedassassin]

To Save Me From Tears

Pairing: Bucky x Reader  Word Count: 2853 Warnings: Jealousy. Clueless Bucky™️ A/N: This was one of the first ones I wrote! It actually helped give me the idea to write all 25 days! I’m not sure how I like the ending (I struggled a lot with finishing this for some reason), but here it is. Day four!

Summary: Another year, another Stark Christmas Party. But this year, karaoke is involved and, even though you didn’t plan on getting up there, sometimes a song is the only way to express your feelings.  

2019 Christmas Masterlist 

“You’ll save me a dance, right Sergeant?” you ask coyly as you finish tying Bucky’s tie. It was light blue, the exact color of his eyes. He smiles down at you as you flatten the collar of his black-on-black suit, those eyes crinkling edges.

“‘Course. Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity to dance with the prettiest girl in the room.” He adjusts his sleeves as he examines his reflection in the metal of the elevator door.

You turn around to look at yourself as well, admire the way your cranberry-colored dress sways as you do so. You couldn’t help but notice Bucky did the same, his eyes traveling up the long skirt, up to the lacey bodice. When his gaze finally lands on your face, you can see, even in the distorted reflection, that his cheeks are now bright pink.

“Come on,” he grumbles shyly, grabbing your lace-covered arm as the doors opened. “Stark won’t like it if we’re late.”

You and Bucky weren’t together. Yes, he sent you the coveted “good morning” and “good night” texts every day, and invited you as his plus one to more than your fair share of game nights with the Avengers, but it was because he was a genuinely nice guy. A nice superhero guy.

There was nothing special or super about you. You worked in the public relations department for crying out loud, slaving around the clock to fix any screw-up the team made and making sure the public absolutely adored them. Bucky would never be interested in you, not when he was surrounded by agents and literal super-humans.

Everyone else disagreed, however. Even Tony made a point to tell both of you that if a move wasn’t made soon he would be forced to interfere. And that was the last thing you needed.

That’s why you decided tonight would be the night you were finally going to say something to Bucky. It was a perfect time - after all, there’s nothing more romantic than confessing your love for someone amid the overly-crowded Annual Stark Christmas Party.

Avengers, agents, and employees like yourself were spread out across the Compound. It turns out the room Tony had built specifically for press conferences doubled as a great dance floor.

You were out on the terrace with a group of your coworkers, watching as liquored-up bodies crammed together like sardines. Outside was just as beautiful as the inside - strands of white, twinkling Christmas lights bordered the open doors, and the standing tables were adorned with crystal votives. Stark hadn’t left a single pebble unturned when it came to this party, so the state-of-the-art heaters littering the space fought off the mid-December chill. It was just warm enough to be comfortable, but still several degrees cooler than inside. Perfect for a breather.

You were only half-listening to the conversation you had found yourself in, your focus more on the happenings around you. You could hear Thor singing off-key to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You.” How they convinced the God of freaking Thunder of all people to participate in Christmas karaoke was beyond you, but you were thrilled it was happening.

You smiled as you took a sip of your spiced cider, relishing in the way you could feel the warmth travel from your tongue to your belly as you drink. Maybe after another couple of these, you would finally get the courage to go talk to Bucky.

A hand flapping in front of your face draws you from your thoughts.

“Hello, earth to Y/N,” David, one of the IT guys said.

You feel heat spread across your face and you know it’s not from the cider. “I’m sorry, what?”

David huffs and your little group snickers to themselves. “We were asking about your plans for the holidays. Since Stark gave us the next two weeks off…”

“She was busy looking for Loverboy,” Carley says. You roll your eyes at your officemate’s snark.

“I was not looking for Bucky.”

“I didn’t even mention a name! Ha! I think I know what her plans are for Christmas.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you suggestively and everyone burst into laughter.

“It’s not like that,” you whisper, turning your attention back to the crowd inside.

“The man brings you lunch more days than not, walks you to your car when you stay late, and invites you to family game night. Almost every week, may I add.” Carley points an accusatory finger at you. “I’ve been here for seven years and I haven’t even been invited. It’s been six months for you! He’s got it bad.”

You could feel the embarrassment creeping back to your cheeks. Finishing off your cider in one massive gulp, you turn to the group. “I’m going to get another drink. Anyone need a refill?”

“Classic deflection,” David mutters as they all wave you off. You knew this conversation wasn’t over, but you were happy to dodge it for the time being.

You shove your way through the crowd that was now cheering for Thor. He bows dramatically before passing the mic off to Natasha, who is deeply focused on finding a song. The familiar, sultry notes of “Santa Baby” start to chime through the hall. You’d expect nothing less from Nat.

Finally, you make it to the bar, where you find Steve and Sam in the middle of a heated debate about which era produced the best Christmas music. Steve, of course, is partial to the early 1900s, while Sam insists Michael Bublé is the best Christmas singer to ever grace this earth. You chuckle as you slide your empty flute to the bartender and wait for a new drink.

“Ah, there she is!” Sam finally acknowledges your appearance, effectively ending the frivolous debate. He pulls you in for a quick side hug before Steve does the same. “Where have you been hiding? Been lookin’ for you all night!”

“I’ve been...around. Mostly trying to dodge getting drafted for karaoke. I’m not drunk enough for that yet.” You laugh as you watch Natasha shaking her hips on stage. “I don’t think I’ll ever be drunk enough for that.”

