#hes not dead and its two years later than its supposed to be and his dad never fucking came back for him

[dezwade]

started thinking about Marcus too hard again. 50 dead, 100 injured

#!!! #like he was just a KID. he was fucking FIFTEEN and he died because his own DAD didnt see him as a person #he was too human to complete his missions because again he was a fucking kid #of course he was going to be petty and let his emotions get in the way #but he wasnt human enough for his dad who literally refers to him as a weapon and only saw him as a convenient replacement. #a means to end that could be discarded once he fulfilled his purpose #douglas knew he was going to die but did fuck all to stop it #but marcus doesnt know that and doesnt know families arent supposed to be full of thinning ice and conditional love #he thinks that their pizza nights and douglas' stage dad behavior actually MEAN something #and its not just douglas using him as a way to temporarily fill the void donald made when he took ab&c #so he dies in a last ditch attempt to see his dad's plan through and prove hes good enough #and then #hes not dead? #hes not dead and its two years later than its supposed to be and his dad never fucking came back for him #his dad went off and reconciled with his brother - therefore making marcus' very EXISTENCE obsolete #- even though it was supposed to them against donald. them against the world #but it turns out that was just another fucking lie #and now the world's moved on without him and he doesnt even recognize his own body #and theres this woman who says that she saved him and is offering revenge and (to him) a new family in one fell swoop #and heres the thing: she saved him. she went out of her way to find him and repair him which is more than douglas ever did #so what is supposed to do? say no? #shake off years of being taught that when someone wrongs you you have fight tooth and nail for revenge? #douglas has had two years to grow as a person but from marcus' perspective its only been a couple of days #hes never been given the time or chance to learn anything besides bloodshed and violence. #to see himself as anything beaides a force of destuction #so of course he says yes and of course it all goes wrong #and he dies and no one grieves and his own dad CELEBRATES his murder like this whole thing wasnt his fault in the first place #and just #yeah he did some fucked up things but he wasnt worse than douglas #and how can you hold a teenager to higher standards than the man that raised him

[kentopedia]

˚₊‧꒰ა cold embrace (provenance) — fyodor dostoevsky

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you buy a two hundred year old house with a two hundred year old painting hanging above the mantel. it's not the only thing the previous owner left behind.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. ghost!fyodor, f!reader, violence, angst, death, alternate / modern universe, no smut but it is suggestive, fyodor is kind of a pervy ghost so, wc: 6.1k

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this one has two titles bc it was supposed to be for my kinktober... never finished it. embarrassing ! but here is a semi-revamped version for this series! i can finally check it off my wips page <3 idk how i feel about it but i hope you enjoy

part of my summerween series !

A chime from the grandfather clock brings Fyodor out of his stupor, the sound signaling another day, another meaningless hour that will only continue his eternal misery. He’s grown used to it now—evening after evening of emptiness, of reading nothing but the same books, playing the same pieces of dull sheet music, and the lifeless chess matches against himself. The house is cold with only his presence, dusty without a housekeeper and a life to make it a home.

There are a million things in Fyodor’s life that he must have done to deserve this misery, but he can’t pinpoint which one solidified his reward of a lamentable, endless cycle.

He’s certain hell is better than this. It’s something he wishes for every day, if only to have an eternal companion with the devil, a challenge to overcome.

Though, even with this boredom, Fyodor refuses to let anyone live in his home. They’ll only serve to be another pain, something that would, surely, push him past the brink of sanity.

The centuries old décor will get replaced with gaudy twenty-first century items, ones that will be nothing more than an eyesore. There are a few already scattered around his home from previous tenants, but only things that he believed useful enough for him to keep; a few books from authors he didn’t live to read, a television from the nineties, a computer that he watched one couple scroll on before he murdered them in cold blood.

Perhaps he is two hundred years dead and gone, but he refuses to be an ignorant ghost, one that is unaware of anything beyond these four walls, caught forever in the past.

Although now, it’s been a while since anyone’s tried to move in, and he’s certain the only reason the house hasn’t been torn down is because its preserved nicely, an eighteenth-century home that has withstood the test of time.

Fyodor, in his lowest moments, wishes they would tear it down. Maybe then, and only then, can he be set free. Or maybe, he’s forever trapped in this exhaustive lot, doomed to decay, even when there’s nothing left of the foundations but soil.

He pushes a pawn forward on the board, putting himself in checkmate for the millionth time in a row. It’s been so long that he’s used to his own tricks. Even the computer, which he’d come to understand quickly, is no match for him. It’s far too exhaustive to play against a machine that utilizes an algorithm he can so easily decipher.

Out of nowhere, the front door unlocks, and Fyodor glances over at the sound, dark hair falling over his eyes. Seconds later, he notices an older realtor with a clipboard leading you around, a woman he’s never seen, dressed up nicely with a darker shade of lipstick smeared across your mouth.

He’s been through this before. It’s a miracle the realtor hasn’t given up on this house yet, a mansion she is determined to sell despite the endless horrors that have been committed by his hand.

“Here it is,” she says, nervous, gesturing around the expansive hall, the crystal chandelier and staircase that immediately follows. “It was built in 1731, but one of the owners remolded it in the style of the mid-nineteenth century. The structure has been stabilized; it’s safe… enough.”

The two of you chat, but he doesn’t bother to listen in. It’s all questions of: when can I move in? can we negotiate? — things you will come to regret once he sets his sights on killing you.

Then, the realtor is sighing, wringing her hands together as she watches you spin around the house in awe. It’s clear that you’re impressed by the layout, the rich furniture and colors that have been used.

That, at least, satisfies Fyodor. Everyone else who has moved in was looking to upgrade it to a modern style, rid the place of its aged grace and charm.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, brushing curly hair away from her cheekbones. “But I am legally obligated to tell you that every person who has lived here before has suffered a terrible, terrible fate. There have been gruesome murders that cannot be explained, done in ways that I don’t even want to tell you about.”

You laugh, eyeing her with skepticism. “Are you telling me it’s haunted?”

The realtor shrugs. “That’s what people say.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” you answer, and Fyodor rolls his eyes, scoffing as he floats to the second floor, unable to listen into the unreasonable conversation anymore. It’s been the same story for decades. No one believes in ghosts, but it is always a ghost that kills them.

He returns to the chess board, irritated, though unable to consider the game any further. Your face is stuck in his mind. For some reason, he can’t remember the last time he’s ever seen anyone with such beauty.

Fyodor stops; your ageless elegance doesn’t matter—it can’t, and it won’t. You’ll be dead by the end of the month, when you gather all your things and invade the bedroom that was once his own. Even if you are beautiful, you are a nuisance, a threat to Fyodor’s eternal torment and quiet existence.

Still, he can’t help but wonder if it would be nice to have something other than his own thoughts to distract him from the endless misery.

You move in on the thirteenth of June, nothing more than a few boxes and a decade old car to keep you company. He guesses you’ve traveled a long distance to get here, and you’ve gotten rid of half of your life in the process.

A good thing for him. That means things can be over relatively quickly, and all your belongings can be disposed of easily after he kills you.

You spend the entire first day unpacking, and Fyodor waits patiently, allows you time to get comfortable in his home. He watches as you bring a stack of thick novels into the waiting room, which once boasted large parties, and place them on a shelf below those that have his name within the covers.

You take a few calls as you hang up your autumn coats, ones that won’t be needed for a few months. The voice on the other line sounds frantic, worried. A local, most likely. You only seem annoyed by his continuous string of anxieties.

When the sun sets, and you grow tired, you rub your eyes and head to bed. The first night you will spend in this place that Fyodor likens to Hell.

It’s the time he’s been waiting for—a moment to catch you off guard. You are so unsuspecting, already so at home in the mansion, that you have no fear of anything hurting you in the middle of the night.

While you get ready for bed, Fyodor slips into your room, observing the pieces of your life that have conquered his bedroom. A soft classical piece plays from your phone, one that he recognizes from his mortal life. Clearly, you are fascinated by the period he once lived in. A shame, really, he won’t be able to tell you more about it.

You leave the bathroom, come back towards him to change into a pair of small shorts, a large shirt hanging over your frame.

He’s forgotten how long it’s been since he’s seen a woman, how long since he’s touched one.

Fyodor finds himself distracted by your body, the smoothness of your skin. His eyes travel over your legs, your hips, the fullness of your breasts and ignores how much he desires to let his thumb graze over your flesh. There is something so soft about you, so gentle and innocent.

Perhaps, that is where his fascination stems from: he has always been the opposite. Even in his human existence, Fyodor was not a kind man, and he doesn’t plan on becoming one now that he is dead.

He shakes away the vision, the thoughts that swirl within his mind. It has been far too long since he has experienced any sort of pleasure, and maybe even a man as cold as himself is not immune to the desires that course within his veins.

Though he tries to be. He ignores his arousal desperately in exchange for a renewed bloodlust.

You climb into bed, put your phone on the white cord, and shut your eyes. Thirty minutes later, you’re sleeping soundly, soft puffs of air leaving your lips as you sleep.

It’s the opportune moment. The silver knife gleams brightly in his hand, streaks of moonlight tracing over the slanted point. It’s the same blade he’s killed every other new tenant with, their screams still echo in the halls like a harmonious melody each time he bring the knife down on another unknowing victim.

He stands before you at the side of the bed, watches as your chest rises and falls, the evidence of your life undeniable. You are a lovely image like this, something to be painted and adored; more beautiful than many of the women he’d met in his time, even those who were of the finest elite in the country.

Fyodor presses the blade to your throat, contemplative. He considers how much lovelier you will look with the scarlet stain of blood seeping down your neck, spraying across the room and ruining the fresh sheets. Will you awaken, gasping as you claw at your throat, or will you drift away without even understanding what has become of you?

He pictures it, and digs the blade close to your throat, nothing more than a pinprick of blood flowering there.

You don’t awaken; but you a little sound leaves you, something between a gasp and a moan, and you shift away from the knife gripped between his pale fingers. It’s a sound that has him pausing, musing, as he regards your vulnerable state, a beautiful figure there with no clue that such a murderous man is also a resident in her home.

You make another one of those pretty noises in your throat, and Fyodor, against two centuries of murderous intent, pulls the knife away. He watches as you roll on your stomach, your shirt scrunching, moving up your body to reveal the undersides of your breasts. Your hand shifts towards him on the bed, reaching in his direction, before you still. Then, your breathing is back to normal, evened out completely.

Your lips part blissfully as you sigh in your sleep.

He can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop wondering what his name would sound like leaving the perfect swell of your mouth, if you’d sound just as pretty when you orgasm as you do when you’re asleep.

Surely, he can find a better use for you—it would be a shame for such a pretty thing to go out so early.

As he draws back, Fyodor notices the chess board on the side table, the pieces arranged nicely, each on the correct square. He can’t tell if you play. You could just have it for decoration, or perhaps it was a gift given to you from a lover that he hasn’t seen pictures of, the one that he’s certain someone as lovely as you must have.

The board is aged; not as old as the one in the drawing room, but a nice set, nonetheless. Fyodor glances back at your sleeping form once more, smiles coolly to himself, and shifts a pawn forward.

The chess piece is the first thing you notice in the morning.

It’s almost ridiculous how easily it catches your eye, a tiny little movement within the chaos that was your brand-new room. A pawn is on a different square, leering at you from the other wall, as if smiling, a flashing sign above its head, calling to you, hoping you’ll pay attention.

You almost think nothing of it; things can move, can’t they? Perhaps there was a shift in the earth overnight… Though, that makes little sense when you think about it rationally.

It’s strange, that much is certain. You remember the realtor telling you about the ghosts, and though you aren’t inclined to believe in haunted houses and scary stories, you find a part of yourself questioning the logic of the chess piece.

You are certain it was on the correct square before you slept.

It’s the only thing on your mind as you get ready, suffer through a tasteless breakfast, and throw on a rain jacket to combat the dreary weather. You’re meeting a friend for lunch—the only friend you have in this town. Sigma is the sole reason you decided to move here, instead of the other arbitrary cities that you’d been desperate to escape to.

Still, the board won’t leave your mind. You take one last glance at it before, on a whim, pushing the opposite color pawn forward as well.

Then you leave, hoping that a conversation with your friend will take your mind off the strangeness of that happenstance, the anxiety you feel about moving to a new place, a new job where no one knows you, a home that stays cold, despite the heat that reigns with long summers.

The walk to the cafe is short, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, you are miserable, your hands wrinkling from the dampness, even within your pockets.

Sigma is waiting for you, his lavender and white hair loose over his shoulders as he peruses the menu, eyes darting across it like he’s never read it before.

You sit, offer him a greeting, and though your conversation is cordial, the two of you catching up on your day, you eventually ask the question you’ve been dying to know.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Sigma stops, puts the utensil back down on his plate, and regards you with a thin frown. “Did something happen?”

You think of the chess piece, wonder if another will be moved when you get home. “No, but—”

“I told you not to move into that house,” he says, eyes narrowing. Sigma refuses to step into that mansion, grows anxious every time you mention it. “Over ten people have died there. Do you want to get murdered?”

“No particularly,” you say, staring at him flatly, your mouth pulling into a line. “But I’ve made it one night already. I’ll be fine.”

A hard laugh leaves him, as he shakes his head, unamused by your cheekiness. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? Then they all die.”

“Very dramatic.” You take a long sip of your water. Sigma’s features don’t crack in the slightest as he stares at you, waiting for you to continue. “I’m not scared. I just want to know if you believe in ghosts or not… Because I don’t.”

Sigma’s eyes flit across your face, searching for any hint of a lie, for any signs of fear. When he finds none, his hands stretch across the table, lacing them together as he glares. “Whether you believe in ghosts or not doesn’t matter. There’s something evil about that house, and you’re putting yourself in danger by living there.”

The conversation with Sigma weighs on your mind for hours after, when you return home, still thinking about the chess board. It was just as you’d left it, two pawns moved forward, staring each other down menacingly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

You sigh and finally put it out of your mind. It was just a coincidence, that’s all. The piece was probably on the wrong square all along, and you’d been too tired last night to notice it.

Instead, you focus your sights on unpacking, and contemplate what to do with the portrait hanging above the mantel.

It’s a dusty old thing, one that the previous owners had, for some reason, never taken down. It had hung over the mantel for centuries, the corners faded from the sun, but the sinister grin of the subject never losing its effect.

You tilt your head, stare at it from a different angle. Looking at it that way, you could, perhaps, see why the painting appealed to them. It’s old, with a style from a different century, and the man composed of deep shadows and pale colors is undeniably handsome. He seems out of place in the portrait, trapped there, too otherworldly to be captured on such a canvas. His features are sharp, molded out of something tougher than diamonds, something more beautiful than this plane is able to comprehend. His deep eyes seem to know all as they stare at you, trace you across the room.

For minutes, you are hypnotized, before a wave of disgust washes over you, and you turn away, unable to look at it any longer. You’ll sell it, you decide. Maybe it will be worth a pretty penny.

That evening, you decide to look into it, but the search into a local art dealer doesn’t get far. When you sit down at your laptop, beginning to type your question into the browser, the lid shuts on your fingertips.

It takes a moment for you to register what had happened. A faint sting dances along the back of your hands, your knuckles tender as you lift the lid back up. Lines bounce along the screen, as if the imprint of your hand had made its way into the pixels, matching the pulse of your nerves.

You curse lowly, hoping that a reset will fix the issue.

The lid had just fallen, nothing serious. It was a newer model, but those things could happen. Issues with the manufacturing, with the way it was assembled. Technology fails you all the time.

You hold the power button, irritated, and upset, when a horrible, screeching noise echoes from the computer. Nothing but a shrill scream, the speakers begging you for help. You slam it shut once more, and the noise stops, but your heartbeat doesn’t slow down.

Shit.

Tomorrow, you’ll have to take it in, and see if anyone can discern the issues. It’s not ideal, but there’s so many things to still need to do, and a broken laptop makes those things very difficult.

You sigh, pushing the chair back into the table. The portrait looms above you as you retreat back to your room, hands shaking. It’s irrational, you know it is, but you swear his eyes follow you all the way up the stairs.

It doesn’t take long for you to start believing in the ghost that is haunting your manor, the one who has let you live for a week and who plays a new game of chess every time your back is turned. Whoever it is, they are much better than you; so far, you’ve lost twice—haven’t even gotten close to winning.

He hides things from you, items that you are needing for the next day, papers that you can’t submit to work on time because the important files have been stashed away.

You find your books opened to paragraphs the ghost seemingly finds interesting, your sheet music scattered in a mess when you return. The candles get blown out unexpectedly, and doors slam when you’re not suspecting it.

If he’s trying to scare you—it isn’t working. You remain in the house, sometimes talking to him like he’s a friend, whispering amongst the walls that know all of the secrets in your home.

You stop at the library on your free weekend, flipping through a dusty copy of the local legends, only stopping when you find your home. There’s a copy of the painting there—your painting, the one that still hangs above your mantel, despite your better judgment.

Beside it, there’s a painting of your home, done when the house was first built. The outside of it is a differently color entirely, the garden in front blooming with pink and yellow flowers. It looks cheerful; the home of a warm and loving family, inviting and kind to each of the neighborhood children. Nothing like the dark manor it is today, with a dead garden in the front and shutters that keep even an ounce of light out.

You read the pages proceeding the painting. The first owner had been a kind man, but the next were not such. After the original owner lost his wealth, he sold the house, passed it to a line of greedy men, ones that were focused only on their money. For a century, it went on this way—until a man named Fyodor Dostoevsky purchased the home for twice as much as it once was.

He was the one who changed it, renovated it, upgraded it to his own personal style, ensuring that it fit in with the times and his own opinions of luxury. Fyodor was charming, but ruthless, deadly with his own intelligence, owning half the town as they lost their money to his schemes.

Fyodor’s rein came to an end when he was poisoned by his closest friend, perhaps the one man he had trusted. It was the first murder in a string of ones to follow within the house.

You close the book, unsure if you regret the knowledge you’d gained or not.

The house feels colder now that you know the history of it. As if you can see the cruelty etched into every wall. Colors of the home bleed into each other, a pastel yellow of warmth and light, and the next room empty, almost uninhabitable, with its royal purples.

You stare at the portrait as you make dinner, feeling like you can never escape the gaze of those oil painted eyes. He has a name now—Fyodor. It feels even more disarming now that you know more about him than he’ll ever know about you.

And though Fyodor watches you, every night, from every angle, you convince yourself it’s just the way that the painting is situated. It would be foolish to think that he’s really watching every move you make, irises pinned on your form, unblinking.

The oven heats up behind you as you cut up your food, humming a soft tune to yourself. It’s getting hotter outside – you’d almost forgotten how miserable the summers could be. You forget every year, even though you’ve lived many.

Just as you’re getting lost in your thoughts, going through a list of things that need to get done in your fixer-upper home, you hear a scratch behind you.

It’s a quick sound, so quick that you almost think it was only your imagination. It’s enough to give you pause, your humming fading out into the night as your eyes dart around your house. Although you’ve tried not to let urban legends get the best of you, you’re paranoid in this aged mansion now.

A few seconds pass. You listen to the sound of your own heartrate, feel it pounding in your chest as you will it to calm down. It’s just enough time for you to convince yourself that it was nothing, that you’re far too nervous about silly ghosts to think rationally.

Though as you turn, a knife flies from the counter, just grazing your cheek, but enough to cause a scratch to open up against the skin. Your finger draws away scarlet as you press it to the wound, staring at the painted crevices of your fingertip.

You can’t move. Despite every cell in your body begging, screaming at you to move, you’re frozen, trapped in the four walls of that kitchen as you stare at your bloodied hand.

It’s all a dream, you repeat to yourself. A dream.

One that you don’t wake up from.

Time passes strangely, when every muscle in your body is on edge, your head pounding from the anxiety that spikes throughout your nervous system. A bead of sweat drips from your temple, and though you aren’t sure how long you stand there, nothing else happens. The knife remains lodged in the wall behind you, and the ghost makes no other attempt to lodge one into your stomach.

It’s quiet. There’s no noise, save for the music that plays softly from your phone.

After you regain control of your racing heartrate, you realize that the song playing isn’t what you’d put on originally. It had switched to a gentle, classical piece. Tchaikovsky, you think… or something similar. Something that a man from a different era would be familiar with.

“Who’s there?” You find yourself saying, perhaps stupidly. “What do you want?”

There’s no response – of course there isn’t. You’re talking to the air. To a ghost. No one had gotten inside the house. You’d checked more than enough times, just as you always did.

“I live here now,” you offer, thinking that, perhaps anger is not the best course of action. Neither is fear, though, if the scary movies you’d watched as a teenager had been any indication. “But I’ll leave, if you want me to.”

There’s no answer to that either.

You sigh, and deflate once more, trying to make yourself believe that there was a logical explanation to knives flying and playlists changing. Just as you’d made yourself believe that everything the “ghost” had done before was just a game, innocently played.

Perhaps, there was never a ghost at all. It could be that stress is driving you to insanity.

With a glass of wine in your hand, you finish up dinner, feeling like you are at your wit’s end. How is it that only a few weeks in this house has already singed your mind, turned you into a believer of things that you are not?

The portrait feels like an omen, staring at you with violet eyes, as you wonder where Fyodor is now. Does he watch you when your home, cooking, as you shower, a vicious gaze tracing over each curve of your body, with a sickening thought of all the things he wishes to do to you?

You shiver. It’ s been a while since anyone’s looked at you with a hint of desire. The feeling has become foreign, now, but you can still recall the gratification that comes with being wanted, how it makes you feel, if only for a moment, comfortable in your own skin.

That thought alone quickly snaps you out of your irrational behavior. Thinking of a ghost wanting you? A man that had been buried in the earth for so long that his body would be nothing more than bones?

This house was making you sick, you concluded, wrapping your leftovers up in plastic and tinfoil, placing them in the fridge. Your nervous friend was right – you never should’ve moved into this house, and you never should have stayed this long.

Your hands shook along the banister, heart racing around every corner. You expected that, maybe, you would see a dark-haired spirit there, his body translucent, but still corporeal. Though, there was no spirit hiding within the depths of the shadows, lurking in the places where he still belonged. No sounds startled you, caused you to jump as you brushed your teeth, completed the one last routine of your day.