The boys follow your gaze. “Nonsense. You’d have all the men eating out of your hand if you got up there,” Sam sasses as your drink is slid towards you.

You hum in response, ignoring the comment as best as you could. “Have you guys seen Bucky? I uh, need to talk to him.”

Sam and Steve share a knowing look. “Are you finally going to say something to the pathetic sap?” Steve laughs as he peers at you over his whiskey tumbler.

Before you can reply, a familiar, gruff laugh drifts over to where the three of you are standing. Your heart leaps a little as you turn and spot the top of Bucky’s head, hair starting to fall loosely out of the bun at the nape of his neck.

Taking another drag of your cider and straightening your poster, you get ready to make your way over to him. Before you can get more than a step away from Steve and Sam, you’re frozen on the spot. Standing across from Bucky, using one of the tall tables as a rest, is a tall blonde. Her eyes crinkle as she touches Bucky’s left arm as she laughs at something he’s said. He never let anyone touch his metal limb. A slight pang of red-hot jealousy washes over you.

This was it. This is exactly what you meant when you said Bucky would never fall for someone like you. Not when there were women like her floating around the Compound, all fit and beautiful. This woman, who you come to recognize as one of the newest agents Natasha had recruited, exudes so much confidence that you can literally feel it from where you’re standing several feet away. She’s a literal vision in icy blue, the exact color of Bucky’s eyes. And that damn tie.

Steve clears his throat from behind you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder obviously trying to pull your attention away from the scene in front of you. You harshly shrug him off. You didn’t want his pity, nor did you want to hear the trademark Captain speech you knew always followed tense emotional situations. You watch as the woman leans closer to Bucky as he says something into her ear. She smiles again, a flash of something in her eyes and she takes a sip of her drink. You’d seen enough.

“Excuse me,” you say, downing your almost-full flute of cider and ditching it on the bartop. Before either of the men can stop you, you’re shoving through the crowd. You’re on a mission and nothing was going to stop you.

You make it to the front of the room in record time, stopping right in front of the make-shift stage where Natasha is finishing her performance. You catch her eye and she gives you a devilish smirk. “Y/N!” she yells into the mic. “Your turn!”

The crowd, despite more than half of them not knowing you, goes crazy. Good. They gave you the little needed confidence you need to pull this off. You knew exactly what song you’d be singing, exactly who you’d be singing to. You climb up the few steps of the platform and graciously take the microphone. It only takes you a few moments to find the song, and you let all nerves and self-conscious thoughts melt away as the retro beat of “Last Christmas” fills the room.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart But the very next day you gave it away This year, to save me from tears I’ll give it to someone special

You let your gaze linger further out than just the group of people bobbing along in front of the platform. You spot Natasha by the bar, talking animatedly at Sam, who is shrinking in on himself like a wounded dog. Was she scolding him?

Once bitten and twice shy I keep my distance But you still catch my eye Tell me, baby Do you recognize me? Well, it’s been a year It doesn’t surprise me

Thank god he’s tall because there’s no way you would have been able to see Steve’s blonde head making its way through the crowd if he was as short as he was once upon a time. He’s headed straight towards Bucky, who has abandoned the blonde he was flirting with earlier to watch you.

You’re surprised when, instead of feeling triumphant in your ability to get Bucky’s attention, you’re filled with anger. Maybe a little tinge of regret for not telling him how you felt sooner. Definitely a surge of self-loathing and despair. Damn alcohol. You make eye-contact as best as you can with Bucky as you start belting the next verses.

A crowded room, friends with tired eyes I’m hiding from you, and your soul of ice My god, I thought you were someone to rely on Me? I guess I was a shoulder to cry on

You watch as Steve begins, what you can only assume, scolding Bucky. He’s yanking his hands this way and that, occasionally pulling them through his hair. Bucky breaks eye contact, briefly looking at his best friend in front of him before looking back to you.

The blonde agent is long forgotten now.

When the last line is belted out, storm off the stage and make towards the main hall. You were no longer in the Christmas spirit, and you definitely didn’t want to talk to Bucky off all people right now. You just wanted to sit on your couch with a bottle of cheap wine and wallow in self-pity. Unfortunately, it seems your Christmas wish isn’t coming true tonight.

“Y/N!” Bucky huffs as he runs up behind you, gently grabbing your arm to stop you. “I’ve been looking for you all night!”

You contemplate trying to pull away, but you know it’s no use with his strength. You take a deep breath in an attempt to bury the emotions you’re feeling before turning to face him. The look of pure excitement and happiness on his face cued you in on the fact he didn’t know you were upset.

“I’m sure you were,” you mumbled as you looked down at his hand still holding onto your arm.

“I can’t believe you got up there and sang,” he laughs, dropping his hand and using his metal one to rub the back of his neck. “I was just telling Yelena that…” Bucky trailed off when he noticed you stiffen at the mention of, who you could assume, the blonde agent you had seen him with not 20 minutes ago.

“Uh, yea well...” You shrug not knowing what to say to that. “I’m not really in the party mood anymore, so I’m going to head out. Better go find Yelena again” You know you’re being petty, but it’s more out of anger at yourself for getting your hopes up than anything. 

“What? No, I can walk you out if you’d like?” 

Before you can respond, a heavily accented voice breaks through the crowd you’d edged your way out of. 

“James! There you are!” Yelena says as she shoves her way out into the hall. “You ran off so quickly I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“Yea, everything’s fine. I found Y/N and didn’t want to lose her again,” Bucky turned back to you then a beaming smile on his face. “Y/N, this is Yelena. I uh, knew her back when Soldier was in control...”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Yelena interjects, holding her hand out for you to shake. “I’ve heard so much about you tonight. I was about ready to come to find you myself so this sap would shut it.”

She nudges Bucky in the ribs and he grumbles in response. 

“You know, I was just about to say how happy I am that Nat brought you here, but I take even the thought back.”

Yelena snorts and rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’m going to leave you two to it. Sam challenged Natalia and me to a drinking game. I have some ass to kick.” And just like that, the blonde disappeared back into the crowd. 

As you and Bucky watch Yelena walk away, you couldn’t help but laugh. Watching the way they interacted made you realize that you may have slightly overreacted. Thanks, insecurity. 

“What?” Bucky asks, turning to look at you. 

“I’m just realizing how stupid I am.”

You look to Bucky and are met with a look of confusion. “What do you...Oh, you though...Yelena and...” He lets out a genuine belly laugh then, one that would normally warm your entire body but now makes you want to punch him. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” you pout, crossing your arms across your chest in defense.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky gasps between laughs. “It’s just, I’ve known Yelena since she was younger. Watched her grow up, even if it was from afar. Her attitude reminds me so much of Becca that I practically see her as my little sister!”

Bucky grabbed your hand as the karaoke faded away into the live-music portion of the night. I instrumental version of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” started to float through the room. 

"I meant it when I said you were the prettiest girl in the room. I spent the entire night fighting with myself on trying to find you. Yelena was trying her hardest to get me to you but, I guess I was just nervous. The truth is,” he says as he brings his other hand to rest on your lace-covered waist, “I really like you.

“And I know everyone is always making comments about how we, ya know...I just didn’t wanna ruin anything. But,” he starts gently swaying you both the music then. The grin on his face reminds you of pictures of old footage of him back during the war, back when he wouldn’t have given a second thought about coming right up and asking you to dance. “When I saw you up there singin’, it reminded me just how beautiful you are. And how sweet, and gentle you are with me even though hell knows I don’t deserve it.

“So, I guess this is just my roundabout way of askin’ you to be my girl. Because I’d be stupid to let someone like you get away from me.”

“Buck,” you whisper as you step closer into his embrace. You blink rapidly trying to fight back the tears that are threatening to fall down your face. “I never realized how big of a sap you really are.”

This helps break the tension, and Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. “Is that a yes then, pretty girl?”

You smile as you lean in and rest your head against his shoulder. You let yourself get enveloped by the smell of the cologne you gave him as an early Christmas present specifically for tonight’s party. “Of course, Bucky. I’ll be your girl.”

[kyberphilosopher]

Revenge of the Gray: Chapter 25

Description: While infiltrating the Maker’s Thrall, Keres comes across an old friend. Not all friendships end cleanly. 

A/N: A very light hint at sex. you have to squint to see it.

Chapter Twenty Five

            Adamus looks better than usual today.

          I don’t know why, or how, I just know that he does. I can see the muscles flexing in his back as his arms pump back and forth. His soft brown hair jumps and falls around him with every movement he makes, running or otherwise. When I see him from the side, I’m noticing the sharpness of his jaw first thing. His button nose looks cute, his determined eyes powerful. In the moment, I think of things that are completely inappropriate. I don’t stop them, though. I calmly let my brain imagine him over me, face contorted. I imagine feeling his muscular arms wrapped around me, his face close to my own- but this time not out of anger.

          “Why do you keep doing that?” he hisses as he glances at the hallway from behind the wall. I don’t answer, only think about how adorable it is when he’s suspicious. “Staring, I mean?”

          “Nothing,” I say lightly, smiling calmly. His perfect eyebrows crease in confusion before he rolls his eyes and signals the battalion to push forward.

          “I sense bodies in the next room,” he says as he twirls his lightsaber in his right hand. “Be ready.” Our soldiers nod silently and hold their blasters a little tighter. I take my own lightsaber off my waist and ignite one side, the golden light bringing me a deeper feeling of solace than before. Oh, how I admire it so.

          The soldier closest to the door pushes a button on the control panel and it hisses open. Chaos, of course, immediately ensues.

          “Down!” somebody yells.

          A red streak falls from behind the door. Reflexively, I turn my lightsaber to the side, reflecting it. It bounces back and makes the stormtrooper who shot it out collapse curtly. No other shots follow.

          “Do you sense any more?” I whisper to Adamus. He takes a minute before choosing his words.

          “Yes, but not here.” He takes a step forward, moving to the next room cautiously. “Something feels… off.”

          I cock an eyebrow, following his lead. “What is it?”

          “I’m not sure. You sure you’re not a spy?”

          I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. “Positive.”

          “Do you know someone who might be?”

          “What? No.”

          Adamus looks me up and down over his shoulder. The horny, ridiculous part of my brain wonders if he’s checking me out every time he does that. “Alright,” he drops it.

          I speed up my pace slightly until I’m next to him. Both our lightsabers hum and cast shades across the walls as our battalion trails behind us, guns at the ready. “Have I told you how nice you look today?” I ask.

          Adamus glances over at me, the faintest of pink shades dusting his cheeks. I can feel his nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach. He may try to keep me from feeling it, but he knows I’m more powerful than him when it comes to sensing things. There would be no point.

          “Stop that,” he snaps.

          “Stop what?”  

          Adamus sucks in a breath, voicing becoming lower and deeper as he speaks to me. “Whatever you’re playing at, now isn’t the time.”