The bed was colder than usual as you climbed into it, like a flush of a cold spot had settled within the sheets. You remembered what they said about temperatures and ghosts—how they changed, nothing able to survive in the places that they haunted, as they were not of this world, but something in between, something unnatural.

Your lamp flickers as you turn it on, and it’s just one more red flag you choose to ignore. In houses as old as this one, there are issues like that. The wiring is faulty, the electric needs to be monitored, a laundry list of items you will probably never resolve.

There are a thousand rational conclusions, though, and only one irrational one, which puts your mind at ease. Things like flickering lamps and cold spots can be explained simply, even if knives flying at your face cannot.

Still, you settle into bed, deciding that you will talk to the realtor again soon. You’ll move in with Sigma if he’ll have you. Anything to put your mind at ease for good.

That night, you dream of Fyodor, as if he is there right in the room with you, looming above you with those deep, violent eyes. His fingers, long and pale, trace across your cheekbones, as your eyes flutter open, consciousness coming back to you.

He says your name – it’s no surprise he knows it, after living with you for so long. It’s spoken softly, with a hint of possession behind it, like you belong to him. And yet, you’ve never said a word to him, even if all this time, he’s gotten to know you better than anyone else ever has.

You expect a scream to leave your throat, some hint of surprise, of fear, even, to see a stranger in your bedroom. To see him watching you with those familiar eyes, hair falling over his pale forehead as he gazes down at you from the edge of the bed.

No sound emerges.

Your mind feels a little fuzzy, hazy at the edges as you blink at him, closer to a state of intoxication, than you are alertness. Despite that awareness, you can’t seem to snap out of it; maybe you don’t want to. Instead, you sink deeper into the warmth, the honeyed feeling that comes with turning off your rationality. Everything feels as if it’s coming through in blurred, rosy glasses.

“Fyodor,” you mouth, instead of the scream that you’d anticipated, his name coming out in two wistful syllables.

You should hate him – there’s something in your instincts pushing back at you. A flash of a knife, the days of chaos and uncertainty, where you were sure you were losing your mind, come back at you.

But none of that seems to matter now, as you trace your finger across his cheek, feeling the sharp indent below the high bone. His eyelashes are a shade lighter than his hair, soft as they flutter over his forehead. The portrait of him didn’t do him justice… or perhaps, it is in death that he has found his purest form.

“I’m too tired.”

You’re not sure where those words even come from. Calm, like this is nothing but routine, and waking up with Fyodor beside you is the closest thing to normalcy.

He smiles at you, leaning over you again on the bed, lips pulled tightly together in a morbid grin. It does little to sour your mood, to scare you into action, even if you can’t quite understand why.

“I know,” he replies.

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, a deep, accented sound smoothing against your ears as he traces his gaze against each of your features; musical, almost. His voice calms you, lulls you back into a meditative state.

You reach for him, in a trance, and twirl a strand of his hair between your finger, just to see if he’d let you. After the hell you’d been through the past week, well – was it really that miserable? He seems content to watch over you, observe the gentle movements of his dark hair coiled up around your pointer finger.

“Why are you here?” you ask, your voice softer than a whisper, carried away by the wind until it never existed at all.

Fyodor never disappears from your line of sight, even when you try to blink, to close your eyes. He’s there, gazing at you with a lustful fondness, one that’s dangerous, perhaps even malicious. If it’s a dream, it sure feels like a vivid one.

“You wanted to leave,” he says, taking your finger away from his face, before bringing it to his lips. The kiss is barely there, and his mouth is cold, chapped, from the brutality of the afterlife. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Hm?” You try to sit up. It takes more effort than it should’ve – you’re so relaxed, so weak, that you fall back down, letting yourself sink into the plushness of the pillow. “Why?”

Fyodor releases your hand, before touching his own finger to your mouth. It’s slender, like a piece of ice, gently parting your lips before grazing your chin, hovering over your neck. Then, he drops his touch to your collarbone. He stakes a claim on every inch of your skin, pausing as he reaches your chest, still covered by the blankets.

Your clothing is thin – it wouldn’t take much effort to get his cool hands on your bare skin. But he refrains, still smiling before answering your question, tucking his hands together onto his lap. “It’s been so long.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you can’t muster up the effort to question him, not when he’s contemplating every word, like he’s hesitant to scare you away. You let him think, watch him ponder, as you stare, too exhausted to move a muscle.

“I thought you’d be like all the rest,” he says, taking a seat next to you on the bed, nearly touching your hip. “They were nothing but filth, stains in these halls. It’s a crime for them to ever think that they belonged here. In my home.”

You blink. “It’s my home, too,” you say, suddenly filled with an immense amount of dread. It crawls up your neck, chokes you, and nothing leaves you but garbled sounds, as you panic.

Fyodor doesn’t move – there is no twitch in his features, as he watches you with disguised adoration, a kind you didn’t think a ghost capable of revealing. “Of course it is, darling,” he says, so softly, it could’ve been mistaken for kindness. Fyodor leans down, presses his cold, dead lips to your cheek, a kiss of death. “That’s why I couldn’t let you leave. It’s your home. You belong here.”

“Right,” you breath, steadying yourself, before nodding. “My home.” Once more, you gaze around the room, your eyes flicking over every surface. Things are exactly as you’d left them, nothing out of place. “With you?”

The ghost smiles, and reaches out to you, finally helping you into a seated position. Your neck is so stiff, in pain, and you roll it around, feeling nothing there when you expect shifting bones. “With me,” Fyodor confirms, running his icy fingertips across your throat, tangling them with your hair.

He leans into you, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth, one that catches you off balance, before you accept it with an eagerness that surprises you further. It doesn’t feel unfamiliar, instead, it’s as if you’re coming home, like the man you’ve never seen until now was always meant to find you.

A thought that should’ve scared you, even though it doesn’t.

Fyodor pulls away, right as you begin to shift forward, maneuver yourself onto his lap. “You should rest,” he replies, keeping you at a distance. “It might take some time to adjust.”

“Hm? What do you mean?” you blink, holding onto his wrist as your gaze shifts from his impossibly dark eyes to the mirror across the room.

There, in the darkness of the evening, shrouded in moonlight, you can see your reflection staring back at you, eyes vacant, lifeless. You expect to see yourself as nothing but exhausted, but when you draw your gaze across the image of yourself, there is blood seeping from your neck, a stream of scarlet. There is thick gash across your throat, slashed so deep that it would’ve killed you instantly.

The expression on your face shifts from one of calm to horror, as you scrape at your neck, trying to clear off the blood that isn’t really there, the permanent wound that will follow you even into your death.

“What did you do?” you scream, tears rolling down your cheeks, even though you can’t feel them, can only see them in the mirror. “What did you do to me?”

Fyodor smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. Though you fight against him, he takes you into his arms, and you are too weak to fight him off. “I told you,” Fyodor says, shushing you, running his palm over your head as you scream. “I couldn’t let you leave.”

thank you for reading !

#bsd x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #dostoevsky fyodor x reader #bsd x you #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x you #fyodor x you #fyodor x y/n #fyodor dostoevsky x y/n #bsd x y/n #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you #fyodor imagines #fyodor dostoevsky imagines #fyodor doestoevsky x you #fyodor x fem reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #fyodor #fyodor angst #bsd imagines #bsd fanfic #rylie writes ₊˚🎧

[slu7formen]

I heard you were sad about the lack of Luke asks, so l've decided to try and help! Bare with me bc this might not be the best considering I'm think on the spot and its late over here so feel free to delete!

So, reader was with Luke when he was running away with Annie and Thalia so they're really close. Then, when her and Luke were like 16 or smth reader left on a quest and its been like 2 years so its assumed that she just failed and died on her quest. This ruined Luke bc he loved her and one night, maybe at the bonfire, he hears reader screaming his name somewhere in the foresty part of camp, just absolutely terrified. He finds her and shes hurt, I'm talkin reallyyy messed up like a massive gash across her eye, (matching scar awww) leavin her like half blind, huge claw marks, teeth marks, and other wounds. He carries her to the infirmary, shes prob passed out at this point from like blood loss. Anyways, she finally wakes up in the infirmary and a bunch of fluff ensues, yk the usual "Don't ever leave me again" "I thought you were dead" the fun stuff and obv they confess to each other! (also, is 🖤 taken?)

whoever made this request, it was so good, you’re evil and brilliant; thank you 🖤

MDNI. luke castellan x fem!reader

warnings: wounds, injuries, blood mention, presumed death, luke being heartbroken (sorry), crying

reminder: english's not my first language so l apologize for any spelling mistakes

₊˚⊹♡

Every morning, Luke woke with the same dull ache in his chest, a constant reminder of the gaping hole your absence had left in him. It was a hollow ache, a physical manifestation of the loneliness that had become his unwelcome company. Nine years old when he ran away, the world had been a harsh teacher, but three years later, when he found you, that harshness had softened, replaced by a fierce protectiveness. You, a scared, twelve-year-old with defiance blazing in your eyes and a meager weapon in hand, had become his anchor in the storm.

The streets had been a cruel way of living, but together, you and Luke had forged a bond stronger than steel. You were the same age, yet he was older by a few months, a difference that somehow granted him a silent responsibility for your safety. Thalia and Annabeth, two more lost souls swept up in the world of their demigod destinies, completed their unbalanced family. But it was you and Luke, the two eldest, who shared a silent language of understanding that went beyond words. You fought together, scavenged together, your backs against the world.

The arrival of Grover, a satyr reeking of panic, brought relief and a terrifying truth— you weren't alone. The hunt for demigods was real, and you were all in danger.

Fourteen. A year etched in his memory with the sharp point of a spear. The monsters, the desperate fight, Thalias selfless sacrifice, the agonizing transformation into the pine tree — the events played on a loop in his mind. Camp Half-Blood, once a beacon of hope, now felt like a bittersweet prison. He had you by his side then, a hand to grip in the darkness, a silent understanding in your shared gaze.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. You were supposed to be there, by his side, facing challenges and forging a future together. He replayed the memory of your first quest announcement on a loop. The fear in his gut, a slap in the face of his fierce protectiveness. He wasn't supposed to lose you.

It wasn't fair. It shouldn't have been you, alone, facing whatever monstrous fate had befallen you. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he replayed the day you left. The forced cheer, the worry that gnawed at him, all a blur now. Training became a way to numb the ache, each swing of his sword carrying a silent plea for your sate return. But as days turned into months, the hope that had fueled him began to fade away.

News traveled slow in the demigod world, but eventually, rumors reached Camp Half-Blood. Whispers of a monstrous encounter, a lost trail, a silence that stretched too long. A year after your departure, the whispers solidified into a grim reality - you were missing, presumed dead.

Luke felt the world tilt on its axis. Denial battled with a cold, horrifying truth. You were gone.

A quest, a single solitary mission, had stolen you from him. Stolen your laughter, your warmth, your presence that had become an essential part of his world. It wasn't fair.

The quest for the Golden Apple had been a cruel twist of fate. A desperate attempt to appease his father, to offer a sliver of hope to a camp drowning in sadness, it had backfired spectacularly. Luke returned empty-handed, his body wracked with exhaustion and his spirit battered. But the most visible reminder of his failure was the jagged scar that ran from beneath his eye down to his chin, a pale testament to the dragon's fury.

He'd needed your presence then more than ever. Needed your steady gaze and the quiet strength you possessed. Needed the spark of defiance in your eyes that mirrored his own growing anger towards a world that had seemed so determined to tear them apart. He needed your touch, your hugs, he needed you.

He stood stiffly before your burial shroud, an image carved in his memory forever. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unchecked. He ignored the concerned glances of his friends, focusing only on the phantom warmth of your hand in his, a memory more vivid than anything else.

In that moment, ravaged by grief, a single truth burned bright — he loved you. And he had lost you. The world felt a little emptier, a little colder, without you by his side.

And the first nights after you left were the worst.

At first, they were hopeful visions. He'd see you, alone on a dusty road, tending to a nasty gash on your arm with a makeshift bandage. A surge of worry would course through him, a familiar anxiety honed by years on the streets. But then, a wry smile would tug at his lips as he remembered the countless times he'd taught you how to create a tourniquet, how to patch a wound and survive on the bare minimum. A flicker of confidence, a belief in your resourcefulness, would chase away the initial fear. He just knew you'd find a way back to him.

He'd wake with a jolt, his hand instinctively reaching for the empty space beside him. The sheets were cold, the air thick with the silence of your absence. But then, a flicker of hope would ignite— you were alive, you were out there.

Finally, the dreams turned into nightmares. You'd appear, but not the way he remembered you. Pale and gaunt, your eyes hollow and vacant. Sometimes, you'd be chased by monstrous shadows, their grotesque forms dissolving into a chilling whisper of your name. These dreams left him gasping for breath, his heart hammering against his ribs.

It had been a little over a year since the agonizing ceremony, the image of your burial shroud seared into his memory. But time, a supposed healer, offered no solace. In reality, it had stretched the fact of your absence even wider. Two years. Two years since he'd last seen your smile, heard your voice, felt the warmth of your hand in his.

"Luke!"

Ah, yes. He heard you sometimes. At first, it happened while he was alone; he believed it could be you, trying to contact him in some way, but it never was that way. He never found you. Then he started hearing your voice in crowded places, mistaking your voice for the ones of other campers, and his heart ached every time he realized it wasn't you.

He felt like he was going insane. Hearing you, even after years. He must be going mad. But then, it became clearer.

"Luke!"

The voice, barely audible above the crackling flames, cut through his thoughts like a knife. He froze, his hand tightening around the thin stick that held his burned marshmallow. Was it-? No. It couldn't be. He must be imagining things again.

The grief, the pain, he knew, could play tricks on the mind.

He brushed it off, attempting to rejoin the conversation, forcing a lightness to his voice that felt hollow. But then, it came again. Clearer this time, tinged with a desperate urgency.

"Luke!? Luke!"

The single word, laden with a desperate urgency, pierced through his defenses. He froze, his blood turning to ice. It was your voice. The same voice that filled his dreams and haunted his waking hours. He whipped his head around, searching the darkened forest beyond the fire's reach.

But the trees stood silent, their branches swaying gently in the night breeze. Nothing. Yet, the echo of your voice lingered in the air, a chilling reminder of the impossible. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drum against his ribs.

He glanced around the fire, catching the bewildered expressions of a few campers who had clearly heard the voice too. Their eyes mirrored the confusion and fear that clawed at him. If he said anything, they'd think he'd cracked, that the pain had finally driven him mad.

"Luke!"

But it was you.

Your voice, unmistakable and undeniably real. A wave of disbelief washed over him, followed by a surge of hope so intense it threatened to suffocate him.

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the surprised yelps of his friends as he knocked over a tray of steaming hot cocoa cups. Stumbling over his own feet, he charged towards the edge of the forest, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He skidded to a halt just inside the treeline, his eyes scanning the darkness. "yn!?" he called out, his voice hoarse with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. The only reply was the rustling of leaves in the night breeze.

It was cloaked in darkness, making it impossible to discern any details. But there was a smallness, a fragility to its silhouette that resonated with his memory of you.

Just as doubt began to creep back in, another call pierced the silence. "Luke!" This time, the desperation in your voice was unmistakable.

He didn't hesitate any longer. "yn!" he roared, his voice raw with emotion as he launched himself into a run.

Several campers, roused by the commotion, scrambled to their feet, their eyes wide with confusion and trepidation. They watched, mouths agape, as Luke bolted towards the treeline, his long strides eating away at the distance.

"Luke!" Your voice came again, closer this time, tinged with a note of panic.

"yn!" He didn't dare slow down, his heart making its way up to his mouth. He could hear the sound of others following him, their footsteps pounding on the soft earth behind him.

Through the dense foliage, he caught a glimpse of your figure — small, hunched over, moving with a limp. Hope flared bright within him, battling the tide of fear that threatened to drown him.

Then, you stumbled, nearly falling. He redoubled his efforts, pushing himself to the limit. As he broke through the last line of trees, he saw you standing there, bathed in the pale moonlight.

And his breath hitched in his throat.

The sight of you, once vibrant and full of life, was a punch to the gut. Dirt and grime smeared your face, your clothes were ripped and tattered, and a sheen of sweat covered your brow. But it was the wounds that stole his breath away. Deep claw marks raked across your arms, a bloody gash marred your leg, and the most horrifying of all — a massive scar stretched across your eye, a brutal reminder of some unseen battle. The campers behind him gasped in unison, their faces etched with shock and horror.

Chiron, alerted by the commotion, pushed his way through the crowd, his brow furrowed in concern.

But your focus was solely on Luke. With a desperate cry of his name, you lurched towards him, your injured leg buckling beneath you. Without hesitation, Luke launched himself forward, catching you in his arms just before you hit the ground.

"Luke..." you whispered, your voice barely a breath. Your eyes, the one that wasn't obscured by the wound, flickered with a spark of relief and a hint of something else - a deep, unspoken emotion that mirrored his own.

Then, your eyelids fluttered closed, and your body went limp in his arms. Panic surged through him as he cradled you closer, his voice hoarse with a mixture of fear and relief. " yn? No, no, no, no, yn?" he slightly slapped your cheek, no response. He looked back to to the campers that decided to follow him, his voice cracking with desperation. "Get the Apollo cabin, now!"

The days that followed your arrival were shrouded in a suffocating silence. The once vibrant camp seemed to echo with a collective held breath. No one dared to talk to Luke.

His eyes, once playful and sparkly, now held a deep, smoldering anger. He snapped at anyone who dared to approach. Only Chiron, with his patient wisdom, Annabeth, with her loyalty, and the healers of Apollo cabin, sworn to secrecy about your condition, were able to pierce the storm raging within him.

Each day, a relentless routine unfolded. Luke would rise with the first rays of dawn, his body heavy with the weight of his own despair. He'd force down a meager breakfast, the taste turning to ash in his mouth. Then, with a heart that felt like a lead weight in his chest, he'd make the agonizing trek to the Big House, the temporary haven where you resided. He would do it multiple times a day, actually.

Lee, the son of Apollo with a mop of messy blonde hair and eyes that held a touch of empathy, would greet him at the door, a practiced neutrality masking his concern. The answer was always the same. You were alive. The healers had managed to stabilize you. But your recovery was a slow, painful journey. The wounds you bore were a testament to a harrowing pain, and the care they had taken on your body was immense.

As soon as you had fainted in his arms, you had slipped into unconsciousness. No amount of coaxing, no whispered pleas from the healers, or songs in Ancient Greek, could bring you back. Luke was devastated. The relief of having you back, a physical presence after two agonizing years, was a fragile flame quickly extinguished by the reality of your condition. Your life hung by a thread, and he was kept at arm's length.

One particularly bleak afternoon, Luke found himself face-to-face with Chiron. The old centaur, his kind eyes reflecting the turmoil swirling within Luke, gestured for him to sit.

"Luke," Chiron began, his voice soft yet firm, "I understand your pain. Your worry for yn is valid and understandable. But you must also understand, her condition is delicate"

Luke clenched his fists, his jaw tightening with suppressed anger. "Why can't I see her? Annabeth's younger than me and yet, she gets to see her. Why not me?" The words tumbled out, laced with a raw desperation.

Chiron sighed, a weary sound. "Because, Luke," he said, his voice heavy with empathy, "we fear the emotional toll it might take on you if-, if the worst were to happen."

He slumped in his chair, defeated. Grief, anger, and a gnawing helplessness battled within him.

"How long then?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "How long will it be before I can see her again?"

Chiron reached out, placing a comforting hand on Luke's shoulder. "We don't know, Luke" he said honestly. "But the healers are doing their best And you need to find your strength. She will need it when she wakes up”

He nodded dumbly, understanding Chiron's concern for him. But that didn't make the gnawing ache in his chest any less agonizing. He missed you. Missed the warmth of your hand in his, the light that sparkled in your eyes, the way your laughter could chase away even the darkest shadows.

A few days later, he walked by the Big House again. Lee greeted him again, just as every other day.

"How is she?" Luke asked.

Lee sighed, a gust of exasperation tinged with sympathy. He looked tired himself, dark circles under his eye and a large cup of coffee in his hand. "Little change. But she's stable. Stronger than she looks. We had some healers fainting because of how much singing they've done to her"

A muscle ticked in Luke's jaw. "Can't I at least see her?" The words came out harsher than he intended, dripping with frustration.

Lee studied him for a long moment, his own blue eyes reflecting the turmoil within Luke. Finally, he spoke. "Look, I get it. You're scared, you're angry. But you have to understand, seeing her likes this... we can't let you"

Luke clenched his fists. "I can handle it" he growled, the beast within him straining against its leash.

Lee took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Can you, Luke? Can you handle the possibility that maybe she doesn't get to wake up?"

The question hung in the air, a brutal truth that stripped away Luke's bravado. He stared at Lee, the anger draining away, replaced by a raw vulnerability that surprised even him. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat suddenly making it hard to breathe.

"No" he whispered, the single word a confession of his deepest fear.

Lee nodded, a flicker of understanding softening his features. "Then trust us, Luke. Trust the healers. We're doing everything we can."

And then he remember Chiron's words. He knew he was right. He couldn't bear the thought of the last image of you being one of unconsciousness, a pale specter in a sterile infirmary bed.

The days that followed settled into a grim routine. Luke stopped asking the relentless question, 'Did she wake up?' The answer, etched into his weary soul, was a constant ache that no words could soothe. He had stopped arguing, the initial burst of rebellion replaced by a quiet desperation. He started asking more specific questions, focusing on the details of your injuries. Your eye, the massive gash that mirrored his own scar in a way that made his stomach churn, became a particular point of morbid fascination.

He couldn't bear to look at the jagged mark on his face, couldn't imagine how it felt on yours.

Not because he thought you wouldn't be beautiful —he knew you would be. But the thought of you facing the same constant reminder of pain, of vulnerability, filled him with a protective rage that simmered beneath the surtace.

But then, a shift began to occur. He noticed stolen glances exchanged between the Apollo campers, hushed whispers that died down as soon as he entered their vicinity. An unspoken secret they guarded fiercely. He tried to ignore it, burying himself in training, seeking solace in the familiar sting of sweat and exertion. Chiron's words were a constant drumbeat in his head - seeing you too soon, on the precipice of death, was a burden he might not bear.