          I smile as I watch him, half proud of him for adapting my suspicion. “I’m not playing at anything,” I promise. “You look nice.”

          Adamus is silent for another minute as we walk through the room. It is dimly lit and filled with shelves and supplies like the underground on Zeffo. Our boots hit the floor softly and stealthily as we glance around, alert. “You look nice too,” Adamus breathes out. He meets my eyes, smiling thinly as we look at each other.

          He’s telling me because he thinks he’s going to die. He’s only entertaining the idea of a more romantic connection between us because he thinks this is one of the last times he’ll ever see me. I don’t mind, and I don’t have the heart to tell him about the thought.

          We continue our walk slowly and methodically, listening to the sirens echoing throughout the ship. Although we’re mostly unimpeded, it puts me on edge. They’re lulling us into a false sense of security, biding their time until they catch us off guard to strike. Little does the Empire know they’re dealing with two of the most suspicious and stubborn people in the galaxy, so they can just go ahead and take that.

          Adamus throws his hand up, signaling us to stop. I obey, opening my feelings to try and sense whatever he does. I can faintly hear distorted voices through helmets and the faint running in clanky armor.

          “At the ready,” I say. The soldiers behind me shift and position their blasters accordingly. I can’t help the little glimmer of satisfaction I feel from them following my command.

          “Keres, they’re coming from-”

          “I know. I feel it.” I narrow my eyes, ready to strike. The hallway to my right contains the bodies, edging closer and closer to us. “I’ve got it.”

          Adamus doesn’t protest, just watches me sprint out of sight. I follow the hallway, finding the five troopers easily enough. The element of surprise aids me. I jump forward, kicking one down before swiftly beheading him and turning my attention to the others.

          Adamus waits patiently with the rest of the men. When I come back after taking care of the troopers, everyone is the same position as when I left. “All taken care of,” I say, wiping my cheek and inadvertently smearing blood across it.

          “Right,” Adamus says, used to my lighthearted nature when it comes to disturbing things. “Let’s go.”

          We continue forward again.

          My mind wanders to everyone back on the Harbinger, mainly Aheka. What is she doing right now? Watching the battle, probably. Is she treating the wounded? Wondering about me, too? Talking with Circe? And Admiral Sirsal- what’s he up to? He must be thinking about me.

          I do hope they’re okay.

          “Alright,” Adamus finally says as we approach two closed doors. “Once we pass through these, they’ll be able to pinpoint our location. We have to move quickly. Understood?”

          Nods and grunts.

          “Good.”

          My eyes trace over every detail of Adamus’s face. It’s so… proportionate. Golden, even. That skin, those eyes, that nose- it’s perfect. His lips, however chapped they may be, are raw and pink and pretty. I feel the strongest of urges to reach out and feel the softness of his hair, to run my hands through it and listen to him purr.

          And, in that moment, I think of Adamus with me forever. I think of what life would be like if we were back on Endor, just living in that cave I stayed in. We hunt together, bathe together, exist together. Every night, I feel his hair and massage his head and admire his relaxed features with pride before he drifts to sleep. His arms wrap tightly around me to keep me close, his warm breath tickling my neck.

          But the thing is, we’re not back on Endor. We never would go back there together. We just… wouldn’t get the chance. We’re on a Star Destroyer, on a mission against the Empire. There is nothing I can say or think of to change that. Adamus and I won’t have a future together. We won’t hold each other close or feel each other’s heartbeat. We will complete this mission, one way or another.

          The door slides open. I hold my lightsaber defensively, expecting stormtroopers or even a small little droid. I think I’m prepared. I think I’m ready for what’s behind them.

          I’m not. I wasn’t.

          Because the door opens. The bridge ahead is empty, except for one person. The metal of the structure glints and reflects the red lights across the walls. Normally, they would be white, but since the ship is on lockdown they flash red for alertness.

          My heart stops. Nothing else exists. Not the mission, not Adamus. Not Aheka or Circe or even myself. There is no Empire, no Rebellion- only her.           It’s Talik.

          I tell my eyes to blink, but they don’t. No amount of squinting or shocked looks could change the sight in front of me. Even from about thirty feet away, I can see the rogue, clear as day. Aqua blue skin shown off seductively, full pink lips and dramatically lined grey eyes. Her outfit has changed since I last saw her, but it still gives away her identity. A tight black shirt with a cut out right over her breasts, fitted grey pants and knee high black boots. The same blaster I always saw with her is attached at her hip.

          “Hold your fire,” Adamus commands as he stares at the Twi’Lek. She looks at him up and down before turning her eyes to me. My throat goes dry, my hand holding the lightsaber dropping limply.

          “Keres?” Talik says in disbelief, squinting her eyes. I don’t answer. Adamus looks at me questioningly, but I can’t tear my eyes from her.

          “Keres, do you know her?” Adamus questions quietly.

          “Of course she knows me,” Talik smirks, regaining her normal attitude. Her hand on her hip, she juts it out in the way I remember oh so well. “You didn’t tell them about me?”           I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. I can’t even begin to analyze the situation.

          “Keres, who is this?” Adamus hisses.

          Talik snorts and rolls her eyes. “An old friend,” she says. “Isn’t that right?”

          “You were gone,” I force out, half a whisper. “I thought you were dead.” I’m not even talking to her- more myself than anyone.

          Talik smiles dazzlingly. “When have you ever known me to be one for dying?”

          Keres, calm yourself. Tell yourself what you know.

          Your name is… kriff. What’s my name?

          “Adamus, go on ahead,” I say, unable to break my stare from the seductive Twi’Lek in front of me.

          “What?”

          “Go back through the door and take the other,” I say. “Please.” The begging on my part clicks in Adamus’s system. Glancing between us again, he turns around and gathers the troops. I hear their feet drawing farther and farther away.

          “He was cute. Who was that?”

          I silence my lightsaber and step forward cautiously, as if at any minute Talik was going to explode. “What are you doing here?” I breathe out.

          Talik’s eyebrows crease together in mock anger. “Well, hello to you too.”

          “I’m not kidding around!” I say, slightly louder than I meant. The size of the room makes the sound echo off the walls. The Twi’Lek only folds her arms in response.

          “What makes you think I am? I could ask what you’re doing here too.”

          I choke on my next words, fearing the direction we’re falling. “You know why I’m here.”

          “Then you know why I’m here too.” Talik’s voice is steadier than my own, as if I’m feeling more of the weight here than she is.

          I can hear the battle outside and the shots from the tie-fighters. I can hear the occasional explosion and whirring of ships. My vision becomes fuzzy as tears well in my eyes. I try to fight them off, but they don’t go. They stay, glued as I try to see if I can count the beating of my heart. Even in my good ear, there is silence. I can’t even feel it in my chest.

          “Why?” I choke. “Tell me.”

          Talik looks at me with near sympathy. “The Jedi were never peacekeepers,” she says, equally as unsteady as me. “You knew that.”

          I blink and swallow, trying to deflect the sting that comes with her words. Talik takes a step forward. “Don’t,” I say, attempting to sound stronger than I really feel. “Stay right there.” Talik obeys, tentatively putting her foot back in place.

          “You were the one that called the Empire,” I half sob, refusing to let my tears fall, “weren’t you?”

          Talik looks shocked for a moment, then narrows her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “I saw you with that lightsaber, and I knew.” Malice drips from her tone icily, and her expression towards me changes. Talik looks at me like I’m scum of the galaxy, like I’m the one who betrayed her. “The Jedi took everything from me.”

          “I’m not the Jedi.”

          “You’re one of them. That’s enough.”

          I can’t stop the painful expression that spreads across my face. My tears don’t fall, but my eyebrows do knit together in sadness. My lips falter into an ugly frown as I breathe out, my face feeling hot. I know what I have to do, I just don’t know if I have the strength to do it.

          “Please don’t make me do this,” I plead in a whisper.

          Talik creases her eyebrows angrily in a challenge. “Do what? Kill a friend?” Her eyes linger on my lightsaber. “Wouldn’t be the first time, right?”

          Every breath I take is agony.

          “Kip was talking about you before he died,” she presses. I breathe out in anguish as my heart feels as if it’s about to give out. “He asked if you were mad at him.”

          “You killed Kip,” I say, half a question, half an accusation.

          “No,” she shakes her head, voice cracking. “The Empire did. I was just with him.”

          “You stayed with the Empire after that? Even after what they did?”           Talik swallows, eyes continuing to stare at me with hate. It doesn’t matter what we once were anymore. All the times she woke me up to play a prank, or when she would make me laugh or hip bump me or anything. It doesn’t matter I subconsciously thought of her as a sister. Whatever we had is dead now. “The Empire will always be better than the Jedi.”

          “How can you say that?” I choke, this time unable to stop the tears from spilling over my eyes. “After everything- after all this time-”

          “After all this time,” she scoffs, disguising her pain with her spite. “You’ve grown.”

          Talik’s right hand drops to her thigh, lingering next to her pistol. “Go on then, Keres. Kill me.”

          “Don’t,” I half warn, half beg. “Don’t try it.”

          Talik whips her blaster out and fires. I duck, sparks behind me sizzling to the ground. “You’re scum.” Another shot rings out, missing me sloppily.

          “Talik, please-”

          My old friend ignores me. A third blast comes my way. As the fourth follows, I turn on my saber and deflect it. The red beam meets the gold and flies back towards it’s origin. Talik cries out and grasps her right arm, pain lacing her features. Blinking it away, she fires again.

          I jump forward, dodging out of the way of the shot but coming face to face with her. Unable to stop my movement, my lightsaber sinks into her belly with ease. Our chests flushed together, eyes boring into hers as she falls to her knees. Talik’s eyes are wide as she looks into mine. I’ll never forget it.

          I put my right hand on her shoulder to pull her Talik closer as I push the lightsaber further. I can see it sticking out from behind her as she chokes. She doesn’t break my stare, her orbs demanding me to say something.

          I want her to tell me she was wrong. I want her to tell me she’s sorry, not for my sake, but hers. I want her to go peacefully- not like this. But Talik doesn’t say anything. Her angry eyes stay angry, her face distorted with the look of betrayal and pain.

          “I hate you,” Talik says. “Traitor.”

          I shut off my saber and hold Talik in my arms. Her death is slow and miserable. I try not to think of all the memories I have with her, but it’s difficult when I listen to her choke and dare me to look away as I kill her.

          Talik dies in my arms, her hateful expression washing away and becoming replaced with blankness. Her brown eyes are fixed somewhere in the distance, her lipstick smeared ever so slightly, her hand still clenched around my shirt. Slowly, as if not to disturb her, I unlock her fingers and let her hand fall limp. I want her to wake up and act like this was just another one of her jokes. I would rather she be alive and angry with me then dead and angry.