But later that day, as the sun dipped below the horizon casting the camp in an orange glow, Chiron sought him out. Luke braced himself, his heart plummeting into his stomach. His mind spun with a thousand morbid possibilities.

He met Chiron's gaze, a storm brewing in his own eyes. "What is it?" he rasped, voice breaking.

Chiron took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto Luke's with a solemn intensity. "Luke," he began, his voice thick with a mix of trepidation and hope, "she's awake."

The world seemed to tilt on its axis again. The air whooshed out of Luke's lungs, leaving him breathless. For a moment, he could only stare, his mind struggling to process the simple, life-altering statement.

Then he ran.

His feet pounded a trantic rhythm against the dusty path, each step fueled by a desperate need to see you. Chiron's protests, if there were any, were lost in the roar of blood rushing in his ears. He wouldn't be denied this. Not now. His legs pumped like pistons, fueled by a desperate hope that threatened to shatter him if it turned out to be false. He burst through the doors of the Big House, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. The interior was deserted, the silence amplifying the frantic pounding of his heart.

He flung open the infirmary door, the sight inside momentarily stealing his breath. Two Apollo campers stood by the window, their hushed whispers abruptly cut short by his arrival.

But his eyes were locked on you, the very image of him defying the cruelty of fate.

You sat on the bed, a fragile silhouette bathed in the pale light, your head bent over your bandaged hands. Your hair, once a fiery mane, had grown longer, a testament to the time that had passed for him in a blur of grief. Your skin, usually kissed by the sun, was a pale canvas.

He took everything in — the fresh cuts marring your arms, the claw marks, the way your shoulders slumped with exhaustion. And you had lifted your head, startled by the sudden noise.

Your eyes, usually sparkling with life, were dull with pain, but when they met his, a spark ignited within them.

"Luke!"

The word ripped from your throat, a cry that echoed with relief and a tremor of something deeper. You lunged off the bed, ignoring the wince that contorted your face as your injured leg protested.

"yn, wait!" Lee sprang forward, concern etched on his face. Your stitches, particularly those on your thigh, were still fresh, and any sudden movement could cause them to tear.

But you didn't listen. You threw yourself at Luke, your arms wrapping around him with a desperation that mirrored his own. He caught you, the impact sending a jolt through his body. His arms tightened around you, a desperate need to hold on, to feel you solid against him.

He held you tight, the fierce possessiveness in his grip both a comfort and a warning. Your body, the way you fit so perfectly against his larger frame, sent a jolt through him. He'd grown, you realized, his broad shoulders feeling wider, his embrace stronger. In contrast, you felt impossibly small, the warrior you remembered replaced by a shell of the person you once were. His hot tears quickly started to wet your hair.

The sudden weakness in your leg, the one that had been screaming in protest since you lunged at him, finally overwhelmed you. A sharp cry escaped your lips as your body gave way beneath you. Instinctively, Luke tightened his grip, his arms morphing into a cradle to catch your fall.

The impact with the floor sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through you, but it was a dull ache compared to the overwhelming joy of finally being in his arms again. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Luke wouldn't stop sobbing now, his shoulder shaking as his arms held you into his embrace.

The Apollo campers, sensing the intimacy of the moment, mumbled apologies as they slipped out of the infirmary, leaving you and Luke alone.

He cradled you close, the scent of your hair and the warmth of your body a balm to his battered soul. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling the familiar fragrance that had haunted his dreams for so long. It was real. You were real.

"You're alive" he sobbed, the words a broken mantra against your ear. "You're alive" he repeated. Each repetition wasn't just for you, but for him, a desperate attempt to convince himself that this wasn't a cruel dream, that you weren't an illusion.

He pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hand, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw. The wounds looked clean now, stitched and bandaged, but the raw pain was etched in the lines around your eyes. The gash across your eye, a crimson scar angry and fresh, pulled at the corner of your eye, making it appear swollen and bruised. Yet, to him, you were the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

It started a finger's width above your eyebrow, then, just as abruptly, it dipped down, catching the outer corner of your eye. The scar tissue pulled the delicate skin, making your eye appear slightly narrowed and bloodshot.

But despite the rawness of the wound, despite the vulnerability etched on your face, there was something undeniably fierce about you. It was a look he hadn't seen before, a look born from surviving the unthinkable.

Tears welled up in your eyes again, blurring your vision. You had always been beautiful, that much was undeniable. But now, even with a scar contrasting against your features, you were breathtaking.

He didn't mean to say it out loud, but the words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them.

"You look beautiful" he breathed, his voice thick with emotion.

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You leaned into his touch, seeking solace in the warmth of his hand. "It hurts" you whispered, a tear tracing a path down your cheek.

"I know" he murmured, his voice filled with empathy. He sniffed uncontrollably at your sight, so broken and fragile, wrapped around his arm. "But you're alive. You're here" his bottom lip started trembling before he could control it. He inhaled sharply and his voice came out shaky; "I thought you were dead" tears rolling down his cheeks.

You laughed, a weak sound that was more like a sob. "You won't get rid of me that easily"

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. In that moment, the infirmary with its sterile smell and harsh light faded away. All that existed was the feel of you in his arms, the warmth of your body against his, and the knowledge that you were alive.

"Don't ever leave me again" he pleaded, his voice thick with a mix of relief and terror. The thought of losing you again, of facing another agonizing day without you, was almost unbearable.

"I wouldn't dream of it" you whispered.

#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan blurb #pjo series #pjo #luke castellan x you #luke x reader #luke castellan one shot #luke castellan fic #luke castellan imagine #pjo x reader #pjo x you #luke castellan x female reader #luke castellan x fem!reader #luke castellan x y/n #luke castellan imagines

[spacedace]

Reluctant War AU Part 2

Part One

...I ended up writing more for that Reluctant War AU...Like. Wrote this before work and started on part 3 with plans for part 4 more.

this was supposed to just be a brain worm what happened (also thank you @catastrophic-crow for the AU name <3 <3 <3 Also, also: welcome to the cult of Ancient of the Speedforce Elle! Membership includes nonsense, shenanigans and chaos haha)

-

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Every corner haunted by death and tragedy.

Every street stained red at least once in its many years.

Every dark shadow holding the faint shadows and shades of the dead.

Gotham was, before all else, a grave yard.

Jason had known that his entire life. Every kid born and raised in the Alley did. Death came fast to Gotham’s streets. Especially for those the rest of the city turned its back on. He did his best to lighten the reaper’s load when it came to the people that called Crime Alley home. Well, mostly. He’d certainly added names to old Death’s list before, when the occasion called.

When the armies of the dead descended upon Gotham, the only surprise Jason could feel was that those white wearing pieces of shit had dared to try and hunker down in his city.

It was a sentiment shared by most of Gotham’s fine citizens. By the city itself - herself? Something to ask later, if there was a later - even if the impossible, living shadow that rose up out of Gotham’s many dark corners was anything to go by. He knew, almost instinctively, that the entity - skin of cracked pavement, mouth a bridge suspended too wide across the face, eyes of CCTV camera lenses and body built brick by grimy, bloody brick of the sharp skyline - was Gotham. Not a ghost but something bigger, greater. Something awfully, terribly alive in all its horrible, noble glory. His city, manifest in the shape almost human beneath the green glow of the torn apart sky above.

Phantom’s armies arrived without warning as they had everywhere else, and their enemies poured out in unforgivably unmarred white suits to meet them. Horrible and garish against the Gotham streets. How they’d ever managed to slink by unnoticed while being so blatantly, clearly not of Gotham Jason wasn’t sure he’d ever know.

If either side thought this would be like the battles they fought before, they were mistaken.

Gotham was a place for Ghosts.

A place the dead piled up, lingered well beyond their deaths. A place where the rules were different from everywhere else in the world. Where crime was rampant and chaos reigned but at the end of the day people said their thanks that they were born to this hellhole and not so cursed to call anywhere else in the world home.

The dead came to fight

And Gotham, a thing so alive it was sickening to look upon, rose up to fight right along side them all.

The agents were ready and prepared for the incursion of the dead. It’d been two weeks since the first volley of attacks. Two weeks spent shoring up defenses and ramping up weapons and strategizing ways to kill what was already dead. They were, as best as they were able to be considering how endless the armies that came for them, prepared.

They weren’t prepared for Gotham.

Weren’t prepared for the city itself to rise up and take spectral, eldritch shape. Jagged building spire and shattered glass teeth bared in a snarl that spanned miles. Screaming rage in a voice made of gunfire and the concussive boom of explosions and the shrieks of a furious crowd.

Weren’t prepared for its people to ignore the gentle ushering of the dead trying to push them away to safety and instead press forward to fight shoulder to shoulder with the ghostly armies.

Weren’t prepared to have brick and bottles and trash and debris rain down upon them from the jeering living. Weren’t prepared for dirty faced children with hard eyes to light up rags stuffed into chipped beer bottles filled with gas and kerosene and throw them with more speed an accuracy than any professional baseball player. Weren’t ready for Gotham’s motley crew of terrifying Rogues to band together with the citizens they so often accosted and worried and bring down wave after wave of chaos and Goons.

Weren’t prepared for Red Hood to swap out his rubber bullets for the real deal and start mowing the fuckers in white down, his own crew at his back, the rest of the Outlaws on their way.

The Justice League was trying to find a peaceful resolution. Trying to play go between to the US Government and the infinite dead. Too wound up in US politics to side with the dead outright, too disgusted by what the American government had done to ever want to stand with them. All it had gotten them was spun wheels and confusion and the slow creeping realization that the time to try and play negotiators had well passed.

Red Hood wasn’t a member of the Justice League.

He had no obligation to try and find a way to talk things out.

What he had was a grave he’d dug his way out of, enough ammunition to arm a sizable country, and a burning need to make things right.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts, and Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

Haunting the streets he’d survived as a child, the city he protected as Robin, the family he’d loved and lost a thousand and one times before and after his death.

The sky cracked open above his home, and it was not an invading army that came rushing out but a native one. Friends, neighbors, strangers on the street you caught from the corner of your eye. The people of Gotham knew their own and fought for them. Only Gotham was allowed to fucked with Gotham and they’d been screwed over enough by the government themselves to know what side they were on.

He lifted his guns and fired, teeth bared in vicious satisfaction beneath his helmet as white was splattered bright red.

A hissing electric whine of a weapon, a flash of green from the edge of his vision.

“Down!”

He was thrown bodily to the cracked and ruined street beneath him, the body shielding him warm and living as one of the agent’s weapon fired a blast of energy right where he’d been a second before. He’d seen that same weapon reduce one of the raging dead to dripping green and screams of agony the dead should not be capable of making.

Before he could shove himself up and respond in kind, the body above him was in motion and the air above him cracking with the snapping-popping-roar of a gun of a much higher power than even what he had. The fucker in white that had shot at him dissolved into a mist of red viscera, body seizing and shuttering in the briefest moment it had before it was obliterated completely.

“Watch yourself.” He looked up - and up - and wondered at the lovely, fierce face he found staring down at him. “Even without shooting at them you’re Liminal enough to trip their sensors.”

She was tall enough to be an amazon, six inches in height on him at least. Body strong beneath the pitch black armor she work - as deep and dark as the depths of space, etched with starlight, a familiar crest upon her chest in the dizzying burst of a supernova - she held herself with confidence. Strands of hair the color of a warning sunrise escaped out from beneath the helm she wore, bright against her pale skin, warming the glass-sharp teal eyes that had pinned him in place.

The hand not holding the gun she’d just used to delete the asshole that had just tried to shoot him - a strange, impossible thing that made him taste lightning at the back of his throat to look at it - stretched out to help him up.

He accepted it.

Something pulsed to life in his chest. A piece forgotten where it’d been left behind, half buried in grave dirt and broken pieces of a casket he’d clawed his way out of. It burned like a hot coal in his chest, froze him with the same aching cold of a blizzard, crackled his nerves to life with lightning even as his brain popped and fried with the same sizzling energy.

On his feet, hair on end and body and Core pulsing with the need to fight, to rend and tear and scream for all done to him, his people, his home, he met the eyes of the woman before him. Her cool gaze softened, just a moment, just a second as she seemed to realize what had happened. Her hand, lighter than the armor she wore should allow it to be, tightened on his just a moment, mouth tilting from determined frown to soft understanding.

Gotham had always been a place for ghosts.

Jason had long accepted that he was one of them.

---

Part Three

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #jason todd #jazz fenton #GIW #reluctant war au #ghost zone goes to war #ghost king danny #liminal jazz #halfa jason #sorta kinda #he's waking up alright #anger management #if you squint but if i do end up writing even more of this it'll be a thing lol #spirit of gotham #gotham spirit #eldritch gotham spirit #tw death #tw violence #implied gore #gothamites take one look at the GIW and are like: yup time to fuck some bitches up #the entire city has been itching for a chance to fight the US government after all the times they got cut off after a disaster #ghosts are trying to evacuate them and they're like: Nah we're good #Gotham Girl Scouts get badges for making molotov cocktails and knife fighting you can't convince me otherwise #Outlaws are gonna show up to find Jason has somehow collected yet another tall red head that can kick his ass #They're convinced he has the world's most specific meta ability with how many he ends up running around with #Bruce in mid convo w/ Waller trying not to kill her suddenly has his *one of my kids is Up To Something* senses go off

[trashmouth-richie]

Eddie x fem! reader [vol i, vol ii, vol iii, vol iv]

⚠️trigger warnings: mentions of a exual assault, accusations, mentions of domestic abuse, teenage drinking, panic attacks etc

w/c: 7.9k

a/n: s/o to all my favorite people helping me continuously with this series! @agentmarvel @sweetsweetjellybean @jo-harrington !! 💋💋💋💋💋

You’re spinning, spinning, spinning. If you couldn’t smell your own hair products on your pillow, you would swear that you were in a dystopian world, twirling like a frisbee through a pink blossomed sky and being caught in a three headed cat's mouth.

It’s true, hangovers get worse with age, but you were only twenty one— and they’re supposed to go up from here? What happened to ‘the best years of your life’? Whoever said that should be shot and killed on site. Stupid bastard.

Opening your eyes seems like the worst idea you could do, so you don’t. You slowly let your other senses bring you back to reality. You recognized that you were in your bed. Something soft is wrapped around you and judging by the feel of the fabric between your fingers it’s your robe.

A pungent smell of sour bile presents on your breath, one whiff of it and it’s instantaneous: vomit.

Fuck, that would explain the burning in your throat and the graveling dry sensation in your mouth

Pieces of the puzzle that was last night start fitting into place in your mind.

The drinks. The shots. The food. The clinking sound of ice in Steve’s Bloody Mary as he tipped it back and the ice swam towards his teeth, is like nails on a chalkboard.

Oh Christ how there had been so many drinks. Damn Robin and her mischievous ideas for wanting to do shots. Memories of the fiery tingle of the top shelf vodka Steve insisted on having, hitting your lips is enough to make you pass out.

The hollow feeling in your stomach gets queasy as you remember the greasy bar food served at Louie’s. Your stomach quenches, clutching around itself, ridding its salmon colored lining of the disastrous evening.

But nothing comes up. Just heaving dryly in your bed as tears escape your eyelids and your feet hit the floor. Throwing your body into a whirlwind of dizzy flips— your brain swimming in a sea of Diet Coke and Malibu, membranes bursting with the carbonated bubbles.

You’ve never needed a toothbrush more than you do right at this very second. You stand and the world feels like its raging war on your head. Pulsing and throbbing, like a concert was playing in your head and the guitar solo never ended.

You open your door and are met with the thought of how the fuck did you get here last night? Fuck it, you’d ask questions later, for now you needed to empty your bladder and brush your teeth.

As soon as you lay a hand on the bathroom door, Eddie emerges from his bedroom. Sweatpants are riding dangerously low on his hips and purpling hickies decorate his neck. He’s rubbing his eyes but when he catches sight of you he smiles lazily.

“Holy hell,” Eddie quips, eyes scanning over your body. You robe is hanging loosely off one shoulder, it’s crooked but the tie is in place covering your lower half. They land on the wild mess of hair atop your head, “normally I’d say good morning but it’s—“ he leans back into his room to look at his alarm clock, chuckling at the realization, “—two in the afternoon.”

You don’t fight Eddie for the shower, too tired and weak to argue. You fumble through the medicine cabinet finding the ibuprofen and the Disney cup with the swirly straw on the sink, filling it and taking the slick coated medicine. Swallowing harshly, your throat still raw and aching.

You settle for brushing your teeth while Eddie is in the shower. He’s singing Teen Spirit and getting louder and louder. The circles of the vigorous brushing of your teeth mixed with Eddie’s singing are making your head pound. A long look in the mirror leaves you suddenly feeling embarrassed, as if you needed to look drop dead gorgeous at every single minute you’re around him.

What the hell is going on?

“Please,” you beg, spitting the last bit of toothpaste into the sink, “for the love of everything holy— stop.”

The screeching noise of the shower curtain rings being pulled back pull your head up as you see Eddie half naked, torso covered in soap and your loofah in his hand, the dripping curls on his head turned to long waves with the weight of the water.

“Don’t act like I don’t sing like an angel, sweetheart,” he says with a wink, “besides, lying is not good for your health.”

The suds are traveling south, further and further and further downward, your eye fixated on one particular bubble as it pops right at his belly button.

You train your eyes on his, your cheeks heat from your staring. You reach up and shut the curtain.

“I wasn’t saying you sound bad—I just feel like my head is going to implode.”

Eddie thinks for a minute, “want me to sing you a lullaby? I’d put your baby ass to sleep just like I did last night.”

A million different scenarios flood your mind of what happened last night.

Did you kiss him? You remembering staring at his lips, the soft pillowy pinks, the way his tongue peak—

Oh fuck.

Are the hickies on his neck from you? His Adam apple bobs as he swallowed.

Shit.

Did you sleep together? Blankets, over your head.

What the fuck?

Where are your pants? You can’t even remember what pants you were wearing.

Where’s your car? Did you drive home?

Did Eddie pick you up from the bar?

Did he see you puke? You faintly remember puking on the floor of the front seat of a vehicle.

Your head continues to spin as you sit on the edge of the closed toilet seat. Suddenly feeling violated and disgusting.

“Tooty?” Eddie’s voice rings out.

This time you’re the one throwing open the curtain. Ignoring him as he shields himself with your loofah and his arm. “Jesus Chr—!“

“How fucking dare you!”

“What?!”

“You fucking pig, how could you do that to me!”

“Do what!” Eddie yells back

Your tossing shampoo bottles and bars of soap at his naked body, he’s surprisingly agile, dodging every one.

“How could you sleep with me when I was that drunk?! Jesus Christ I can’t believe you! Why would you do that to me?!”

Tears well in your eyes, you can’t believe that someone you once trusted, and were getting used to trusting again, after only being able to confide in three people over the last five years, would do something so vile, so fucking awful.

“After everything we’ve been through? I’ve known you since I was a kid Eddie! I get drunk one time and you take it upon yourself to forc— “

“Tooty!” Eddie hollers, turning the water off to the shower and stepping around you out of the way to grab a towel, he wraps it around his waist and turns to face you again.

“I didn’t do anything to you.” His eyes are wild but filled with hurt, he lowers his voice, and backs away from you. “If you don’t believe me, call Harrington. I talked to him after I carried your drunk puking ass to your own bed last night!”

“Then where are my pants?! If you ‘didn’t do anything to me’ where are my pants at?!” Eddie heads into the kitchen and pulls the short overalls you were wearing off the back of a chair, still damp from the wash. He tosses them towards you and they land at your feet.

“I washed them because you barfed all over them and I thought you would appreciate them being cleaned instead of in a vomit covered ball on the bathroom floor!”

Your accusations sting his eyes, and burn his nose.

You blink rapidly and rack your brain, the blurry sight of Steve’s car covered in puke comes into view. You struggling to get your clothes off alone in the bathroom. One? Or maybe two girls yelling at him as his back is turned to you, Eddie’s honey dripped voice talking to you as you throw up into the toilet, cheek nestled against the seat. And finally, the feel of his chest on your cheek as he carries you to your room, arms and hands never touching you inappropriately.

Before you can apologize Eddie is thrusting the cordless phone into your palm, Steve’s voice faintly heard from the speaker. He turns with a huff and not another look towards you as he slams his bedroom door shaking the frame.

-

Shutting your bedroom door, Eddie hangs his head, his forehead and one palm on the door, a small smile gracing his lips. His head is spinning, he’s not drunk, in fact he only had one beer tonight, right before their set started.

What is this feeling inside of him? Butterflies in his stomach? Nah, that shit was juvenile. He could only pray that it was indigestion, nothing a couple gulps from a Pepto Bismol bottle couldn’t fix. But he couldn’t deny it.

The instinctual gut feeling of needing to protect you rang true all day. He was ready to fight everyone and anyone who talked ill of you. He just couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t felt this protective of someone since his own mother. He didn’t even feel this way towards Chrissy, and they dated for almost a year.

He pulls his head from the door, wondering if he should have put you on your side so if you vomited in your sleep you wouldn’t choke. He shakes his head, removing his hand slowly down your door, letting his fingers hang to his side.

What is this? Why is he acting like a parent? He rubs his eyes and turns to go to bed, your wadded up overalls in his peripheral vision. Would it be weird? Him washing your clothes? It’s not like your panties were in here it was just the overalls. He could be a good guy, he could be a decent human being, for you— he’d be it all.

Stomping down the dingy, murky basement steps he quickly throws your overalls into the washing machine, adding way too much powdered Era but figuring it was better than having them stink like puke. Slamming the metal lid closed with a wonky bang, he trots back up the stairs.

Stomach grumbling and realizing the only thing he had to eat all day were the poptarts he packed for work, he opens the fridge. Inside sitting on a shelf is a fading spaghetti stained Tupperware, on the lid is a sticky note, and written in your beautiful loopy handwriting:

“Got off work early and made the Tater tot casserole. Warm it up in the microwave for a minute thirty, hope you had a good show tonight. -T ”

-

You didn’t always love when your clients canceled last minute, it meant money gone from your pocket and an annoying increasing anxiety building in your gut when bills showed up. But today, you could actually enjoy the sun's rays on your shoulders for a bit as you drove down the streets of Hawkins, stopping at Bradleys Big Buys to get a pound of ground beef and a can of cream of mushroom soup.

Pushing the cart through the aisles you found the two items you came for, hoping to make it home early so that you could make the casserole before Eddie played tonight, or maybe he could enjoy it when he got home.

Cooking for someone was a labor of love, the simplest act of kindness anyone could offer. That’s what Karen Wheeler had taught you when she would spend her Saturday’s teaching you and Nancy how to cook good hearty meals that would last a while so you wouldn’t starve in college.

“And someone enjoying the food you cook? Girls, that’s the best feeling in the world.”

She wasn’t lying. Even that first week with the lasagna when Eddie had basically came in his pants with every bite, you felt a skip in your chest.

It was the least you could do after he gave you a sense of calm whenever he was around. You didn’t trust many people. Not after what happened. In fact Nancy, Steve and Robin were the only people you could put any sort of hope in.

After browning the ground beef with an chopped onion and mixing the canned ingredients together, you season the mixture with salt, pepper, and garlic powder. One last wipe around the bowl with your spatula and it was good to go. Spreading the mixture into a greased 9 x 13 inch pan and added shredded cheese, you line the tater tots across in horizontal rows and toss it in the oven, covering the dish with tinfoil.

-

Steve confirms everything that had happened. Even down to the minor details of you calling him ‘Steeb’. You feel stupid. Your stomach sank when he said that Eddie had stayed up all night making sure your overalls were clean and that you weren’t choking on your vomit.

“He’s a good dude, Tooty,” he explains, “he’s a perv and a complete douche most of the time, but he would never in a million years do that to someone, especially you.”

“…I know.”

“But do you?” Steve prods, “you said so yourself that he kinda looked out for you, almost better than your own brother did.”

“He did— but that’s just because I was with Chrissy’s brother and he was dating Chrissy.”

“That doesn’t matter, what does matter is that he’s a good guy— someone trustworthy. Make it right.”

With that Steve hung up.

You sit on the couch, head in your hands, feeling like a big pile of shit for what you did. Eddie wouldn’t understand. How could he? You blatantly accused him of doing something that you know in your heart and in your soul that he never could have done. Tears drop from your eyes and into your palms. You allow yourself to cry, something you hated doing, for a few minutes. Angry with yourself for the wrong that you did, but also hurting from the past. When your eyes were puffy and snot was sliding from your nose, you call it quits. Fanning your face you realize you still haven’t taken a shower yet this morning.

Making your way to the bathroom, you turn your head towards Eddie door, Steve was right, you needed to fix this.

But how?

-

The shower was exactly what you needed. The scald from the water was helping ooze the booze from your pores as your dehydrated body soaked it up. Eddie didn’t deserve your harsh words, your accusatory statements, the way his face fell in horror when you screamed at him was burned into your memories, something you saw whenever your eyes were closed. You sit on the floor of the shower. You couldn’t tell him what was going on, you were stronger than that. You didn’t need his sympathy, his pity parade, you would get through this on your own just like you always had. You may have been wrong and and you should probably apologize but you dismiss the idea. What the hell does Steve Harrington know about it?

Eddie bangs on the door, bringing you back to reality.

“What?” You holler out.

“Hurry up so we can go get your car before you accuse me of stealing that too.” His voice is angry and hurt. Finishing up in the shower you leave the bathroom to see an impatient Eddie huffing around the living room, looking at his empty wrist as if he wore a watch and throwing his hands in the air.

“Christ will you hurry the fuck up? I’ve got places to be.”

“Oh fucking relax,” you pout, slamming your door and toweling off. You settle for a pair of denim shorts and a cotton t-shirt. When you reach for the comb to untangle your hair you hear obnoxious honking.

He wouldn’t.

Eddie is sitting in the van laying on the horn. Grabbing your ratty white keds you fly through the house, grabbing your purse and combing your hair as you fling yourself through the door. The pavement is hot on your feet, an exceptionally warm day for September. The hot sun and humid temperatures are the worst mix for a hangover.

Indian summer in full swing.

“Fuck I’m right here, knock it off!” He’s staring at you with dead eyes, hand planted on the horn until you slide your ass onto the cracked leather seat.

Without another word he throws the van in reverse and reaches a hand over to your headrest twisting his body, the cut off flannel he is wearing isn’t buttoned, the powdery musk of his deodorant burns your nose.

Nothing has changed with the old van, tape decks are still littered across the dash, stumped out in the cup holder are a mountain of cigarettes and joints. Too many pine scented Little Trees hanging from the rearview doing a horrible job of hiding the smell of weed. Judas Priest screams through the speakers. You place a foot on the dash to get your shoe on when suddenly you are lurching forward. Eddie taps the brakes.

“No feet on the dash.”

You set your face in a scowl, words bitter on your tongue, “yeah, cause my shoe is really going to hurt the value of this piece of shit. I’m just putting my fucking shoe on since some asshole with a small dick complex couldn’t wait five minutes.”

A mocking chuckle escapes Eddie’s throat, “you really are such a pleasure to be around, how did I get this lucky?.”

“And you’re such a prick,” you seethe, bending over and tying your shoe, “why did you even answer my ad in the paper? All we do is fight because you fucking hate me.”

He’s had enough, slamming his foot onto the pedal, Eddie turns towards you and spits, “Do you really think of me like that? A predator? Someone who would move in with you just to violate you the second you pass out?”

“No I—“

“All the years you’ve known me, you think I’d just up and turn into a fucking rapist?!”

“Jesus Christ Eddie!“

“No, I wanna know, right now,” he turns to you, eyes angry and filled with hurt, “do you get off on this shit? Treating people like they’re nothing? Automatically assuming the worst about someone because of where they grew up? I’m not like that Tooty, I’m not like my—“ he stops himself, pushing his tongue to his cheek, “you are not the girl I knew. I don’t even fucking recognize you.”

“The girl you knew was fourteen, Eddie! My biggest problem back then was wondering who I could convince to buy Boonesfarm for the weekend rager, shit changed. I changed! I had to adapt to shit that was way out of my control. And you don’t even know half of it!”

“You’re right, I don’t and I bet if I were to ask, you wouldn’t even tell me, so fuck it, where am I going?”

“What?”

“I can’t read your mind, where is your car parked?”

You tell him. And as soon as you pull alongside Louie’s and beside your car, you realize you don’t have the keys.

“Open the door. Get out.” Eddie spits in a condescending tone.

Looking at him and smiling, with an extra side of cunt you sing, “I don’t have my keys.”

“Of fucking course.”

Lighting up a cigarette and cranking the wheel Eddie flies through Hawkins. He misses the turn on Kerley to get back home. “Missed the turn,” you announce, putting your other shoe on.

Eddie takes a deep breath and sighs lips tight in a line and exhaling through his nose. “Groceries.” He says through gritted teeth.

Pulling into the grocery store parking lot, Eddie parks, taking up for spots, a tire in each one, before the van even stops moving he’s already out and slamming the door, flicking his cigarette across the parking lot. The heat of the day already high.

Finishing lacing up your other shoe you run across the parking lot to catch up to him. He already has a cart and is whizzing through the aisles before you finally see him. Reaching into your purse you unfold the list and take a look at it.

Dunakaroos

Twizzlers

Gobstoppers

Spaghetti o’s

Bologna

Mayo— NOT MIRACLE WHIP! And no it’s not for that.

Lotion, yes for that 😉

the soft bread, not the brown one.

Carton of reds

Case of Busch Light.

Sunny D

Red kool aid

Hot dogs

Cocoa Puffs

Sliced cheese

Baby food since you think I’m a child (just kidding, don’t be mad)

whatever chips you got with that salsa the one time

My milk— not that skim shit you drink

Your milk— the skim shit

Mac n Cheese

“What kind of a fucking list is this? Most of this shit is snacks.”

“Oh for fucks sake, what are you pissed about now?” Eddie says, dumping two bags of marshmallows into the cart.

You’ve never met a twenty-six year old that ate like he was dining at Willy Wonka’s Factory every night.

“Not a single fruit or vegetable!” You say, waving the list in his face.

“I smoke green, I don’t eat it. Unless you wanna make some pot brownies, I’d eat the shit out of those.” He throws a box of brownie mix into the cart for good measure.

You yank the cart from his hands and turn around, heading back to the produce aisle. He huffs when you place a paper bag of apples neatly in the cart, whines when the bananas sit by your purse, and almost passed out when the tomatoes and a head of lettuce make their way into the cart.

“You’re such a baby! Literally an overgrown man child in the flesh.” He’s walking in front of you mimicking you and whoops! The cart may have slipped out of your hands and made a fleeting dash towards his Achilles tendon, banging against.

“Ouch, Jesus Christ!” Eddie groans under his breath, holding his leg he glares towards you, shooting daggers.

“It slipped,” you smirk.

He scoffs and turns on his heel walking away. You finish in the produce aisle, looking through the boxes of noodles and calculating what you could make for dinner this week. Eddie comes back arms full, you only see his hair sticking out on each side of the three boxes of cereal, a 10 lb ham and seven tubes of cinnamon rolls. He drops them all into the cart with a heavy thud.

After crossing everything off the list and getting a few more things despite Eddie’s protesting exhales, you have a cart full. He seems to have calmed down by the time you make it to the beer fridge, taking two thirty packs of Busch Light and putting them on the bottom of the cart, he rips the side of one of them open and takes a can out. Cracking it open in the middle of the store, downing it. The light colored lager is spilling down his chin, into the collar of his open shirt. He tosses it into a lady’s cart as she’s walking past, wiping the foam from his lips and belching loudly.

You roll your eyes, “You can’t wait until we’re home?”

“What?” He says, looking at you with a stupid grin, “I’m gonna pay for it.”

Waiting in the checkout aisle he cracks another one as he unloads the groceries onto the conveyor belt with one hand. Tossing most of the items onto the belt and grabbing another beer and chugging it. The checkout lady puts her nose in the air and huffs a disapproving grunt.

“I was thirsty.”

“You’re so imp—” your insult is cut short when your eyes sweep over him.

It had been a full two years since you had seen him last. His blonde hair was combed to the side like it always was. The blue of his icy eyes still burned holes through you like dry ice to the exposed skin. The navy blue suit jacket and white Oxford shirt with a red patterned tie and the tan khakis he was wearing suggested he was coming from a late Sunday brunch after church. Awful crippling memories of spending hours ironing those pants to make sure the creases were perfect cloud your memory, you unconsciously hold the two fingers on your left hand, the ones that held misshaped triangle burn scars.

You don’t realize that Eddie is talking or that you’ve stopped moving until the shape of his curly head shakes in front of you. Your breath is hitched in your chest, you feel small. Physically and mentally.

Two years without seeing the face that was the sole purpose of most of the fear in your life. Two years without seeing the demon grin and crazy twitch in his eye. You were frozen in place and your blood ran cold.

It was evil in its truest form. Standing in the checkout behind you— stood Chad Cunningham.

Eddie couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on. Putting the grocery sacks in the cart, he turns to look in your line of vision. He doesn’t recognize him at first. But the strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes ran in the Cunningham blood. He was with a woman, who was so obviously pregnant she seemed like she was about to burst. Judging from the horrific way your eyes were bulged out of your head and the way your body was almost catatonic, Eddie figured it was time to get the fuck out of here. Reaching in his pocket for his wallet he paid the cashier and impatiently waited for the change, keeping his eyes on you.

You were trembling with fear. Not from the sudden run in with an ex but something much deeper than that. Eddie places his hands on your shoulders and looks into your eyes, “let’s go sweetheart,” he whispers gently, he crowds behind you and puts a small hand on your back, guiding you forward towards the automatic doors. Eddie keeps his head on a swivel for Chad.

The woman who was with him was waddling towards the bathroom, his eyes never leaving your body. As soon as she was out of ear shot, Chad puffed out his chest and said, “Lookin’ good honey bun, I will say though, the downgrade,” he points to Eddie, “..yikes.”

The nickname made your skin crawl. You never liked it, and he knew that. He only said it to get a rise out of you, which was successful. “See you soon,” he gloated, smiling with perfectly straight teeth, eyes never meeting his smile.

You don’t make it five feet outside before the shock wears off and the tears stream down your face in salty waves. Eddie takes control of the cart with his left hand and ushers you forward with his right, minimal pressure on the small of your back as he keeps his head on a swivel, dark curtain of curls crowding his eyes as he moves his head around.

Unlocking the doors he helps you in, buckling your seatbelt and saying he’d be back in thirty seconds. The back doors of the van fly open as Eddie all but tosses the groceries into the back. At thirty seconds exactly, Eddie is back in the van, starting it and roaring out of the parking lot.

He still didn’t know what happened with Chad, but it wouldn’t take an absolute idiot to know that it was bad. Really fucking bad. He looks over to you and your head is stuffed into your shirt, your knees under your chin and you’re rocking back and forth on the seat.

“Five minutes, Tooty— we’ll be home in less than five minutes, okay?” Eddie says, frantically. He’s trying to stay calm. Trying to be the voice of reason, composed and serene. But he is horrified. Scared to death at how you responded to seeing Chad. How your body froze up and your face looked as if you weren’t breathing. Even now, hearing you gasp for air as your body shook and swayed with each turn he made. He slams on the gas, pausing slightly at stop signs and ignoring any yield signs.

He parks in the driveway, coming around to help you out of the van. Just like he did last night, he carries you, only this time you remember it. Your body is shaking violently, chest racked with sobs. His chest is wet with tears from your face being buried into it. He’s whispering to you that everything will be okay. Opening the door he kicks it shut with his boot. He brings you into your room and sits you on your bed, you’re cradled in his lap, like a parent would hold a child. He caresses your head, holding you closer to him. His warm breath in your hair grounds you. You feel him lean forward grabbing on your nightstand for something, the phone.

He dials the number without even thinking. Waiting impatiently on the other end as a familiar voice answers.

“Hello?” Steve breathes boredly into the phone.

Eddie sighs with relief, “Harrington, it’s me.”

“Oh God, listen dude I don’t know what to te—“

“Shut up, Steve.” Eddie interrupts, “listen—something, happened.”

Steve almost chokes on his popcorn, frantically firing off questions. “What? What’s going on? Is she okay? Are you okay?”

“Ye—no, I mean—“ Eddie is stuttering and trying to explain, “we ran into Chad at the gro—“

“I’m on my way!”

The line goes dead and Eddie hears dial tone. He sets the phone back in the holder and wraps a blanket around you. Your heart is racing and you can’t even form words. You haven’t had a panic attack in over a year. It feels like the world is crashing in on you, the walls are tight and shrinking, the whole room feels smaller by the minute. Eddie’s voice is gentle and soothing, like a warm cup of coffee on a cold winter morning.

“Can you take a deep breath for me?” He murmurs, “try to match your breathing with mine.” He remembers what he was taught as a kid. His emotions always ran high and Wayne would have to settle him down, get him to take deep breaths.

He’s rubbing soft circles into your back. Rocking you back and forth. You try to speak but all that comes out are gasps and the whirling noise of sharp intake of breath.

Steve and Robin make it to the house in record time, running to your room and taking everything in. Your disheveled appearance brings Steve to his knees in front of Eddie. Grabbing your hand and squeezing letting you know it was going to be okay.

You slide off Eddie’s lap and lay on the bed, curled in a ball. Robin lays beside you. Brushing your hair from your face with her fingers.

Steve pulls Eddie out of your room with great force he didn’t want to leave but he didn’t know how to help.

“I’m sorry— fuck man, I’m sorry for calling you — I just— she just locked up. She couldn’t talk, she couldn’t move!” He runs his hands down his face, trying to will the tears away. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Hey, give yourself a break, you got her home, she’s safe,” Steve says patting Eddie on the back, “so explain what happened.”

Eddie begins explaining from when you both got to the grocery store. He goes into detail how distraught you seemed, how your body was rigid and full of fear. The burn of tears threatening to spill from his eyes has him blinking quick before they fall. Steve listens intently, face warped with shock and disbelief.

Throwing his head back and running his hands down his face Steve lets out a loud exhale and throws his hands on his hips, “fuck I hate that guy.”

“Yeah he seems like a fucking psycho,” Eddie agrees, “but what the fuck is going on?! I mean yeah they dated but, I don’t stiff up like that when I run into Chrissy or Trish.”

A shiver runs down his spine as he thinks of how upset you were, your body crumbling with fear the minute you made it into the van. Anxiety trickling through your body like electricity to a wire. He hated to admit it but he was scared for you.

Remembering the groceries in the back of the van, the two guys brave the sweltering heat to retrieve them. Eddie starts to put the items away, Steve rolls his eyes watching him put the canned items in the small cabinet designed for spices, the endless snacks he purchased thrown on the counter nestled up against the flour canister and slamming the lettuce into the fridge like a bowling ball.

Eddie could give a rats ass where the things went, he was worried and getting a headache from wondering if you were going to be okay. Half thinking he should find where good ol Chad lived and pay him a nice little visit. Only three tires slashed and the insurance won’t cover it.

Throwing the groceries sacks in the garbage and making his way to the living room, sitting down on the couch, he sits with his elbows on his knees, bouncing them in quick repetitions. “So are you gonna tell me what’s going on or should I put a paper fortune teller on my fingers and we can decide what’s wrong with Tooty with the help of crayola markers?”

The wailing cries and sobs have dissipated in the last half hour, only Robin’s soothing words can be heard now.

“Dude, it’s not my place to say,” Steve says, “it’s one thing to tell you about her parents and Kevin, but this—“ he takes another deep breath, running his hands through his thick tufts of hair, “this is 100 times worse than that,” Steve explains lowering his head.

“…But you’re right, you’re her roommate and you should know what happened.”

Eddie nods his head slowly, silently agreeing with everything Steve had said. Standing quickly and pacing around the living room, his mind is running a million miles a minute. The fight you two had didn’t matter, the only thing that mattered to him in this moment— the only thing on his mind for the past twelve hours— was you.

Steve stands and runs his fingers through his hair, placing his hands on the waist of the old fading green gym shorts he was wearing. “I’m gonna go talk to her, and when you guys are done, I’m gonna make you guys something to eat. I’m sure you idiots haven’t eaten today given the timing of when shit hit the fan.”

Eddie nods again, biting the fingernails on his right hand until they bled, a habit he hadn’t done since he was a teen, facing possible jail time for destructing private property when he spray painted, “Your mom swallowed EM’s monster cock” on the front doors of Hawkins High. He was pacing, itching for a cigarette. Pulling the pack from his flannel breast pocket he goes outside and sits on the concrete steps, lighting up.

Three squashed cigarette butts sit next to him on the step before Steve finds him. Eddie stands and stubs the cigarette out blowing smoke out of the crooked twist of his lips away from Steve’s face. The nicotine helped take the edge off but he was still anxious, fidgeting his rings.

“H-how is she?” Eddie asks apprehensively, “can I talk to her?”

“She’s better, taking deep breaths and relaxing as best as he can, she’s gonna explain everything, just give her space— let her talk and don’t ask anything until she’s finished.”

“Yeah, ‘f course.”

“Alright. Robin is gonna help me make supper,” Steve says holding opening the front door, face in a grimace he jokes, “wish me luck.”

Eddie was the one who thought he himself needed the luck, he was scared shitless that you were afraid of him.

He walks gently to your room and knocks softly on the door with one knuckle, palm facing him. He remembers just hours ago how he was standing at this very door, and how very different he felt then.

“Come in,” Robin chirps.

Eddie takes a quick breath holding it as he steps foot into your room. You’re sitting on your bed cross legged, blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Your eyes are red rimmed and tissues surrounding you, a cemetery of drying tears. You look at him and muster a smile, a twitch of your lips raising at the corners.

“Well, I’m needed as a sous chef in kitchen a la Harrington,” Robin says brightly, standing from the bed and skipping towards the door. When she passes Eddie she touches his arm squeezing and giving him a reassuring nod.

Eddie stands with his hands stuffed in his pockets as the door clicks shut. You both don’t say anything for a while, you’re twirling the end of the pillowcase in your lap and he’s burning holes with his eyes into the carpet.

“I’m really sorry, Eddie,” you say quietly, “I’m—“ your voice catches in your throat, sore from the the wailing, “I’m hoping that when I’m done telling you, you’ll be able to understand..”

He nods and leans against the wall. Hands wrapped around his triceps.

“Before I explain— I just need you to know that only Robin, Steve, Nancy, and her parents know about this— not my parents, or Kev or anyone else— and now you.

Eddie’s face is full of concern, he whispers an “okay,” and you continue.

“I can’t remember but I’m pretty sure that you and Chrissy started dating around the same time that Chad and I did, and as you remember I’m sure, Chad and I were together almost all the time. When you graduated, and my sophomore year was the year my parents moved away— things changed with him. He was suddenly callous about everything, needing control of who I was with and when. Mostly he was pissed that I was staying with the Wheeler’s. He always thought I was cheating on him with Mike.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, the Mike Wheeler he knew wouldn’t know what to do if a chick laid butt naked in his bed. Probably piss himself.

You work the corner of the pillow case in your fingers as you keep going, “The first time he hit me was on a night that I told him I couldn’t hang out because Mrs. Wheeler wanted everyone home for supper. He called me a slut and told me that I should just go and fuck Mike already even though he knew I wasn’t.”

Eddie’s eyes flicker with anger when you admit that Chad hit you, his fists clenched together tightly. With your head down and looking away from him you continue, your voice wobbly.

“We didn’t even have sex yet, at that time, I wasn’t ready. After he hit me, I thought we should break up. He followed me around, begging me to take him back and like the naive kid that I was, I did. He would be sweet for a few weeks, and then it was like a flip would switch and he’d back hand me for giving Lucas a pencil during History, pulled my hair out in chunks when Mike brought me to school, he even choked me until I passed out when Dustin sat next to me at lunch. He was extremely jealous of everyone around him, and couldn’t handle seeing anyone he didn’t ‘approve of’ be near me. He hated that I worked at Family Video, he would show up almost every shift and wait in the store for me to clock out, even threatening to kick Steve’s ass on more than one occasion. He finally gave up on that when I told him Steve was dating Robin, just so I could go to work in peace.”