          I debate whether or not to close her eyes, but decide against it. I gently lay her down instead, dusting off her outfit as I blink tears away with heavy breaths. I want to stay with her so badly. I want to collapse and just catch my breath for a minute, but I remember there are people outside who are depending on me. That always was something Talik could never understand- responsibility. It took me a while to get too, but I know better now.

          I ignite my lightsaber before I go through the next door. I look at Talik one last time, trying not to think about the beauty I’ve just slaughtered. I knew her. I ran with her. I loved her. Even though it doesn’t matter now, it does. It’ll always matter.

          I open the door, coming face to face with a battalion of storm troopers. I ball my hand into a fist, and all fifteen of them fly in different directions. Four snap their necks, one is impaled, two are knocked out, and I don’t care about the rest.

          I find Adamus and the battalion not too long after.

          “What happened?” he asks. I don’t answer. Adamus figures it out when he sees the blood on my face and doesn’t press the issue, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

[ladylilithium]

Hans’ Redemption Arc PART 2: Rebuilding the True Self

Part 1 here

 4) The Shadow of a man that could have been.

“Listen my friend,” said the shadow to the learned man; “now that I am as fortunate and as powerful as any man can be, I will do something unusually good for you. You shall live in my palace, drive with me in the royal carriage, and have a hundred thousand dollars a year; but you must allow everyone to call you a shadow, and never venture to say that you have been a man. And once a year, when I sit in my balcony in the sunshine, you must lie at my feet as becomes a shadow to do; for I must tell you I am going to marry the princess, and our wedding will take place this evening.”

“Now, really, this is too ridiculous,” said the learned man. “I cannot, and will not, submit to such folly. It would be cheating the whole country, and the princess also. I will disclose everything, and say that I am the man, and that you are only a shadow dressed up in men’s clothes.”

“No one would believe you,” said the shadow; “be reasonable, now, or I will call the guards.”

“I will go straight to the princess,” said the learned man.

“But I shall be there first,” replied the shadow, “and you will be sent to prison.” And so it turned out, for the guards readily obeyed him, as they knew he was going to marry the king’s daughter.

“You tremble,” said the princess, when the shadow appeared before her. “Has anything happened? You must not be ill to-day, for this evening our wedding will take place.”

“I have gone through the most terrible affair that could possibly happen,” said the shadow; “only imagine, my shadow has gone mad; I suppose such a poor, shallow brain, could not bear much; he fancies that he has become a real man, and that I am his shadow.”

“How very terrible,” cried the princess; “is he locked up?”

“Oh yes, certainly; for I fear he will never recover.”

“Poor shadow!” said the princess; “it is very unfortunate for him; it would really be a good deed to free him from his frail existence; and, indeed, when I think how often people take the part of the lower class against the higher, in these days, it would be policy to put him out of the way quietly.”

“It is certainly rather hard upon him, for he was a faithful servant,” said the shadow; and he pretended to sigh.

“Yours is a noble character,” said the princess, and bowed herself before him.

In the evening the whole town was illuminated, and cannons fired “boom,” and the soldiers presented arms. It was indeed a grand wedding. The princess and the shadow stepped out on the balcony to show themselves, and to receive one cheer more. But the learned man heard nothing of all these festivities, for he had already been executed.

—Hans Christian Andersen, The Shadow.

[SIDENOTE; To read the complete story here]

When I was reading some of HCA stories, I stumbled with one called “The Shadow”, and I found it incredibly fascinating and relatable to our Prince Hans, somehow. I associate this story with Hans in particular, because both Mirror!Hans 

and the Shadow

are the distorted figures of a real man, hidden under superfluous appearances (that’s how I interpreted the Shadow story, at least). Regardless of the various interpretations that we can come up with this story, the comparison is still valid: 

Both “characters” are charming and very influential.

They start the story as humble and likeable, and by the end of it, they end up deceiving the other protagonist.

 Interestingly enough, both characters seduced and lied to a princess, who she believes they have a good of heart.

Both are prideful and entitled for their desires.

Both are very intelligent and educated.

I think is still coincidence, but nonetheless is very interesting to denote the parallels and imagine what Hans could have been if he actually ended up marrying Anna. Would he have still planned to kill Elsa? Would he still be playing them as Mirror!Hans? I think that the answer is yes. And as The Shadow story ends, the Man dies, and only the Shadow lives. If Hans actually achieved to kill Elsa, he would’ve also killed himself: no more Real!Hans, but only the reflection of what people perceive of him. No true identity whatsoever.

Would he have learnt to love Anna in time? Probably, but their relationship would still be founded in lies and manipulation. Also he wouldn’t have gotten away for far too long, as his actions were somewhat desperate, something that he even recognizes in A Frozen Heart novel. He’s smart, but his desperation for power and fear made him lose control over his scheming and emotions. Anna at some moment would’ve realized about his plans.

And here it comes into discussion if whether or not Hans has a True Self.

5) Break the Mirror to free the Man.

I really believe that if we took time to know the “Real Hans” instead of the Mirror Hans, we would find a hollow, empty person, uncertain of what to be or what role to play in life. The lack of self-identity, and the pressure that his family pushes in his mentality of becoming someone important, can be something very harmful.