Eddie’s gut is rolling, the anger boiling in his blood, his nostrils are flared, it is taking everything in him to not react the way he wants to, a simple trailer park style beating to Chad’s car, his face, whatever would hurt the little prick more. Heads would fucking roll if Eddie ever got ahold of him.

“It didn’t end there. Like I said, we weren’t having sex because I wasn’t ready, I had enough shit going on with my parents up and leaving and buying all the concealer that Melvald’s carried to cover up the bruises.”

You take a shaky breath, fighting back tears for as long as you could. Chewing the inside of your lip and un crossing your legs, bringing your knees to your chest you continue.

“Af—After prom our junior year, we were driving around and he was drinking, I just wanted to go home but he didn’t. He parked way outside of town on the south side, on some dead end road… I mouthed off to him about how cliche it was to lose our virginities on prom night and the next thing I knew,” your voice pitches to a high volume, your lips are tight as you remember the pain you felt in your head from him knocking you out, the way his hands were groping your body, “I was waking up to him on top of me, and inside of me.”

The dam breaks, the tears fall from your eyes like rain in the spring time. You throw your head back against your headboard and sniff loudly, your palms pressed to your eyes.

Eddie doesn’t know what to do, he’s afraid if he tried to comfort you it would only cause you more pain. Against his better judgment he stands and walks towards the bed, scooting across the lavender bedspread he sits across from you, reaching for your ankle and tenderly squeezing it, letting you know that he was there.

“I’ve never felt more alone in my entire life then when I was dating him,” you sniffle and reach for the tissues, blowing your nose loudly, “Eddie, this went on for years, it didn’t fucking stop. After senior year, he didn’t want me to go to college, because I would be too far away from him, and we argued and he kicked me out on the opposite side of town with two swelling black eyes. By the time I made it back to the Wheeler’s, my eyes were almost shut. That night, I told Ted and a very hysterical, Karen everything, and they called the cops. Of course, Tim Cunningham was the state prosecutor at the time, so it didn’t go far— Hop did what he could but there was never any judgment made against Chad, and everything was over after that.”

“I went to beauty school with Nance, and when we moved back home, I was living in the little apartments off of Sawmill Road, he found out where I was and broke in, luckily Steve and Robin were my neighbors so they heard everything and came running before he could hurt me.

“After that.. Ted and Karen bought this place for Nancy and I and last year I saved up enough and bought it from them. Last I heard, Chad had moved to Indianapolis and was working for his uncle at the law firm until he finished school. I haven’t seen him in over two years— anyway,” you finish, wiping your eyes, and blowing your nose once more, “that’s the story.”

Eddie doesn’t know where to begin, he partially is taking the blame for what happened to you, knowing that if he were there, if he had stuck it out with Chrissy maybe he could have seen the signs, maybe he could have stopped it before it ever started, maybe he could have put that little fucker in his place and made him think twice about ever touching you again. He’s full of regret, full of shame and turmoil as he thinks about how you must have been feeling this morning.

“Oh, Tooty.” Eddie starts his eyes glistening with wetness, heart aching for you, “I’m so sorry, Jesus Christ, I— I don’t even… Fuck! I should have been around.”

“There wasn’t anything anyone could have done— he’s a lunatic.” You take a breath and look down at his hand on your ankle, abandoning the thought of reaching for it at the last minute, “I know you would never do something to hurt me, or anyone— I’m sorry about last night Eddie. I just, I don’t ever get drunk enough to not remember what happened. Not after the shit I’ve been through. ” You fold your arms into your self, wrapping around your ribs, in a small voice you whisper, “and today when I couldn’t remember, I was fucking terrified—going right back to how I felt that night when I was sixteen.”

In the van today, he fully intended on chewing you out, making you feel about three inches tall. He had been accused of many different things during his teenage years. Hell he even spent a night or two in jail after fighting a guy in Indianapolis when he threw a beer at Gareth. But one thing Wayne taught him was to respect women. Sure he wasn’t the average guy, his lever leaned a little further towards pervert than most. But he would never hurt a woman. The way you looked right now scared him. Like you were afraid to be near him. Unsure if he would scream at you or worse. And it broke his heart.

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning forward, finger dipping under your chin and tilting your head up so you were looking right at him. A fresh brim of tears clung to your lashes, “as long as I’m here, being the thorn in your side, pain in the ass, good looking mother fucker that I am— you don’t ever have to be scared again.”

You shutter, body exhausted and giving in, letting the tears fall.

“Promise?”

Your doe eyes are wet and staring into his, the swirling chocolate of his eyes, melted as he looks into your soul. Shedding any walls around his heart, baring himself of his discretions, his eyes are deeper than the galaxy. You swear you’ve never seen anything prettier in your life. You can feel your frigid heart thawing for the first time in years.

“Always.”

You never thought a single word could have so much meaning, a sense of security washed over you with Eddie’s promising word. A silent devotion from his eyes of keeping you safe and out of harm's way. You felt your soul open up to him. A higher power bringing you closer to him. You reach down and grab his hand. Rubbing the rough knuckles and tracing the rings on his fingers. An angel’s smile dances on Eddie’s lips. He decides right there, in that moment, that he would be whatever you needed. For as long as you needed him. Because he needed you.

///

///

SEE YOU IN VOLUME VI

a/n: hope you enjoyed this, it was a little rough but the next chapter is pure fluff 💋

#eddie munson angst #eddie munson #eddie x you #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #honey i’m home

[writerslittlelibrary]

You should make one where Wanda and nat get taken by the snap and it leaves there 14 year old daughter for her to grow up alone, later when they return there surprised to see her grow up at first they dont even recognize her because she turns out to be a cold badass. You can add some angst of her not being able to trust them and so on. But over time there family dynamic falls back but they notice y/n is hiding something because she always disappears and is seen talking on the phone. One night they think they hear talk in y/n’s room so they wait a few hours before they check it out and its y/n being super cute with her gf. she introduce her gf who helped her through the snap.

5 years is a long time

masterlist requests masterlist

pairing: WandaNat x daughter reader

warnings: grieve, loss, pain

genre: angst, fluff

words: 2093

a/n: thank you so much anon for the request. I love the idea and I hope you like it 🫶

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work 

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Tears. That’s all you remember. The endless crying of that night. Your moms had told you they had to leave for a while to fight an important battle. They told you they would be back. They lied. 

You remember Steve coming to your home. The home you grew up in. The home you three had lived in for your entire life. You were excited when you heard the door open. You thought your moms had returned. They hadn’t.

Steve was standing in the door opening, and the look on his face alone was enough to make you cry. So that’s what you did. For the entire night you did nothing but cry. You couldn’t believe your moms would break their promise. You couldn’t believe your moms would never hold you again. 

Steve had taken you out of your home that night. He said he wanted you to stay with him, so you would be safe. He told you it’s what your moms would’ve wanted, but you had no interest in listening to him. You didn’t sleep that night. What happened wouldn’t leave your brain. You were devastated. 

After a few weeks in the compound, you had started feeling angry. The first few days you felt numb, and you supposed feeling angry was better than that, but in reality it wasn’t.

You would ignore Steve. You wouldn’t eat or take care of yourself. All you could be was angry, and you and Steve fought all the time. After two months, you decided to leave. You were a few weeks away from your fifteenth birthday, and Steve was trying to get you excited for it, but you didn’t want to be.

Usually, you would be so excited you couldn’t sleep, but this time you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Steve talked about it non-stop, and you just couldn’t take it. What was the point in celebrating your birthday if the most important people wouldn't be there?

That was when you decided to leave. 

You found an apartment in Seattle, wanting to be as far away from the compound as you could. That’s where you lived for the past 5 years. You were 19 now, and your life was different than it was when the snap happened.

You used your training to kill. You found that killing people was the only way to ease your anger, ease your thirst for revenge. 

You weren’t proud of it. How could you? Your moms had taught you how to fight to protect, not hurt. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care, however. Your moms were gone. There was no reason in thinking about what they would or wouldn’t agree with. 

You were currently sitting on your couch, cleaning some of your knives. You had another successful assignment yesterday and you were exhausted. There was a lot of commotion in the world, and your assignments were flooding. It seemed that suddenly everyone wanted each other dead. You didn’t know why, but then again, you didn’t follow the news.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at your door. Besides Charlie, no one knew where you lived, and she wasn’t set to come home for another few days. 

Hesitantly, you opened your door, and you almost broke at the sight. 

In front of you were two people. Two people who you believed you’d never see again. Wanda gasped, clearly shocked by the wounds you carried on your face. Maybe the fact you’d grown 5 years shocked her too. Natasha just stared. She couldn’t believe it. Their little girl was all grown up, but that isn’t what shocked them the most. 

The emptiness in your eyes did. 

Wanda made the first move to hug you, and in your shock you didn’t react. You hadn’t thought this day would ever come, and now it did. 

Natasha seemed to snap out of her shock, moving to embrace you as well. 

They cried. You didn’t.

When they moved into your apartment you were quick to clean the knives from your coffee table. You were afraid of how they would react. You knew they would be disappointed, but you just weren’t ready for a lecture of them yet. 

Natasha and Wanda stayed in your guest room, and much like the night you lost them, you were awake. You couldn’t sleep, and you knew they wouldn’t be able to either.

The next day Natasha and Wanda had convinced you to move back into their apartment. They kept telling you how sorry they were for leaving, and how they wanted to make up for all the years they lost. You agreed, moving back into your childhood home. You didn’t know how you’d react if they ever were to return, but you never expected to feel so… numb.

You had lived together for a few days now, and you had a hard time trusting them. You fought a few times already, mainly with Natasha. You refused to call them mom and mama again. You just couldn’t. Wanda was just trying to be there for you, while Natasha was more set on getting answers.

You were frustrated. You couldn’t provide your moms with any answers. You didn’t have any. 

Last night you and Natasha fought again, and she yelled at you saying she couldn't recognise you anymore. You were lost. You didn’t know how to react.

All those nights you wished your moms would return to you, and wishing things would go back to the way they were. Now you wished things would go back to the way they were after they disappeared. You didn’t want to face them, and living with them again after so many years proved to be much more difficult than you initially thought. 

Most nights you spend in your room, talking to the only person that stayed the same through all of it. 

You spoke to Charlie most nights. She was the only person you had found comfort with all this time. The only person you felt you could trust, and the only person you felt you could be yourself around.

Charlie lost both of her parents in the snap as well, and when you were on an assignment one day to kill a dangerous man, you had found Charlie in one of the rooms in his house.

She was locked up, and she looked sick. You had taken her home with you, caring for her wounds. She didn’t speak much, only thanking you when appropriate. You didn’t mind much. You were happy you could still do some good. You were both 17 at the time, and you grew close quickly. 

Charlie had told you what happened. How she lost her parents and the man had taken her. You offered her to stay with you, and she agreed. You grew closer quickly, and your friendship soon developed into something more. 

Charlie was the only person you cared about. The only person you could be yourself around. The only person you loved through those years. 

Charlie had reminded you of your humanity, and she never scolded you for doing what you did. 

It’s funny, really. All those nights you spend on your own, in the bed of your new apartment, you longed to be laying in your own bed, with your moms downstairs. Now, while you were lying in the bed of your childhood home, with your moms downstairs, you longed for the nights in your own apartment. Spend watching movies and eating cheap take out with Charlie. 

You hadn’t told your moms about Charlie yet. You didn’t know how to. You didn’t know you wanted to.

Your moms were downstairs, discussing your behavior. Wanda was crying. She felt so incredibly hurt by the fact you called her ‘Wanda’ now. She missed the days you called her mommy. When you would come running downstairs all excited because you had a random thought you felt like Wanda should know. 

Her and Natasha were talking about how you seemed so closed off. So cold. How you were always in your room and how it seemed like you were hiding something.

Tonight, while you were on a call with Charlie, Natasha had decided to check on you, wanting to talk to you about their concerns. When she reached your room, she could hear you talking to someone. She decided not to knock on the door, instead opening it to see you lying on your bed, with your back turned to the door. You didn’t notice she was standing there, to captivated by your phone call.

You were giggling, and Natasha wasn’t sure when she last heard you laugh. 

Natasha just stood there, soaking up your happiness. When you ended the phone call, you told Charlie ‘I love you’, which didn’t go unnoticed by Natasha.

When you turned around you were startled, and when you released Natasha was eavesdropping you were upset. 

“I’m sorry,” Natasha told you, and you sighed, sitting up in your bed. Natasha sat at the end of your bed, not wanting to make you uncomfortable by sitting too close. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen you laugh.”

“I’m sorry too,” you told her, not wanting to look at her.

“I understand it must’ve been hell for you, and it must have been so confusing, even now we’re back. It’s confusing for us too. A few weeks ago you were our little 14 year old girl, and now you’re all grown up. I’m sorry we don’t know how to help you, and I’m sorry we weren’t there,” Natasha told you with tears in her eyes. 

You sniffled and shook your head. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a terrible daughter. I was never mad at you. I’m just so angry, and I didn’t know how to handle that,” you explained to her, tears rolling down your cheeks.

Natasha pulled you into a hug, the first you’d had since the night they returned. You cried together, and Wanda, who probably heard the crying, came upstairs and sat next to you on the other side. 

You kept crying, repeating ‘I’m sorry’ until you were so tired you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. 

You fell asleep in their arms, and when you woke up, they were still there. 

You had all moved down to the kitchen for breakfast, and for the first time in 5 years, you were eating breakfast together, talking. There was no tension, no crying, no fighting and no yelling. Just talking.

“So who was that girl on the phone yesterday?” Natasha suddenly asked you. 

You looked up at her quickly, surprised with her question. “What?” you asked her confused. “Yesterday you were talking on the phone with a girl. You seemed really happy.” 

You looked at your plate, pushing the leftover fruit around on it. “We’re not mad, just curious,” Wanda told you. “Her name’s Charlie. She’s kinda my girlfriend,” you told your moms hesitantly.

You didn’t look at them, but you felt Wanda scooting her chair closer, engulfing you in a hug. “We’re so happy for you!” she exclaimed, and you relaxed in her arms. “Thanks,” you mumbled. Natasha sat down in the chair on the other side of you, rubbing your back. “Where is she now?” Natasha asked. 

“Still in Seattle. We lived together in that apartment,” you told her, sitting up straight again. 

“We should invite her over, if you want too,” Wanda suggested. You nodded. “I’d like that,” 

Two days later Charlie was standing in front of your door again, and she hugged you tight. “I’ve missed you,” you murmured. She nodded, kissing your forehead. 

When she let you go, she noticed your moms standing behind you. Natasha was the first one to introduce herself, telling her it was nice to meet her. Wanda was next, giving her a small hug. 

You had dinner that night, the four of you, and after finding out you had lived together for 2 years, Wanda suggested she should stay for a while. Charlie agreed, and you couldn’t be happier. The night was ended with movies, you in Charlie’s arms, just like all those other nights. The only difference was your moms sitting next to you, smiling at the wonderful young woman you’d grown into. 

#black widow #natasha x reader #marvel #mcu #avengers #natasha romanoff #natasha x daughter #wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wandanat #wandanat x daughter!reader #wandanat x reader #wanda x daughter #wanda maximoff x daughter!reader

[eyrina-avatar]

Mother's Day

parining: Neteyam x reader aged up and are parents - a mother's day special

synopsis: after the battle of Awa'atlu and with Quaritch now dead, the Sullys are back to living a peaceful life at the forest and Neteyam and reader have a child. Neteyam has a surprise for reader on Mother's Day.

warnings: none, mostly fluff. only a little tiny mention of reader doubting her skills as a new mother but those thoughts are later on squashed.

author's note: do na'vi babies use diapers or just loincloths that are regularly changed? I looked online and couldn't find any info on it. I mentioned about two weeks ago that this was supposed to come out on Sunday, so I know it’s late and Mother’s Day is long gone but oh well, life has been busy. Enjoy!

word count: 2.4k

glossary: prrnen- baby, ma'itan- my son, eyaye plant- warbonnet fern (the big glowing leaves of pandora that looks like a fan- in the right pic of the header), panopyras- the plant that looks like a glowing jellyfish (in the left pic of header). more info can be found on avatar's official pandorapedia and on avatar wiki.

┆彡

You gently moved your baby back and forth in your arms as you tried to calm his crying.

"Mawey, mawey ma'itan," you cooed into his ear as you tried to figure out what was making your less than one-year-old son so cranky.

"What is wrong, huh? I just fed you an hour ago, and daddy just changed your nappies." Your baby began to grow more irritable by the minute, and you had to find a quick solution. The baby was supposed to be asleep; that way you could go out into the forest to gather some fruit and vegetables for dinner.

Your son had now begun sucking on his thumb while crying and moving his head close to your chest in search of milk.

"You're still hungry? Is that what it is?" You adjusted your top to let your son feed on you, instantly calming his crying and fussiness. "What an appetite." You simply shook your head and laughed.

"Happy Mother's Day!" You heard a loud commotion outside of Neteyam's and your shared Marui. You moved the opening of your tent and peered outside, and saw Jake and his kids, Neteyam included, all showering Neytiri with attention. They all gave her a big hug and handed her flowers, rare fruits, bracelets, and a matching headset. She thanked her family for the presents, and you merely smiled at the kind gesture. You closed the flap of your tent, basking in the warmth and tranquility of your child as his eyes were now closed, content with his feeding.

When you were previously an avatar before your permanent soul transfer, you had already learned of Mother's Day and its significance. Though now, as a Na'vi, you grew to the customs of the Omaticaya and have not paid much attention to it until now.

As a mother of a young baby, not even a toddler, you knew not to expect anything significant on the day yet. How would your child know to give you a gift or thank you for being his mother? Foolishness- he was too young for you to even think about that, and you let out a small chuckle at your own thoughts and sighed.

Jake always made it clear to Neytiri on Mother's Day how much he loved and appreciated her, and he always gave her something for mothering their children. Would Neteyam do the same to you as well?

Although Neteyam is a Na'vi, you slightly expected him to know that this day held significance for you as well, especially as the father of your child. Or maybe he didn't know?

But like the rest of the Sully kids, he learned about it from Jake and has not missed a single year to gift something to Neytiri on this special day. Or maybe he didn't think you were such a good mother after all. Perhaps you were just being silly, how could you expect someone to congratulate you on something you’re so new at? You’re Na’vi now, and perhaps you should just get used to it.

You simply sighed again at the thought and placed your child in your frontal wrap as you prepared to go out and gather the food for later.

"What is it? Is something wrong?" Neteyam walked into your tent and gave you a questioning look.

"No, no. Nothing’s wrong." You shook your head and smiled.

“I heard you sighing as if something was wrong.” Neteyam interrogated.

“Oh, I’m fine, Nete. I was just glad that the baby finally fell asleep after crying for so long.” You petted your son’s head as you tried to sell your excuse to your mate.

“I see. Sorry for not coming into the tent sooner. I thought I heard a baby crying, but I was a bit busy at the moment.” Neteyam helped you up as you grabbed a basket for the food you were getting ready to pick.

“It’s fine-”

“No, no, I should have helped you out-”

“Neteyam.” You placed your hand on his, “It’s fine. The baby was just hungry again, you weren’t going to be much help in that situation.” You let out a small giggle.

He simply chuckled, “I guess not.”

“I’ll be back in time to make dinner.” You waved as you made your way out of the tent.

Huh, busy? Simply busy celebrating Mother’s Day and not with you. You rolled your eyes and huffed out. Y/n, get yourself together.

You shook your head in disbelief at your own antics.

I’m sure Neteyam appreciates you, he’s probably just waiting for the baby to get bigger to celebrate Mother’s Day. In fact, maybe he’ll tell your son when he gets older. Yes, that's it.

You smiled to yourself as you came up with a conclusion and decided to drop the topic, knowing that getting upset over something so trivial wouldn’t do you any good.

You contently continued your way into the forest.

Nete, I’m home. Dinner will be ready s-” you looked into your marui and saw no one inside. Maybe Neteyam was out hunting, or busy helping his siblings, probably bailing Lo’ak out of trouble or something. You laughed at the thought.

You placed your still-asleep son in his cot and got straight to cooking as you peeled the fruits and vegetables, and moved the veggies onto separate plates, chopped, and cooked them. With your quick and skilled hands, the food was ready in no time, and your mate was home in no time as well.

“Mmm, what is that delicious smell, huh?” Neteyam made his way towards you. “Is that the wonderful cooking of my cute wife?” He bent down and gave you a kiss. Your tail swished back and forth at the compliment, and you blushed.

“Oh, just sit down.” You jokingly rolled your eyes as you gave him a bowl of food. “Thank you, love,” he smiled at you, and you sent one back.

“So, where were you?” You pried as you ate your food.

“Eh, just helping one of the clan members hunt some meat. No luck today, though.” Neteyam continued eating.

Hmm, strange. He’s all neat and clean, not a drop of sweat. Unless he bathed at the river before coming over? Probably so.

You decided to stop overthinking and just enjoy your food before you soured your appetite.

The rest of the meal was quiet but comfortable.

“Alrighty, done. That was delicious, as always.” Neteyam handed you the bowls, and you set them aside.

“So, anything in plan to do lat-” you were cut off with the sound of crying waving through your ears. You rushed over to your son and picked him up.

“Here, let me help.” Neteyam made his way over to you and took the baby from your hands. “What is my little mighty warrior so upset about, huh?” Your mate gently rocked the child back and forth.

“Shh, shh. Daddy's right here.” He cooed, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the self-given name.

The baby wouldn’t stop crying, and so you took a peek at his bottom. “Oh,” you simply let out.

“What is it?” Neteyam gave you a questioning look.

“He needs to be cleaned.” You took the baby out of Neteyam’s arms and placed him on a mat.

“Look at that cutie!” Kiri beamed as she entered the tent and made her way straight to you and Neteyam’s son. “Aww, don’t you worry. He needs a cleaning, right? I’ll take care of it.” Kiri shooed your hands away and got to work.

“No, Kiri, you don’t have to do that.” You felt bad and tried to stop her.

“Nonsense, I’ll take care of him. Go out with Neteyam and do something. Maybe go on one of those dates or whatever you romantics like to do.” She simply waved you away.

“Thank you,” Neteyam mouthed to her when you weren’t looking.

“Are you sure?” You let out as Neteyam dragged you out of the tent.

“Kiri will be fine.” He assured you.

“Well, where are we going?” You asked.

“Put this on.” He gave you a blindfold, and you simply looked at him confused about what he was doing.

“What?”

“Just put it on, you trust me, right?”

“Yes…”

“Good. Then put it on.”

You held the blindfold over your eyes, and Neteyam tied it. “How will I know where to step? What if I fall?” You asked, giving a questioning look behind the cloth.

“You wont.” Neteyam swooped you up in his arms and carried you bridal style. “You see?” He smirked.

“Well technically since I’m blindfolded right now…” Neteyam lowered his arms down, threatening to drop you. “Alright, ALRIGHT. I get it!” You let out as he swung you over his shoulders and made his way into the forest with you.

“Are we there yet?” You groaned at the long walk to wherever it was that Neteyam was taking you.

“C’mon, just wait a bit. We’re almost there.” Neteyam readjusted his hold on you.

“You said that like 5 minutes ago,” you rolled your eyes behind the cloth.

“You're starting to sound like Tuk with all of that complaining.” He chuckled

“Am not!”

“You see, you’re even arguing like her.” He teased as you swung your tail by his face in retaliation.

“Alright, I’m putting you down. We’re almost there, and you can walk from here.” Neteyam carefully lowered your legs to the ground. “I’ll hold your hand so you don’t fall.” He took your hand in a firm grasp and led the way.

“Alright, just a few more steps, c’mon.” Neteyam led you down a small hill and brought you to a stop at the bottom. “You can open your eyes now.”

You untied the cloth from your eyes and gasped at the view. A beautiful glowing stream flowed in front of you, and a small nearby waterfall fed it as a few hexapedes quenched their thirst on it. Lizards flew around you, and atokirinas gracefully danced in the air as some landed near the panopyras and on the lily pads in the water.

“Nete-“ you were speechless at the sight. This was the spot that made you fall in love with the forest, always so majestic and peaceful, breathtaking, and full of color and life.

“It’s beautiful, I love it! We haven't been here in ages; you know this is my favorite spot!” You gleamed as you faced Neteyam, and he smiled at your reaction.

"Well, what type of mate would I be if I didn't bring you anywhere nice on this special day?" He smirked, and your eyes widened in shock.

"You remembered?" Your jaw dropped open at his comment in realization that this indeed was for Mother's Day.

"Of course I did! How could I forget the beautiful mother of our child, huh?" Neteyam pecked your cheek with a kiss. "Happy Mother's Day, love. And thank you for being such a wonderful and good mother to our firstborn son. I couldn't have asked for anyone else."

A tear rolled down your cheek, and you quickly wiped it away and sniffled as you tried to control your emotions. "Thank you. I love you so much." You wrapped your arms around Neteyam as he embraced you in a warm hug.

"I love you." He responded as he held you in his arms and looked down at your eyes, "I've got something for you."

You simply tilted your head in confusion as he let go of you and walked behind a tree, bending down to pick something up.

He brought back an object wrapped in eyaye leaves and handed it to you.

"What is this?" You gave him a 'you shouldn't have' look.

"Just a little something for you. Open it up, sweetheart." His tail swished back and forth in nervousness as you unwrapped the gift, and your eyes lit up at the sight.

You held up two matching bracelets, both filled with your favorite colors, blue and purple. Those were the bioluminescent colors of the forest that made you fall in love with Pandora, and Neteyam knew just how special they were to you.

"Do you like it?" His ears flickered at his anxiousness.

"I love it! It's beautiful, and they're my favorite colors! Nete, you know me so well!" You ran up to Neteyam and jumped up as you gave him a hug, almost knocking him down in the process. You grabbed his face and gave him small pecks everywhere, his cheeks, forehead, nose, chin, and finally, his lips.

"Well, I'm glad you like it." He chuckled at your antics and put you down. You put one bracelet on your ankle and the other on your wrist. Both fitted perfectly, and you raised your eyebrows at Neteyam.

As if knowing what you were going to say, he blurted out, "I measured you while you were sleeping. You're not such a light sleeper after all." Neteyam smirked.

"Well, however it was that you got the size, it worked. They fit wonderfully and look absolutely beautiful. I love them so much, thank you, ma'teyam." You smiled at your thoughtful mate and the beautiful gifts, mentally scorning yourself for your doubts earlier.

"And these are for you as well." Neteyam handed you a beautiful bouquet of sun lilies, glowing blue with purple outlines surrounding the petals and stems.

"Babe... you really outdid yourself. You know that, right?" You shook your head as you gently grabbed the flowers from his hands and smelled them. "They look great and smell amazing. Thank you." You smiled up at Neteyam as he held his hand on your back, and the both of you sat at the edge of the river, legs now kicking in the water.

"I'm so grateful to have you as my mate, my beautiful wife, and the wonderful mother of our child and hopefully many more to come, if you allow it." Neteyam kissed your cheek, and you smiled at the thought.

"And I'm so grateful to have you in my life, I wouldn't trade you for anything else. You make me feel like the happiest woman on Pandora; of course I would be glad to mother all of our future children." You smiled up at the stars as you held the flowers in your hands as a child, already used to carrying your baby in that position, causing Neteyam to chuckle at the sight.

"I love you," you turned to look at him.

"And I love you." Neteyam held your face in his hand.

"Forever..." you leaned in.

"...and always." Neteyam sealed his love for you with a kiss.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

again, sorry this came out so late. this was supposed to come out on Mother's Day but unfortunately I wasn't able to complete it sooner. I hope it came out decent enough for you guys to enjoy it.

reblogs/comments etc. are much appreciated

let me know if you want to be included in a taglist.

do not steal my work and please don't post it on ao3 or wattpad

© eyrina-avatar

colors used:#ED345F and #FFB3CF

credit: divider from this post: here

#neteyam #neteyam x reader #avatar #neteyam fluff #neteyam x you #avatar fluff #avatar the way of water #neteyam sully #avatar 2 #avatar way of water #awow #neteyam fic #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x avatar!reader #neteyam imagine #neteyam x female reader #avatar neteyam #awow imagines #avatar twow #avatar imagine #neytiri #jake sully #lo'ak #tuktirey #kiri #kiri sully #sully siblings #sully kids

[petitemistletoe]

Presents of Mind

Pairing: James Potter x Reader

Warnings: smut, angst

Word Count: 5.2K+

A/N: Do wizards have grad school? What comes after Hogwarts? Also idk why but its canon to me that Sirius walks around naked

“Why are you moping?” Harry asked you, poking your arm lightly as he sat down on the couch next to you. 

“I’m not moping.” You sighed and set your book down. 

“You are. You’ve been moping since you got that letter last night.” 

“That was my mom,” you sighed again, turning your body fully so you were facing Harry, “she’s going to the United States for Christmas to visit my brother and his wife and their new baby. It’s just going to be too crazy with the newborn so she wants me to stay with my weird Uncle Radolophus for the holidays. I told her I’d be fine here since I have about a mountain of work to finish for my advisor but she doesn’t want me to be alone.”

“Why don’t you stay with me for Christmas? This will be the first Christmas with my dad since my mom started dating Snape.” Harry had a disgusted look on his face. In Harry’s final year at Hogwarts, his parents announced they were getting divorced and his mother moved out of his house a few months later. Professor Snape had become even more insufferable as he tried to win Lily’s affection and luckily for everyone, Lily had waited until after Harry had been settled at university for his first year of a graduate program to start dating Snape. Harry had practically lost his mind and spent several weeks holed up in your shared apartment and you had to draw him out with chocolate frogs and butterbeer. 

“Are you sure? Your dad won’t mind?” 

“Nah, he’s nesting big time. He’s cooking a whole giant dinner and it’s going to be just me, Sirius, and Remus.” Harry shrugged.

“It won’t be weird? Me staying in your childhood home?” You asked, thinking about seeing Harry’s childhood bedroom. 

“No, no, my dad rented a house in Cornwall. It’s a little tradition that him and his friends have. Come on! It’ll be fun. Cornwall at Christmas with my best friend. Snow on the beach!”

“Alright. I’ll come.” You nodded.  

You and Harry had been friends since first year but you had strangely never met and had barely even seen Harry’s father. Harry’s mother had been more involved in all the school things and you supposed that’s why Lily and Severus had grown close again. It wasn’t that James was absent, quite the opposite, he was almost always at Quidditch tournaments and of course took Harry to and from Kings Cross every September but you just never seemed to catch him for more than a few moments since first year. You had heard from Hermione and Ginny, however, that apparently the man was supposed to be drop dead gorgeous. 

“I’m leaving after my exam tonight. Meet you back here at seven?” Harry asked, getting up and stuffing his textbook into his bag. As Harry got ready to leave you heard a knock at your door. You got up off the couch to answer it and let Hermione and Ron in.  They were bickering, as they usually were, and settled down in yours and Harry’s apartment like it was their own. 

“Ron thinks that a vacuum cleaner is an appropriate Christmas gift for his parents.” Hermione sighed, pouring herself a cup of coffee while Ron flopped down on the couch next to you.

“It is! Mum loves to clean and dad’ll love that its a muggle invention.” Ron said, grabbing a throw pillow of the couch and burying his face in it. 

“Your mother is a person beyond the face that she’s your mother. Why don’t you think of a gift that fits one of her interests?”

“She hasn’t got any interests!” Ron groaned and removed the pillow slightly to check his watch, “Harry let’s go! We got to be at the lecture hall in twenty minutes!” 

“I’m coming! God, you two are so lucky you’re done with exams.” Harry said, shaking his head at you and Hermione. 

“Oh Harry! Molly wanted me to ask if you’re coming to spend Christmas with the Weasleys?” Hermione said, finally taking her place next to you on the couch with her warm cup of coffee. 

“No. I’m spending it with Dad this year. Plus, Ginny isn’t even going to be there, she’ll still be touring with the Cannons.”

“You don’t want to come to your best friend’s Christmas because your girlfriend won’t be there? We were friends before you even noticed Ginny!” Ron said, mouth open in shock. 

“Ron, I’m spending Christmas with my father. You can bear Christmas with your own girlfriend and family.” 

“Ugh, my family,” Ron sighed, “do you want to come?” He asked you. 

“Spending it with Harry.” You shrugged. Harry rolled his eyes then looked at you on the couch. “We’re heading out! See you when we get back.”

You waved and then turned back to Hermione after you heard the door shut. 

“So I’m spending Christmas with Harry.” You said. 

“Oh my God. Have you seen Harry’s dad?” She asked excitedly. 

“You know I haven’t! When was the last time you saw him?” 

“I got tea with Professor Lupin a few weeks ago and Harry’s dad stopped by his flat to drop off his broom. The divorce is serving him well, let me tell you. He looks fantastic.” Hermione grinned. 

“I don’t remember the last time I saw you this excited about Ron,” you joked gently. 

“Ron and I have been together for almost five years now,” Hermione said with a bored shrug, “He gets to ogle Fleur and I get to ogle Harry’s dad. As long as we come back to each other there’s no problem.”

“Okay,” you laughed, “I get it. But isn’t this a little weird? That’s Harry’s dad. He’s our best friend.” 

“Talk to me after you see him.” 

You thought about Hermione’s words long after she left your apartment. You had a small bag packed and you were fiddling around waiting for Harry to come back. You practiced transfiguring different objects in your apartment into different animals. You figured you had to stop, however, when you transfigured your fireplace into a dragon and it took a few more seconds than you thought it would to transfigure it back. Your walls were a little soot covered but you were up on a chair trying to get the soot off the ceiling when Harry got back. 

“What are you doing?” He asked with a surprised chuckle. 

“Uh, had a little scuffle with a dragon.” You said sheepishly. 

“Transfiguring the fireplace again?” He gave you a knowing look. 

“How was your exam?” You asked, getting off the chair and pushing it back towards the kitchen table. 

“It was alright. I’m ready to have a drink and not think about school for the next few weeks.” Harry said, setting his book bag down and grabbing his traveling bag. 

“Yeah, real smart of us to go from Hogwarts to uni to grad school without taking a breath.” You rolled your eyes and grabbed your own bag, threading your free hand into Harry’s and waiting for him to apparate.

You stumbled onto a stretch of beach with a large manor that overlooked the water. 

“So this is where we’re spending Christmas? I knew you came from money but I had no idea you were this well off. Sure you’re happy with Ginny?” You said, grabbing Harry’s cheek teasingly. 

“Shove off,” Harry rolled his eyes and led you to the front door. The manor was cute, comfy, and warm. It was more chic than the Weasley home, with newer furniture and more modern decor, but it was still homey. It smelled like warm butterbeer and cinnamon and you could hear casual conversation in the sitting room. Harry walked into the sitting room and you took in the two men who were sitting in there. One of the men was familiar to you, your old defense against the dark arts professor Remus Lupin and the other man was around the same age, with longer dark hair, a chiseled jawline and cheekbones, and a smattering of tattoos that were visible on his chest through his thin shirt. That couldn’t have been Harry’s father…could it? He was beautiful. But he didn’t really look like Harry and everyone was always telling Harry that he was the spitting image of his father.

“Hello,” you said, greeting the two men.

“Ah! There’s my favorite student.” Remus said, standing up and giving you a quick, respectful hug. 

“This is my godfather, Sirius Black.” Harry introduced you to the attractive man, Sirius, who stretched out his hand to you after giving Harry a tight hug. 

“Pleasure to meet you.” He winked at you and you fought down a blush. 

“So where’s my dad at?” Harry asked, flinging himself down on the couch and holding his arm out so you could sit down next to him. You obliged, snuggling up against Harry’s warm body and looking at the two men on the opposite couch. 

“He ran out to buy a few things you for you and your friend. He wanted to make the place feel as inviting as possible and make biscuits for the both of you.” Sirius said with an eyeroll. 

“How’s he been. You know, since it all with Mum and Snape?” Harry asked. Sirius and Remus exchanged a look before Remus shrugged his shoulders and exhaled deeply, his fingers rubbing his temples,

“It’s been hard. Have you talked to your mum recently?”

“No. Not really. She knows how I feel about her and Snape. We’ve gotten tea a few times since but she knows that I wanted to spend Christmas with Dad.” Harry said with a head shake. You felt a little awkward, like you were intruding on a private moment between Harry and his uncles, but you didn’t say anything, just stared at your hands. 

“I have no idea what she sees in old Snivellus.” Sirius rolled his eyes and earned a slap on the chest from Remus.

“Sirius!”

“Come on, you think so too,” Sirius rolled his eyes at Remus, “You hated him just as much when you were teaching as we did when we were at school.”

“Even so-” Remus started to rebut but you heard the sound of the front door shut and you were sure that James was finally home. He entered the sitting room and you had to remind yourself to breathe. He was just as gorgeous as Hermione and Ginny had described. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes and those glasses. He had an easy smile and was muscular the way that Quidditch players were but he also had a distinguished dusting of silver in his dark hair. He immediately bound to Harry and hugged him tightly, his bicep pressing up against your own on the couch. He then pulled away from Harry and focused his attention on you. 

“I’m sorry. Strangely, in the entire time you’ve been close friends with Harry we haven’t really made each other’s acquaintance. I’m James.” James wrapped you in a close hug. 

“Hi! It’s great to meet you,” you nodded, not exactly hating the feeling of his body on yours. 

“So, I thought we would have a little Shepard’s pie if that’s all right with you, love?” James asked Harry. It was clear that he doted on Harry and you thought it was very precious. You had seen the way that Lily had doted on Harry and while that was all well and good it was different from the way that James was doting and it was refreshing and beautiful. You smiled at the duo as you watched them. 

“Yeah, Dad, sounds great.” Harry grinned up at his father. James touched Harry’s cheek affectionately and got up to head back into the kitchen. Remus and Harry got up to help James and you were going to get up too but Sirius sat down on the couch next to you and grinned at you with that crocodile grin he was so good at. 

“So, darling, do you have any connection to the honorable House of Black?” Sirius asked you, his fingers tracing a shape on your arm. 

“No. I don’t believe I do.” You responded. Sirius grinned even wider.

“Perfect.” He said, showing off his white teeth. 

“Get off her, Padfoot!” James called from the kitchen. Sirius waved at James’ general direction and stretched his arms over your shoulders. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have daddy issues, do you?”

“Are you asking me that because you want to know if I’m into older men?”

“So are you?” Sirius leaned in closer to you so your nose was brushing against his. 

“I had a great relationship with my Dad. Right up until he died.”

“Oh,” Sirius’ smile dropped, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” you said, waving him off, “That’s all to say that I definitely have some daddy issues.” 

“Silver lining, then.” Sirius said, smiling. You wouldn’t have been surprised if in the following moments, Sirius was going to close the distance between you both and kiss you on the Potter’s couch but Remus walked in and threw an oven mitt at Sirius. 

“Sirius! You whore!” Remus said, feigning anger and walking over to punch Sirius in the shoulder. 

“Ow! Get off me, you’re cramping my style.” Sirius glared at Remus.

“You know what else should cramp your style? The fact that you’ve been dating me since sixth year.” Remus rolled his eyes. 

“So I’m not allowed to live?” Sirius shot back. You were laughing as you watched the match unfold and it looked like Remus was gearing up to shoot another smart remark back but Harry walked back in and said, 

“Dad says dinner is ready and for you two to kiss and make up.” Harry stretched his hand out to help you off the couch. You all took seats at the table. 

“If you wanted to watch us make out, Prongs, you should’ve just said so.” Sirius teased. James stuck his tongue out in return. You took a moment to imagine what it would be like to have that tongue all over your body. You promptly shook your head to rid yourself of the thought. 

“So darling,” James turned to look at you and fought the urge to blush, “Harry told me your last name is Siphera. Any relation to Jack Siphera?”

“Uh yes,” you nodded, pushing around a pea on your plate, “he was my father.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. He was an excellent dueler. A strong member of the Order, you remember him don’t you?” James asked Remus and Sirius. 

“Jack was a very kind man,” Remus smiled.

“Siphera…I didn’t know that he had passed. How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking.” Sirius asked. Remus was shaking his head but Sirius didn’t seem to notice. 

“He was murdered by Bellatrix when she tried to escape Azkaban.” You responded. 

“Bellatrix? My cousin Bellatrix? Bellatrix Lestrange?” Sirius asked, dropping his fork with a clatter.

“Do you know very many other Bellatrixes?” Harry asked. You started laughing and so did Harry until the two of you were both doubled over and gasping for breath.

“Alright,” James said, looking at you two warily, “I bought a bottle of firewhisky for us all, raise your glasses.” James poured everyone a generous helping of firewhisky and then raised another bottle of dark liquor for shots. 

“To many holidays together.” Sirius grinned at you as you clinked glasses. You tipped your head back and took the drink, swallowing against the harsh burn in your throat. A small droplet escaped past the side of your glass and made its way down your chin and dropped between your breasts. You became acutely aware of the eyes that were on you. You rubbed your mouth harshly and took a large sip of firewhisky, averting your eyes to look at Harry. His cheeks were a bit pink from the shot and he shot you a large, easy smile. 

The drinking continued and the evening ended with you and Harry stumbling into a free bedroom and falling asleep. You and Harry had often slept in the same bed, it started when you were in second year and you had both stayed up late revising for potions. 

When you rose the next morning, your mouth was painfully dry and your head was pounding. You nudged Harry lightly and he groaned in response. 

“What?”

“I need water.” You croaked. 

“So get water.” Harry moaned, putting his head into the pillow and trying to wrap the edges of the pillow around his ears. 

“I’m too hungover,” you shook your head. 

“Fine, open your mouth I’ll use the aguamenti spell.” Harry shoved himself up on his forearms and grabbed his wand. You opened your mouth and Harry cast the spell. Unfortunately for you both, it was with much more intensity than Harry had intended and you choked on the intense stream of water that had assaulted your throat. You and Harry began to laugh as you were both drenched in water.

“I’ll go down and make some tea,” Harry said, changing his shirt. 

“I’ll meet you down there, I’m just going to take a quick shower.” You stripped and wrapped a towel around you as you made your way to the bathroom. You let your body relax under the warm water and you thought about how Hermione and Ginny had been exactly right when it came to James. He was unbelievably gorgeous and you couldn’t stop thinking about when he hugged you, when his fingers bumped against yours as he was pouring drinks, as he brushed against you as he served dinner. It was intoxicating. There was also a detachable shower head that you grabbed and adjusted the water pressure. Once it got to a setting that was to your liking, you angled it so it was spraying a steady stream against your clit. You gasped softly at the pressure and let your head rest against the wall of the shower. You tried to imagine the old things that would get you going: the ripped quidditch players, the rugged wizards from romance novels, the occasional rockstar, but then James crossed your mind. The feeling of body against yours, how you imagined his lips felt against your neck. You imagined his cock entering you, the feeling of your body pressed against the shower wall as he pounded you from behind, his large hands on your waist, his breath hot against your neck. You came harder that you anticipated and you muffled your moans in the crook of your arm. You finished showering and changed into a fresh pair of clothes before descending the stairs. You felt your stomach churn in an unpleasant way when you smelled cooking from the kitchen. 

“Good morning,” you said, sitting down at the kitchen table and accepting a cup of tea from Harry who looked just as queasy as you felt. James looked like he had fully rested after a long night of sleep. All around him potatoes were being mashed, green beans were being washed, and a turkey was being stuffed. James himself was charming a rolling pin to roll out dough for scones. 

“Good morning! How did you sleep?” James beamed at you. 

“How is it that even now in our old age, you still have never been hungover?” Sirius groaned, walking into the kitchen completely stark naked and pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Sirius! Cover up. There’s a lady in the house.” James rolled his eyes. 

“What you haven’t seen this before?” Sirius thrust his hips forward a little and pointed at his dick. You laughed and shook your head. 

“Can’t say it’s my first time. Though it is my first time seeing a hickey there.” You and Harry both tilted your heads to get a better view of the large purplish bruise on the side of Sirius’ cock. 

“Moony gets teethy.” Sirius shrugged, leaning against the counter and taking a long sip of his coffee. Remus walked in a few moments later and rolled his eyes at Sirius, throwing a pair of boxers at Sirius’ chest. 

“Animals, the lot of you.” James shook his head. 