What I mean by breaking the Mirror, is that there must be a certain point of defeat, the lowest point of Hans, where he’ll have two options to pick: give up and accept his misery, that he cannot change and be a shitty person forever. Or… tear apart his mirror persona. Learn. Grow. Fight against what’s conditioned onto him. Fight against that fear he has for honesty, to become a new man, a better man.

To become the Real Hans.

I want to see him suffer, I want to see him working hard to achieve forgiveness, to extract all the poison inside him. That’s how it is in real life, that’s what people do. That’s how it feels. that’s how Elsa should’ve been portrayed .🤷‍♀️

Here’s Hans in his redemption arc, 100% real no fake! 👇🏼😝

There’s an old German proverb that it says something like this: “What Hansel doesn't learn, Hans will never learn." Hansel is a variant German name, which means “little Hans.” The meaning of this proverb is that if we don’t learn something when we are children, we will never learn it once we are adults. But we are not here to agree with that proverb. We are here to call that proverb BULLSHIT! A person –Hans in our case- can always learn, if they are willing to do it.

6) Forgiveness and Hard-work: Valuing Love, and finding a new role in life.

If I could start again A million miles away I would keep myself I would find a way.

—Hurt by Nine Inch Nails.

[SIDENOTE 3: Or if you preffer Johnny Cash. Both versions are great]

As the movie implies -and extra sources of information-, Hans lives in an abusive and toxic environment, a similar situation as Elsa and Anna, but not quite. Both Anna and Elsa had the love and support from their parents, and while Elsa was distant with Anna, they still exchanged a silent support every time they could. Whereas Hans only had a limited support from his mother and Lars, the only brother that didn’t treat him horribly, it was still not enough. Hans not only was neglected, but also abused physically, and psychologically. Even body-shamed. How often do we see body shaming in men? I’m honestly asking, because I can’t come across any example of a movie or any media🤔

Anyways.

Showing Hans trying to understand, questioning with honesty the sisterly bond between Anna and Elsa would a step forward in his Redemption Arc. Being genuinely confused, since from his perspective, Elsa almost killed Anna. Perhaps a conversation between Hans and Olaf (the physical manifestation of the love between Anna and Elsa) will help him out to see life in a different light, in a more emotional level rather than materialistic. And also because it would be very cute and hilarious! 

Though I don’t want him to become 100% a passive goody two-shoes boy. Nope. He still has to have his jerkish, prideful, Draco Malfoyish attitude, that’s what makes him stand out from the rest of the cast in the first place! I have my priorities right, shut up.

His main goal and ambition would still be the same; being recognized and appreciated. Finding a place where he could belong, a place where his attributes and talents can be taken seriously and admired. Maybe a Queen’s Guard, or becoming part of Arendelle’s royal navy? An admiral, perhaps? Or maybe finding peace in other place that is not The Southern Isles or Arendelle, adventuring alone to find himself. That’s a bittersweet take, but could be possible… and I kinda like it.

7) Societal expectations of a man: A potential social commentary/critique.

“Srong. Female. Characters.” Such an overused statement, don’t you think? Now, now! Don’t crucify me just yet. I love strong female characters, I really do. And Disney certainly has their roster of strong female characters that are independent and loving, defiant of societal expectations like Merida, Mulan, Vanelope, Tiana, Belle, even Ariel (though sadly most of her independence and curiosity is overlooked and misinterpreted by a lazy GA). But what about male characters? True we have Aladdin, but that’s more the story of an underdog. Or Ralph? Hmm, could be, but not exactly.

What about telling a story of an apparently wealthy young man –a prince- that is mocked and belittled all his life for not achieving greater things? For not being as aggressive or masculine, as he is expected to be? Just think about it, all the stakes has been settled for a story like this. Besides the story of escaping an abusive family, is would also be useful a social critique about masculinity, in general.

What makes a man “man” for the Westergaards?

A father that values archetypical masculine strength: cruelty, violence, coldness, ambition, power, pride, social status, fear.

A mother that is undermined for being a woman and reduced to a baby factory. The same goes for the wives of the other princes.

Older brothers that abuse and pick on the smallest one for not being as strong as them.

Hans being mocked for being close to him mom, a typical approach to mock other men’s masculinity.

Hans want his father’s approval so much, even to a point where the only way to get it, is by harming others.

For the Westergaards, social status is seen as more important than love or affection.

Hans is body shamed for not being as big or strong as his other brothers.

These guys along with Hans’ father are the fathers of the year!

We as society reinforce those traits, even though is slowly changing now, the stigma is still there, and men are as much of victims of sexism as we are. Hans could be the perfect character to use and to point out these kind of “toxic masculinity” traits that we as society reinforce, and that we should change for better. 

Hans’ development would be about reconnecting with his feelings, instead of trying to fit a toxic archetype of masculinity that his father and brothers represent. His story not only would be about forgiveness, but also about a man reconnecting with his “feminine side”, his emotions and identity as a whole.

I know that this dialogue is played as funny or not taken seriously (that’s how I take it by the tone of it :_), but imagine an emotional scene of a male character manifesting his feelings with tears on screen. Maybe is just my wish-fulfillment of seeing Hans miserable and being pardoned (uhm... yeah… basically), but even still, it would also provide a new unexplored trait in him. And since we didn’t get to know him completely, I don’t think it would be too OOC. It just depends of how is delivered. And yeah! I WANT TO SEE A MALE CHARACTER CRY! And not played as a joke, but for real! ignore me.

PS: Part 3 will be the last one, and it will touch ships from a narrative POV, and character archetypes that could be used for Hans arc.

[yerkesdodsonlaw]

Reunion: Having Avoided Her Progenitor For Several Years, Melantha Finally Cuts Her Losses And Returns Home.

A figure emerges from the shadows, clad in a long black cloak like Death Herself. Her hood obscures her face, but the light of the moon reflects off her eyes like two strange, silver coins in the darkness. There is a vast, sprawling mansion set deep in the woods where she stands.

She is stalling.

She melts back into the shadows and watches the house. To the untrained eye, it looks abandoned, though well maintained. The windows are obscured by heavy curtains and for a moment she tries to convince herself that there is nobody home, but she knows he is there. She can feel him, which means he can feel her, and he knows she is stalling.

She approaches the door with a knot of dread in her stomach and catches a glimpse of her reflection in the darkened window. Her jaw clenches and she forces herself not to look away. How did this happen? she asks herself, uselessly. She knows damn well how it happened. Hiding out in the woods and subsisting on a starvation diet of wild animals inevitably takes a toll. She raises her fist and knocks on the door before she can talk herself out of it.

It swings open almost immediately, like he had been standing there waiting for her. His eyes are wide but he does an admirable job keeping his face blank as he looks at her, and there is silence. A tense silence as they both regard each other and stubbornly refuse to be the first one to break.

She breaks.

“Cassius.” Her progenitor. Her creator. It’s just his name, but it’s enough. He pulls her inside and closes the door behind them before turning to face her again, eyes burning.

“Where the hell have you been?” It had been years. Cassius still looked the same, of course. Annoyingly beautiful, almost human-like except for his pallor and strange eyes. Annoyingly beautiful, like she used to be. Like she should be. She shrugs off her hood and he grabs her arm, pulling her closer to him. “God, Melantha. Look at you. What the hell happened? I went to your house--”

The house. Melantha almost shudders. She left the house, or whatever remained of it, left that smoldering pile of rubble and did not look back.

“You look terrible,” Cassius adds, which snaps her out of her reverie to glare at him. “You look starved. Jesus.” And that she was. The animals she hunted kept her strong enough to function, but her body was weakened and wasting away for want of human blood.

“Thank you for that astute observation.” Cassius was expecting some kind of explanation, and Melantha was resisting as long as possible. There is a hollow ache in her chest that worsens every time she looked at him. She makes a half-hearted attempt to pull away but he tightens his grip. How irritating. At her full strength, she could have easily overpowered him, but now she is forced to concede.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice is accusatory with concern masked as rage. She does not meet his eye.

“You would know if I were dead. You would be able to feel it.” She felt it. She still feels it.

“Tell me what happened,” he orders.

“What do you think?” she deflects. She knows she can’t avoid this forever, but she can damn well try. “I was attacked. I escaped. Here I am.” Skipping over a few years in the middle there. Cassius releases his grip on her, and she silently begs him not to ask the question she can see forming in his mind. But he asks.

“Where is your coven?” It’s like a punch to the chest. Four punches, four holes torn through her lungs. She still feels it, like the pain of four phantom limbs that were ripped from her body and burned.

“They did not escape.” Melantha jumps on the defensive before Cassius has a chance to respond. “Don’t you dare say anything about it. Don’t tell me you warned me, I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”

“I did warn you,” Cassius says flatly. He shakes his head. “For God’s sake, do you see now? Your goddamn hubris almost got you killed.”

Melantha’s hands clench into fists at her sides.

“They cannot kill me. I think I’ve proven that by now.”

“Right. As long as you have an obedient coven you can sacrifice, bodies to stand in the way while you make your daring escape. Was that your plan?” She swings her fist at him but he catches her wrist before she can make contact. “Did they know they were expected to die for you?”

“Stop.” She squeezes her eyes shut as a surge of magic flows through her and Cassius drops her wrist like he’s been burned. But in her weakened state, even the smallest bit of magic is draining; she leans against the wall and keeps her eyes closed. “Shut up. Don’t you dare speak of them.” She waits for Cassius to retaliate but is met with silence. When she opens her eyes, he has stepped back and is looking at her with an unreadable expression.

“Why are you here?” he finally asks. “You ignore me for years, act like you’re so much better off without me, and now you come crawling back when you need my help?”

She holds out her hands; silent, empty. I have nothing else. “Don’t make me beg.”

“Oh, I would love to.” Cassius sighs and runs his fingers through his hair; a human affectation of stress. “Fine. Stay here. I’ll go hunt for you.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “We can fight about this later when you’ve gotten your strength back.”

“Mm. You better wipe that smug look off your face before I do.” She does not thank him, does not apologize, but touches his arm in silent appreciation. He rolls his eyes and rings a bell to summon a member of his staff. A human thrall appears in the doorway, looking only momentarily surprised at the presence of Melantha in the foyer. Cassius and his thrall exchange brief words before Cassius is gone and Melantha is whisked into the care of the household staff.

Melantha had spent so long in isolation that the sudden presence of humans, even humans enthralled to Cassius, makes her skin crawl. She does not relax until she is alone in the bathroom, laying in a lavish tub neck-deep in hot, perfumed water. She closes her eyes and leans back until her head was submerged and she could hear nothing but the muted pressure of the water surrounding her. Her body is running on empty; there is no energy to spare on useless human affectations like tears. But she feels that burning in the back of her throat nonetheless. She opens her eyes and stares up at the ceiling, water distorting her vision. She will pull herself together in a moment, before Cassius returns. She only needs a moment.