“Dad, did you want to go for a round on the pitch?” Harry asked, accio-ing his broom into his left hand. 

“Ah, I wish but I have to finish cooking.” James gestured to all the food around him. 

“I can cook! Go, it’s alright.” You smiled. James gave you a grateful smile and nodded,

“I’ll only be a few minutes.” 

“Take your time,” Remus waved him off, “I’ll stay and help too.”

“Cheers Moony!” James grinned, “Pads you coming?”

“Try and stop me.” Sirius laughed. The three boys scrambled outside and you could hear the chatter between them. You laughed to yourself and began to tend to the turkey. 

“It’s sweet isn’t it,” Remus said to you, “the bond between James and his son.”

“It reminds me of me and my father. I never realized how close Harry and his dad are. I always saw his mother at school functions.” You said. 

“Lily is an amazing mother, despite some of her most questionable actions as of late.” Remus sighed, “I do hope that her and James reconcile.”

“Oh,” you felt your heart do a flip-flop, “you think they might get back together then?”

“I certainly hope so.” Remus said with a sad smile. 

“I don’t.” A new voice said. It was James. He was sweaty and panting as he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. 

“You don’t? Not even a little bit?” Remus quirked an eyebrow.

“No,” James shrugged, “I think Lily is an amazing person but after so many years together I think we both realized that we can be better friends apart. There’s no harm in that.”

“I suppose only you and her would know.” Remus had a pensive expression on his face but he didn’t say anything further on the subject. 

The rest of the day passed rather quickly, as you helped James prepare for the Christmas Eve dinner while Remus, Sirius, and Harry decorated the tree. After dinner you drank eggnog by the fire and listened to James tell stories about Harry when he was young and all the Marauders’ adventures. Sirius and Remus stumbled off to bed, thoroughly drunk with Sirius attempting to suck a dark hickey onto Remus’ neck.

“Silencing spell Pads!” James called. 

“Cheers!” Sirius called back, the door slamming shut and the unnatural silence of the spell taking hold. 

“It’s a little tradition in our household to open one gift on Christmas Eve.” James said with a smile. He handed a small wrapped gift to you and Harry. 

“Oh, James, you didn’t have to get me anything. The invitation was enough!” You felt your face burn but you weren’t sure if it was from the egg nog or the gift. 

Harry opened his gift first. It was a necklace with a silvery sword pendant.

“It’s beautiful.” Harry said, watching the way the pendant gleamed under the light of the fire. 

“It’s functional as well.” James stood up and extended a hand to Harry as well. “Hold the necklace by the pendant and flick your wrist.” 

Harry followed his father’s instructions and after the flick of his wrist the pendant expanded to a full sized sword. 

“Whoa! Is that the sword of Gryffindor?” You asked, scrambling up and examining the sword up close.

“Yes it is. It’s been in the Potter family for generations. Flick your wrist again.” James instructed. Harry did so and the sword returned back to it’s pendant size. Harry put the sword around his neck and gave his father a tight hug.

“Open mine!” You urged Harry, handing Harry your gift as well. Harry opened it and laughed. 

“Oh my God! This is great!” Harry grinned, pulling out a jumper that Mrs. Weasley had helped you knit. It was a dark red with a little design of a figure that looked like Harry whizzing by on his broom after a golden snitch. 

“Thanks! It took a lot of yelling from Mrs. Weasley and some tears but it’s done!” You beamed. 

“This is truly amazing. You’re very talented.” James was studying the jumper in adoration. 

“I’m so glad you think so because after I did it once I was able to replicate it and make some tweaks so happy Christmas James!” You handed James an identically wrapped package. Inside was a jumper but the design was a man who looked like James that disappeared and a stag stood in his place. You had remembered the stories Harry had told you of his father’s animagi status and thought it would be sweet. James wrapped you in a tight hug and grinned at you, 

“Thank you so so much.”

Harry gave James his gift and then handed you his gift to you. It was a gorgeous porcelain tea set that was enchanted so the bottom of each tea cup had a grim at the bottom, a silly callback to yours and Harry’s shared time in Divination. James had run out for a moment and then returned with a small box for you. It was a beautiful, dainty bracelet. James helped you put it on. You were absolutely speechless. 

“Thank you so much, James. It’s absolutely lovely.” You excused yourself to the bathroom where you investigated it more. It looked like real gold. Why would James give you such an expensive and intimate gift. You saw there was a little slip of paper underneath the bracelet. You pulled it out and read:

To my one true love, my Lily

That made more sense. James had given you a gift that he had intended initially for Lily. You would give it back to him after Harry went to bed. You were about to round the corner to reenter the main room when you overheard a conversation between Harry and James. 

“-Siphera is a lovely girl. Are you and her…together?” James asked. 

“No, no,” Harry responded, “She’s my best friend in the entire world. I’m glad you got to meet her.”

“I am too.”

You took that as your cue to re-enter the room and you nestled back into your spot and wrapped your hands around your cup of eggnog. 

“Alright, I’m going to ring Ginny before bed. G’night.” Harry gave you another hug before going to bed. 

“So James, while I really appreciate the bracelet I don’t think I can keep it.” You said, handing James to bracelet back. 

“Oh, you don’t like it?” James gave you a look of alarm. 

“No, it’s not that. I just saw this note and…” You handed James the note. 

“I, um, I am so sorry. I had gotten you a box of chocolates for Christmas but then I saw your gift and I panicked. I had bought that bracelet for Lily months and months ago and I needed to give you something better. You’ve been such a light in Harry’s life and honestly in these few short days I’ve loved having you here. I want you to keep the bracelet.” James looked at you with large imploring eyes and extended the bracelet back to you. 

“Oh, thank you so much. You have to know that Harry is my best friend and he’s been amazing. Especially after everything with my father. And I can see where he gets his giving spirit. Thank you again for having me for Christmas this year.” You became aware of how close you and James were on the couch. His hand was on your knee and his breath was warm against your face. He leaned in and kissed you, his hand on the back of your neck. His lips were soft and he was gentle, warm. You pulled away and looked down at the ground. 

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I’ve just…been lonely. But that isn’t an excuse.” James shook his head. 

“I think I’m going to go to bed. Good night.” You scrambled from the room. You reentered your room and tried to think about what had just happened. And then you thought fuck it, you deserved a little guilty pleasure now and again. And before you knew it you were knocking on James’ door, emboldened by the eggnog. 

“I’m glad you’re here. I’m so so sorry-” James started but you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him hard. He pulled you into the room and shut the door, pushing you up against the door and pulling your jumper over your head. He thread a hand in your hair and tilted your face up a little as he angled his tongue. His hand went down to the waistband of your jeans and fiddled with the button for a moment before sliding his hand down into your panties. 

“So wet for me,” he whispered into your mouth. You were going to give back a smart remark but James pushed two of his nimble fingers into your pussy. You gasped and gripped James shoulder harshly. His thumb found its way to your clit and he started on circular motions as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. His lips made their way to your neck and he was sucking hickeys on your neck that you would curse in the morning but right now all you cared about was James keeping his pace as you approached your orgasm. It hit you like a tidal wave and you were moaning into James’ mouth and begging him for something you weren’t totally sure of. 

He moved you to the large wicker bed that sat in the center of the room. You helped him out of his shirt and unbuckled his pants. You kissed down his chest, along his happy trail, and down to his cock. You took him in your mouth and he moaned lowly, 

“Oh fuck.” He moaned, holding your hair back as you tried to take him as deep as possible. You grabbed his balls lightly and released a strangled, 

“Okay! Okay, I don’t want to cum just yet.” He pulled you off of him and flipped you over so you were beneath him. He pushed himself inside you and you both moaned. 

“You’re so big,” you moaned. 

“You’re so tight,” he moaned back. He was fucking you at a relentless, unforgiving pace. One of his hands was gripping the headboard tightly and the other was alternating between your nipple and your clit. You were approaching your second orgasm of the night and with the way it was building you knew it was going to hit you even harder than the first one. James pulled out completely and slammed back into you and that was it. You orgasm hit you hard and your orgasm triggered James’. He came inside you, babbling thank yous and oh my gods. He pulled out of you and you both laid side by side, breathing heavily and fanning yourselves. 

“We can’t ever tell Harry.” You said, the icy shock of sobriety making you realize the gravity of what you had done. You had slept with your best friend’s dad. That would kill him. James was going to respond when an owl started pecking at the window. James opened the window and untied the piece of parchment wrapped around the owl’s foot. You were able to read it over your shoulder.

James, 

I made a huge mistake. Ring me in the morning?

Happy Christmas

Lily

#james potter #James potter x reader #James potter smut #bfd!James potter #harry potter #Aaron Taylor johnson #Aaron Taylor johnson smut #marauders #atyd marauders #sirius black #remus lupin

[astaroth1357]

We Gotta Talk About Barbatos (And Kinda Solomon But This Ain't About Him)

SPOILERS for up to Chapter 16 of NB

These recent chapters have been giving us breadcrumbs about the pasts of both Barbatos and Solomon, the two of which seem to be deeply entwined. I have yet to make a post about Solomon's past (which gets twistier and twistier by the minute btw), but right now I just want to touch on my questions about Barbatos and... well. The hell is he up to?? I have one question that has been eating away at me the longer NB goes on and I think its answer could solve everything:

Is there only one Barbatos?

What I mean by this question is something along the lines of my Timeless!Barbatos idea from a while ago. Is there only Barbatos, i.e. is Barbatos a being that exists outside of the constraints of time? Is he like the controller/arbiter of time, but not subject to things like continuity himself? When he exists in a certain timeline, is that mirrored through every other timeline (i.e. multiple Barbatos that are spread throughout multiple branches) or is there ever only ONE. Just him. And he selects which timeline to inhabit?

I have this question because there are things about the Barbatos we interact with and hints dropped by others that Barbatos is, potentially, far, far older and far more powerful than I think we can actually grasp.

Thirteen's last point is the one that really makes me wonder, because if Barbatos really has such a broad ability to transcend time and space, then it would be a bit of a nightmare if there were a billion of him running around. Any random change makes a new timeline that makes a new Barbatos with those same godlike abilities until you're completely swamped in the man. Plus, Barbatos never gives us any indication that he speaks to or witnesses his past or future selves, even when he's manipulating things from sidelines...

If there is only one Barbatos, then 1. Little Dia managed to convince, like, the singularly most powerful being in the universe to play House with him, which is such a power move. And 2. That also means any interactions we have with Barbatos in this (or any) timeline cannot be replicated elsewhere. No matter how funky our time adventures get, that Barbatos remains a constant. Thus, NB Barbatos IS OM Barbatos. Probably just hijacked by Solomon to go to past. A past he was no longer present in, because he exists in a continuous state of "present" (his presence is instantly erased from past and he doesn't appear in the future).

And for a being THAT powerful, you really have to wonder...

How much has he changed...?

In Chapter 16, we learn why Beel went berserk and destroyed the Castle. He was triggered by Lucifer explaining a banshee's scream. In OM canon, two kinds of people can hear these screams: those who will die or have a loved one who will die soon and those who have heard it before.

Beel heard a banshee scream in the human world before the War and internalized it as the warning that Lilith was going to die. Naturally, he thinks that if he had told Lucifer then he may have changed his mind but Satan drops this bombshell on us.

A baneshee's warning is supposed to predetermine time. According to Satan, Lilith was alway going to die. But we have a problem here...

Lilith just. Is not dead. Like. Canonically in both the OG title and in NB, Lilith survives the War. So... what gives??

Beel can hear a banshee scream and nobody else can. There's no question that someone was supposed to die. Which only leaves three options:

1. Lilith is dead. Even as a human, she perished.

2. Lilith was never made human... Someone lied to Lucifer and she's actually dead.

3. Barbatos fucked with time to save Lilith.

Option 1 would be pretty lackluster, all things considered. Though it would be a little darkly humorous if Lilith fought and survived in a Celestial War, then got hit by a car one year later or something.

Option 2 would be... so fucked up. But could also shed some light onto Diavolo's guilt about taking in the brothers. Like, imagine if he knew that nothing could be done for Lilith and still tricked Lucifer into eternal service anyway knowing that he could never check his bluff. That would be downright diabolical... and out of character, so I don't think that's the case. (Though, I could see Barbatos lying about it if it gave Diavolo Lucifer's loyalty in the end.)

But Option 3... I think that's actually spine-chilling. Imagine if Diavolo ordered Barbatos to find some way to twist time to save Lilith. And not just spare her life, but to somehow turn her human. That means that we're already playing the events of an altered timeline.

Now combine this idea with our Singular Barbatos theory. If there is one Barbatos, then this is the only timeline where he currently resides. If Barbatos wasn't in THIS timeline, Lilith would be dead. In every other timeline, Lilith is dead. And if OM keeps the detail about MC's lineage, then MC NEVER GETS TO EXIST. They can only be alive in THIS BRANCH OF TIME. There are no other MCs. Just the one (and the corpse that got phased out of being, but we don't talk about them). And this could explain why MC's very existence would be so important to a time-travel being like Nightbringer. There's only one MC to use.

Now, since MC is so powerful (possibly as being that is an aberration in time) it makes me wonder a whole lot more about where someone as powerful Solomon actually came from... How much meddling as Barbatos really done here? If... it was even Barbatos at all. 👀 (Speculation for another day)

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me nightbringer spoilers #obey me nightbringer theories #obey me nightbringer #obey me barbatos #obey me solomon #obey me thirteen #omn spoilers #omnb spoilers #omnb barbatos #omn barbatos

[insanescriptist]

Cremation is just another fun(erl) service

So blaming random 4am thoughts that have been plaguing me all day for this

----

Jason woke to a bright room, thin sheets and the smell of a hospital embedded in his body.

First as always, assess. Hospital. No affiliation printed on the walls or anywhere. Private room, but small. That door looked like it led to a private bathroom. Generic flower picture, a mounted screen turned off. Really fucking bright sunlight from the windows.

There was no fucking way he was in Gotham then. Everything was too nice. Normal by standards outside of Gotham. There were blinds, not metal shutters. The walls were cleaner than Gotham allowed outside of Downtown and he could see greenery through the window.

Okay. So what had he been doing? Jason remembered and then wished he had his Jerichos to shoot himself with. Mystic Shit™. Okay. Okay. That was not one of his better ideas, but if he's recovering in a hospital, it worked. World saved.

So recovery. How fucked was he?

His skin looked so fucked. Which meant he had been worse. He's had time to recover and lose muscle tone in, going by how twiggy his arms were. His hands looked good. Clearly someone knew he cared about those if they went through the effort of restoring those.

Hmm, that was odd. No matter how much Jason hated the Lazarus Pits and all its by-products, it would have been a faster and more simple way to recover from near-death than the long incarceration in a hospital for a John Doe.

Jason wasn't sure if he'd been abandoned yet again by those who called themselves his family because he could, "take care of himself," or if he had been written off dead. Again.

Hospital beat the coffin by a long shot.

And it was with that cheery thought, a nurse -obvious meta human nurse- came in and burst into excited Japanese, because that was of course, his luck.

It's after the nurse and doctors leave that Jason loses his shit.

It looks like he's sulking in bed, but mentally everything in his head is exploding. Imploding.

Three. Fucking. Years. Coma.

Burn victim so bad they not only expected him to die in the first couple of days, but still expect it because of the infection risk his fucked up skin represents.

Still the conversation with the medical staff -of varying degrees of bizarre- was enlightening.

No, he has no idea who he is. Did he ever get anyone visit? How did he get here?

Of course some amnesia is to be expected. No, some of the nurses visited. No one knows how he got here.

Does he know what his quirk is? Uh?

Trauma blocked amnesia, the doctor mutters.

What's the last date he remembered?

Saturday. Maybe? The last year? No, I'm pretty sure my memory is shit and I'm trying hard not to freak out over not knowing anything. So could I get the year number?

And then there's the fucking year number. Once he got it translated into more normal terms.

Mystic Shit™ said fuck you to the future.

Except Jason knows this is not his future. Again, if it was, this would have been treated as a fucking inconvenience. Effective skin restoration goop -the proper name escaped him- was easily available to those with the right connections. A normal baseline human with 2nd and 3rd degree burns would be fine in less than two weeks with it, with nary a trace to show for it.

Thanks to the three year coma, his muscles were all atrophied as fuck, despite their best attempts at physical therapy. Because of all the burns and later burn scars and infections making it basically impossible to actually do fuck all about maintaining muscle tone until he was basically burnt skin and bones anyway.

He was so fucking weak now. It wouldn't last forever. He'd escape this hospital before he was discharged, before whatever "benefactor" showed up for whatever "purpose," he was suppose to serve now, as they had the medical debt over his head or was threatening his loved ones or whatever. If one didn't show up in the next week, he was losing his genre-savviness, because shitheads always wanted to claim shit, if it looked useful.

And Jason was used to looking useful, until he was no longer useful and they just didn't care. The amnesia made him less shiny, but Jason couldn't pull off the brain dead zombie imitation without actually being a brain dead zombie crawling up out of his grave.

So under the thin hospital sheets, Jason twitched his muscles.

Two weeks of emotional freak outs, watching the news, physical therapy and drugs Jason had had enough.

And he broke out.

----

Yeah, he regretted it almost immediately. Hard not to in the stupid paper gown, barefoot and bare ass.

Thankfully people were people, even with the plethora of meta humans he had seen, so it actually wasn't hard to find clothes. Someone left a hoodie in their car and Jason broke into said car. Put on the hoodie. Hotwired the car and drove off.

Somehow for being in the fucking future by two centuries and change, cars really hadn't changed. More evidence of Mystic Shit™ slamming him sideways.

He drove to the next town over, picked another direction, drove some more. Parked the car near what looked like a chop shop, negotiated the car for some money. He probably got ripped off, but better than nothing.

He walked to a corner store, bought some flip-flops after bullshitting an excuse that his had broken. First aid stuff. You know, for his feet. Hair dye in three different colors, because Rose Wilson could pick out a bad dye job at a hundred meters and so Jason learned how to dye his own hair properly so as to avoid her mockery, only to get mockery (affectionate) anyway.

It was a mix of instinct and lifelong observation that let him find an empty apartment quickly. He stole some sweatpants and passed out on the bed.

----

The thing is, Jason doesn't regret his crimes like Bruce thinks he ought to do, with a massive pity party and flaming self-hatred and punching criminals instead of shooting them. He hates the necessity of doing crimes, even if that crime is a net gain to society, but that's why all his serious crimes are premeditated. He's homicidal, not a psychopath.

Not Pit-mad either, no matter what the rest of them might have thought.

Again, he's homicidal, not a psychopath. And when he doesn't have to be some sort of costume soldier to be discarded by family for the disgrace of disfiguring the memory of a dead boy? He's actually chill and boring.

That is to say, he crashed at that apartment for three days, felt progressively more like himself, especially after the dye job -white hair all over, now a solid and boring black- but it still didn't change all the other issues the Mystic Shit™ inflicted on him.

This body isn't actually his. Too young, scars not right where the burns didn't fuck him over. Thankfully his existing coping mechanisms for dysphoria work and it's shoved to the side.

It's also a shit body. Not even a month out of a three year coma with inadequate -by his standards- of medical care. It's weak and building muscle to do everyday civilian shit, is going to take months to do. Pushing as hard as he did during the escape wrecked him the next three days. Jason may not know what's going to happen, but with his luck, it's going to suck and training is preparing to make it suck less. The only certainty he's got is that his skin or lack thereof is going to kill him from infection if he doesn't fix it.

He's got no legal identity here. Which basically puts him back onto familiar ground of legally dead.

Beyond the lack of paperwork, he's got a lack of funds. He also has no easy target to steal funds and equipment from, even just for fun.

For more disadvantages, he's in a different country, with different laws and a whole different culture. He would be climbing on board a fucking plane to Gotham, if it existed in this world, for some familiar ground.

He really is the unluckiest Robin. It also means he is also the most prepared Robin.

---

The first six months after waking up in this mockery world of heroics were the absolute worst.

He started at one foot in the grave and crawled out of it before the casket could really eat him alive. Jason had experience in casket busting. He didn't wanna repeat it.

He still didn't know who he was -in who was he inhabiting- but it wasn't like Jason had a lot to go on. 'His' quirk was thermo-manipulation, most obviously in the blue fire he could call to his hands but he could do some ice too; it was thanks to Duke's light and shadow manipulation that he had even tried for the duality. He had white hair. Presumably Japanese heritage but quirks had really erased or blurred a lot of racial lines. Also presumed dead and young.

Access to the Quirk Registry took some doing, but again, not everyone followed basic computer security, much less what it took to keep someone bat-trained out of their systems. Again, for nearly two centuries in the future, a lot of the technological development had stagnated. Searching through the Quirk Registry hadn't yielded any result but none of his other methods had struck anything either. And he had looked at the recently dead and/or presumed dead. Sure, he had some leads that looked viable, but he wasn't going to follow those up yet.

He had fixed a few of his most pressing issues the past six months. His ignorance of the local area, the local and national politics and so on. This world supported and had an entire industry catering to making child soldiers and sell their image and reputation to make money and more child soldiers that called themselves Heroes.

His weak ass body no long cried doing daily tasks and only hated him after working out. Yes, Jason was pushing it but he was well aware of how months of preparation could mean shit in the face of seconds.

His infection risk was severely reduced after quick research bender let him make the most generic knock-off brand of the skin restoration goop in a shitty homemade lab. Did it fix his skin being patchwork fucked in places? Some. He wasn't going to get feeling back properly, but at least he looked more normal. Maybe with enough moisturizing he might look a little less Frankenstien's monster.

He also had a cash inflow. It wasn't great, but it supported his apartment. And the second set of papers. And the 2nd apartment.

Which meant in grand old tradition for Jason, time for him to bounce to the next apartment and come up with a new name.

#time for Izzy to slep #Izzy does fic #jason todd #dabi

[thesupernaturalhouse]

This started out as a funny snipper. How tf did it turn into a fanfic?? Also this took me so long anyways, pt3 of the accidental overlord vaggie fic

Alastor: shoves Vaggie between him and Rosie and drops Frank onto her lap

Vaggie: trying to process how tf a giant dragon got through an elevator among many other things

Carmilla: thank you for coming today. I've gathered you all here to talk about the millions of souls-

Vaggie squeaks so quiet no one hears her: I'm sorry fucking how many??....How- How do you check that?? Gets ignored

She's just squeezing poor frank like a stress toy

Carmilla ignores her: You own. And how their at risk with the new extermination schedule. And how we minimize the damage going to be caused by it.

Finally looking aorund the room

Carmilla: Zestial, so god to see you- ....Alastor?? And- eyes narrow the protective overlord

Alastor, leaning over to block vaggie form view because he's petty as fuck: hello! Yes yes, I know, I've been absent for a longgg time and I'm sure youre all DYING to knwo where I've been~

Carmilla:...no. not really, shrugs but welcome back anyways I suppose....I am interested about who you've brought though....

Vaggie: just staring out into space, regretting her life choices and trying to count how many people owe her 'favors'

Carmilla slgihtly concerned/unnerved: In any case, this year's extermination was brutadal. A good 16% of the population was killed off. With them coming back in only 6 months I think it prudent that we-

Velvette: just fucking kicks the door open Yeah, I've got it handled Vox? Are you doubting me? ME might I remind you? Yeah, no. That's what I thought. Yes, yes, I know, thank you V, see you later Okay, bye, kisses darling!

Carmilla: nice of you to finally join us, Velvette. Will you.....colleges? be joining us?

Velvette: What? No way. They have better shit to do than to listen to some old windbag who think she's tough shit! Haha, no. Immm here to represent!

Carmilla:...charming. now, back to what I was saying, we need to-

Velvette: waves her arm frantically

Camilla feeling like a preschool teacher: yes??

Velvette: well, on the topic of discussssss throws exorcists head down let's discuss

Alastor: oooo tasty!!

Vaggie: ohhhhh my god....whispering to herself is that Tuff?? Wtf- how??

Carmilla:......where...did you get this?

Velvette: doesn't matter. We found it, though. And if these angle fuckers can be killed, then the game of cat and mouse has changed, the boys and I have-

Vaggies distressed squeaking as Velvette continues, Zestial jsut slumps his tea

Velvette:....the fuck is wrong with you two?? Looks at vaggie leans downs to get closer....also you're new

Vaggie: uhhhhh......thank?? You??

Velvette: narrows eyes before her head snaps ti zestial

Zestial: we shouldn't go to war with such meger proof.

Velvette:...meger- MEGER PROOF!? ITS a dead fucking Exorcist!!! What more do you WANT!? A video of it being killed?? No- this is definitive proof- if you can't see that, maybe you're going blind old man.

Zestial: it may be dead but how? It could be by a demon, but mayhaps it died due to unrelated reasons

Vaggie: Well, angles have hurt their own kind. Wouldn't be suprised if killing was another option for them

Everyone's heads snap to her

Vaggie:.....did....I say that out loud?

Carmillas narrows her eyes: how do you know that.

Vaggie: I um...I....I saw it happening?

Velvette:....wait aren't you the princesses whore? What are you doing out if your bird cage hm?

Vaggie: I....what??

Carmilla shaking her head: we're getting off topic.

Zestial: Carmilla is right. If we rush to war the angles would purge all of the sinners for daring to even TRY an uprising

Overlords: muttering

Alastor: why don't we put it to a vote?

Vaggie: depends is one of the options 'can we all just go home pelase?'

Alastor: hmmm no!

Vaggie grumbling: I hate you.

Velvette narrows eyes: ohhh okay I see. Grandpa's to scared to make a move! So then there's no point in it huh?

*the respect less song which I am not writing*

Zeezi: pft, what the hell? we literally JUST got here!

odette:....mom??

Carmille:....meeting dismissed.

Vaggie: uh, does this mean we can go home?- gets glared at .....okay sits back down like a scolded kid as she thinks about wtf jsut happened

Vaggie to herself in a defeated tone:.....she never told me how to see how many souls I own.....how many people owe me favors?

Proceeds to try and calculate and count on her fingers and Alastor watches in amusement, after sending off frank, and Rosie watches slightly concerned as to wtf her friend did to this teenage child....and maybe also finding it a bit funny

Part 2 | Part 3(here!) | Part 4

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel au #hazbin hotel vaggie #accidental overlord vaggie au #hazbin hotel alastor #Hazbin hotel carmilla #hazbin hotel velvette #Hazbin hotel overlords #Hazbin hotel rosie #This is the closest to the episode since I had to re watch the meeting scene to write it

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Gabe/Stephen; largesse (pt II)

For the prompt: Gabe and Stephen being sappy at SOME point

Follows this.

Early on, Gabe worries he’s wrong about his 'Stephen loves holidays' thesis: Easter’s during Passover that year, and neither of them do anything for it, unless you count Stephen buying a few bags of mini eggs from the drug store when they go on clearance after, and Gabe doesn’t. At this point mini eggs are entirely secular — they’re not even a seasonal thing. Gabe saw a Christmas edition of them a few months back, though he’s not sure how eggs are supposed to be involved in Christmas. Maybe another gift for Santa? Cookies and milk aren't a very well-balanced diet, some eggs can't hurt.

But then Mother’s Day arrives, and while Gabe orders his mom flowers, Stephen leans over him, sighing about needing to get his mom something, but not flowers, because his mom doesn’t like flowers, she always makes things difficult, why can’t she just like what everyone else does. This is the third straight day of their annual tradition of brainstorming what to get Anouk — twice annual tradition, actually, it comes up on her birthday too, and probably at Christmas, now that Gabe’s thinking about it, it’s just that Stephen worries about what to get everyone for Christmas, with the exception of Gabe and his parents, and that’s just because he worries about what to get them for Hannukah instead.

And then Father’s Day comes around, and Stephen goes through the exact same process for getting Johan a gift. Then Beth’s birthday, and that Stephen pretends not to care about at all, but then gets her and Anna tickets to a Taylor Swift concert in Toronto that summer, and Gabe’s pretty sure securing those involved either a sizeable amount of time, money, or both.

Gabe’s not proud to say it takes until Johan’s birthday in October to really click into place. Obviously he’s had some suspicions, or he wouldn’t have been observing Stephen’s demeanour so closely, but honestly, he does that as a matter of course — it’s easier than listening to what Stephen says about how he’s feeling, which is usually not true. And that’s if he’s even willing to talk about it, which isn't likely.

Once again, Stephen’s bitching about how hard it is to buy things for his dad, who is, admittedly, not an easy man to find gifts for, and Gabe finally sees right all the way through Stephen's ‘why is gift giving so frequent, it’s absurd’ speech to the fact that it’s honestly not hard to find a gift for someone if you don’t give a shit whether they like it.

Stephen apparently gives so many shits. Innumerable shits. So Gabe figures he can help him out a bit. Do some research, attempt to make a list.

“I doubt most of them are up to snuff, because, you know, Johan,” Gabe says, waving a hand in a way he’s concerned to notice is an accidental but dead on impression of his mother, “But maybe one or two of them will work.”

“Gabe,” Stephen says, looking up from the list.

“It’s nothing,” Gabe says. “Something to do on the road.”

“You printed it out,” Stephen says.

“Seemed easier,” Gabe says. “But I’ll email it to you as well.”

“And colour coordinated it,” Stephen says.

“It was a boring roadie,” Gabe says, though the end of it is kind of breathless, because Stephen’s crushing the air out of his lungs.

“Thank you,” Stephen mumbles, and Gabe brings a hand up to card through his hair.

“It’s nothing,” he says.

~

The packages start arriving two days later.

Gabe sighs, pushing aside two boxes with his foot so he can unlock the door, grabbing one under each arm to bring inside. One of them’s heavy for its size. Probably the knife set.

“Oh good,” Stephen says, looking up from his laptop as Gabe stacks the packages on top of all the other ones in the living room. “I was getting concerned that those weren’t coming.”

“Stephen,” Gabe says. “You can’t give your dad seventeen gifts for his birthday. He’ll just be disappointed every other year.”

And Gabe did say it was nothing, but that list took him two flights, three breakfasts, a dinner, and the recommendations of half the Canucks and most of the support staff, with dads receiving special consideration, to make.

“I can, however, not have to worry about what to get him for the next five years,” Stephen says gleefully.

Gabe sees trouble coming.

“I’m not making a list for everyone,” Gabe says.

“Gabe,” Stephen whines.

“No way,” Gabe says, taking this as a cue to retreat. “You’re on your own.”

“Gabe,” Stephen says, closing his laptop to trail him out of living room. “Please?”

~

The Canucks, unfortunately, are much less helpful when it comes to what to get middle-aged women. Gabe is disappointed but unsurprised.

“You lose a bet, Marksy?” Coach asks when Gabe brings the question to him. He’s married to one, which likely gives him an edge over the Canucks, who Gabe's learned are all a bunch of terrible sons. Well, other than Bullet. The majority of the ideas he does have on this list are just him trying to keep up with Bullet’s stream-of-consciousness.

“Something like that,” Gabe says, and adds his suggestion for a shawl. Sure, it’s already on the list, but it’s never smart to piss off the guy who controls how many minutes you get.

"My wife likes candles too," Coach says. "The ones that smell up the place."

Stephen can't stand scented candles, and Gabe's almost positive he got that from his mom, but Gabe adds it to the list anyway. It'd serve Stephen right to get a faulty list, and maybe he won't be forced to make one for Beth and Anna if he does a purposefully bad job.

Gabe waits until Coach is long gone, and then he makes sure to scribble those ideas out. Sure, he'll probably remember, and Stephen would probably notice even if he didn't, but, well.

May as well get Anouk something nice.

#fic snippet #SOTM #gabe markson #stephen petersen

[eitaababe]

EVEN IT'S A LIE !

epilogue.

[ a / n ; i finished! who would've thought. ]

series masterlist. | previous.

— two years later !

after having to deal with the baggage from ao'nung, the past couple of years had been nothing short of focusing on yourself. with the help of your friends, you were able to find yourself again, assuring yourself you'd never let a man dictate the way you felt about yourself ever again.

of course, avoiding ao'nung when you go to the same university is nearly impossible. you see each other in passing every few months or so, trying your best to limit any sort of contact with each other.

you'd grown closer with rotxo, with him being a better friend to you than you ever could have expected. it's strange, how well you're able to avoid ao'nung when your best friends with the two people closest to him.

still, the limited contact keeps the damage to a minimum.

because you'd be lying if you said you didn't think of him from time to time, the three words he claimed to be nothing but the truth. and how you were deceived into feeling the same.

but you're content, and over time you'd started to find yourself again. making it a weekly thing to just go out on your own, to your favorite cafe for some alone time.

so when you walk in, the last thing you expect to see is ao'nung's face behind the counter, an apron tied around his figure.

you feel your throat go dry when his eyes widen, and he tries to keep as professional as he can, clearing his throat before speaking up. "what can i get for you today?"

"uhm," you stutter, blinking multiple times before bringing yourself back to reality. it's more than a shock, seeing him in a place that was supposed to bring you peace, and now is making your head spin in such a way it makes you forget your usual order. "just a iced chai, please."

"you wanna take a muffin with that?"

you're surprised as the question slips out his mouth. you've always liked to pair your drink with some sort of muffin over the years, a small detail you definitely didn't expect him to remember.

"uh, yes please. how about a-"

"blueberry." he says quietly and in sync with you as he jots it down casually. you don't understand how he seems to be so nonchalant over this, like the interaction isn't so out of the blue for him.

you both stand there silently as he finishes up the order, and you pay, your eyes meeting after. and when they do, it's like you could fall into him all over again. his eyes are like the ocean, waves so dangerous yet you can't help but want to jump in. you have to pull your gaze away, breaking you both out the trance.

"look, i'm- i'm really sorry," he breathes out, and taking this as an opportunity as nobody else is in line behind you, and the cafe is experiencing its dead hour. "i know it was years ago, but i was an asshole. really. and i just- i've worked on myself, and i've had time to reflect, and i still can't believe i did what i did."

you smile at the sincerity of his voice, and you can do nothing but believe him. it's true, he's grown as a person in the past years and so have you. you can practically see how he's matured, carrying himself with a calm sense of confidence, different from the cockiness that once was.

"it's alright, really," you assure, nodding as you're finally able to hold a civil conversation after all this time. "i mean- we're both really different people now. we've grown, and learned, and it's water under the bridge, honestly. and i know it might not mean much," i chuckle. "but i was finally able to bring myself to forgive you."

"it's a lot," he admits, smiling back at you with a certain sweetness behind it. "it's everything. really." he assures, and this time, you're sure he means it.

after a few smiling moments you glance down, deciding to take a leap.

"would you like to join me? maybe for just a bit, i know you're working. but.. just as friends."

because despite what ao'nung did to you, there's always a soft spot for him in your heart. always a part of you that will know him, no matter how much he changes. and maybe you don't realize it either, but it's just the same for him.

his smile grows even wider at the invitation, and you can feel your heart swell at the sight.

"i'd love to."

[🏷️ ; taglist. / closed ] @loaksbitch @8resa @n7ytiri @yukichan67 @dearstell @halibanana @teyums @lightskinloak @ipoopedmypants47 @aonungmybf @il0veheartz @chittakii @jjkclub @universal-s1ut @ilovejakesullysdick @calums-betch @izuoyarmin @yeosxxx @cl0esblogg @alwayswndr @iheartamajiki @jenniferdixon05207 @manumanulau @myh3artttt @sugarrush-blush @be3flow3r @cupidsl0ve

#[ — ⌛️; even if it's a lie ! ] #[ — 🌎 ; avatar ] #ao'nung avatar #avatar x reader #ao'nung smau #ao'nung x reader #ao'nung series #ao'nung #ao’nung fluff #aonung avatar #aonung x reader #aonung fluff #aonung angst #ao'nung angst #ao'nung x y/n #ao'nung fluff #avatar angst #avatar smau

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Various Storms and Saints- Prologue

"You still haven't told me if he's cute or not."

Scully sighed and pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck. Nobody could make her regret bringing up a subject as quickly as her sister when she put her mind to it. "No, Missy, I haven't," she allowed. "Because it's irrelevant. Mulder's good looks aren't the reason I miss working with him."

"So you admit it? He is cute?"

"Missy. Can we please have a serious conversation, for once?"

"Fine, fine," Melissa acquiesced, though her tone made it clear this point would be revisited in the future. "Tell me why you miss working with him, then."

"Well... part of it is the cases we tackled together," Scully said. "The autopsies I'm stuck doing now that the X-Files are shut down seem so boring in comparison to murderous clones and mind-controlling worms in the Arctic."

Melissa whistled. "Yeah, I can see how that might be a little bit of a come down. What's the other part?"

"What other part?"

"You said the cases are part of the reason. So what's the other part?"

Scully closed her eyes. How to define this most indefinable of relationships, especially to Melissa, who so often seemed to think every person in her life fit into a neat box? "I miss the way he spoke to me," she said finally. "He never talked down to me, not even when he was standing so close I practically had to break my neck to meet his eyes. He made me feel like the things I have to say are important... that they carried real weight with him, even when he didn't agree with me." She chuckled ruefully. "Which was most of the time. He's always shown me a respect that I don't get that often, being surrounded by men in positions of authority who all love to hear themselves talk."

"That does sound like it would be tough to leave behind," agreed Melissa. "Couldn't you... I dunno, lobby to be his partner on whatever assignment he's on now, though? Then at least you'd still be working together even if it wasn't in the X-Files."

"He's working with someone else," said Scully darkly. "At least he was on his most recent case. I don't know if they're officially partners or not."

"And you don't like whoever it is," said Melissa knowingly. "I can hear it in your voice." "I don't really know anything about him," Scully admitted. "But... there's something strange about him, you know? He just makes me nervous." There had been something about Alex Krycek's fresh-faced innocence that had seemed less than genuine, even if Scully couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"Bad vibes, huh?"

"Maybe." Scully sighed. "For all I know, it's just my jealousy getting in the way because I want to be the one out there with Mulder."

"See, I knew you liked him," crowed Melissa, and Scully groaned, exasperated.

"Melissa. It's not like that."

"Fine, fine, whatever you say," Melissa huffed. "Hang on a sec, okay?" The phone was muffled, as though Melissa had put her hand over the receiver. Someone's voice asked a garbled question, Melissa gave an equally garbled response, and a moment later, she was back. "Hey Danes, I gotta go, okay?"

"Wait, Melissa, what's your--"

"There's a meditation session I'm supposed to lead and they're waiting for me. I'll call you soon, okay?"

"But Melissa, where are--" There was a click, and the line went dead.

Scully dropped her bedroom extension back into its cradle on the nightstand and sank back onto her bed with a sigh, snuggling into the cardigan she'd pulled on over her work clothes when she'd walked into her apartment. She'd come home from work for lunch, having finished her morning teaching session a little early, and had been available purely by chance when Melissa called for the first time in two months. Phone conversations with her older sister, while always welcome, tended to be exhausting these days. She hadn't seen Melissa in years, not since the day after her graduation from medical school. Melissa hadn't made it to the event itself, but she'd shown up at the party her parents had thrown her afterwards. Melissa hadn't understood her sister's disappointment, and Maggie Scully, as she so often did, had defended her elder daughter to her younger.

"You know big ceremonies aren't really your sister's thing, Dana," she'd said, patting Scully's shoulder consolingly. "She barely sat through her own high school graduation. Just be thankful she's here for the celebration, all right?"

Sitting through a graduation ceremony was boring, to be sure, but that hadn't stopped Scully from doing it for all three of her siblings when they'd finished high school, plus for Bill and Charlie when they'd finished college. In her opinion, it had nothing to do with how exciting or boring the ceremony itself was, and everything to do with showing up for the people she loved when their hard work and accomplishments were recognized.

Showing up. That was something Melissa had traditionally had difficulty with, when it came down to it.

They hadn't even had a working phone number for Melissa last Christmas when Ahab had passed. Scully, tasked with handling everything while her mother waded through her initial shock and grief, had called every friend of Melissa's she could think of, trying to locate her sister, and had failed. She'd been reduced to sending a letter to Melissa's last known address in hopes it might get correctly forwarded. But it never got to her, as was evidenced three months later when Melissa had called home, chatted with Maggie cheerfully about her recent travels, and then had asked to speak to her father and had been completely lost when her mother had burst into tears.

"Free-spirited" had always been how the family had described Melissa. But deep down, in her darkest and most shameful thoughts, the word Scully sometimes landed on was "selfish."

Scully's cell phone rang, startling her out of her reverie. She half-expected it to be Mulder, begging her to do another autopsy he couldn't trust with anyone else, but it was Roy Seekamp, a fellow FBI pathologist whose office in the Hoover building was next to Scully's.

"Where are you?" asked Roy. "One of the AD's came looking for you but your office is locked. Skinner, I think his name was?"

"I came home for lunch. What's going on?"

"Something big is going down in Virginia," said Roy. "Some hostage situation with an escaped mental patient."

Scully frowned, confused. "Why would they need me for that?" she asked.

"I don't think they actually need you or anything," said Roy. "The AD was just looking for you to let you know your old partner is there on the scene."

Scully's heart skipped a beat. "Mulder is there?" She got off the bed and raced out of her bedroom, tearing off the cardigan and snatching up her bag. "What's he doing there? He's not a hostage negotiator!"

"No idea," said Roy. "I think AD Skinner just wanted you to hear it from him. You coming back to the office?"

"Yes," Scully said, pulling on her shoes. "Be there soon." She ended the call and stuffed her phone into her bag, then looked down and realized she was still clutching her cardigan. She folded it in half and draped it over the back of her couch on her way out the door.

It stayed there, untouched, for over a month.

#my fic #x-files fanfic #Various Storms and Saints #Some of y'all are gonna HATE this #angst alert #Mulder/other resolving into MSR #JUST TRUST ME I WOULD NEVER STEER YOU WRONG

[k4marina]

the night we met || b.w || prologue

synopsis : who knew one night would change both of your lives

warnings : idk, spelling, vigilante, mentions of drugs, trafficking, rapists, murders, and general crime

brucewayne x fem!reader

a/n ; follows no specific plot line other than that bruce has been batman for a few years now. also, readers suit is this :)

batman slowly enters the apartment building's 6th floor through one of its balconies. using one of his many gadgets he sweeps through the rooms getting closer to the main room.

for the past three weeks both the falcone family and oswald cobblepot, or the penguin, had been moving suspiciously. well, more than usual. so much that commissioner gordon had personally asked the vigilante to find out what had been going on.

so far, a week later, all he'd found out is that falcone had been using the iceberg lounge to smuggle drugs. from where? who knows. to who? who knows. surprisingly, they had all kept it very tight and under wraps.

it wasn't until two days ago where batman had found a person involved in the whole ring and had valuable evidence. now, batman was creeping up to his apartment. he reaches back to his utility belt to pull out a lock-pic only to stop, his eyes narrowing at the door clearly forced open.

instead he opts to grab a batarang instead and slowly pushes the door open, stepping into the dimly lit apartment.

living room? clear. kitchen? clear. bathroom? also clear. which left the bedroom. light poured out from under the bedroom door. there's no sound coming from behind it, which doesn't help his nerves. batman pushes the door open only to be met with the man laying on his back on the bed. his eyes are wide open, blankly staring up at the ceiling.

there's a few white lines of drugs on his nightstand as well as a dime bag half full, rolled up money, and a credit card. that paired with the man's chest no moving means that he'd overdosed.

batman's eyes gloss over the room. something's off. he couldn't tell what exactly, but he knew. in the corner of the room was an opened safe.

there. he creeped closer only to find it opened as well, the safe empty of its content.

"looking for this?"

batman whips around to where the closet was. there you stood, holding up an orange folder. his eyes scanned you. you didn't seem like a threat. you wore a black and grey bodysuit with white-silver highlights. the top of your face was covered by a mask and your hair let down.

"who are you?" he asks. another vigilante? or a mercenary? or did you work for falcone and were tying up lose ends?

"inescapable." you reply. batman frowns. what the hell does that mean?

"you're one of falcone's people," he says, accusingly.

you laugh in disbelief. "me? you really think i'd work for that scum? no, bat-boy, i'm like you. except i can take the finally plunge."

"you did this?" he says, referring to the dead man on the bed.

"well, not really," you shrug. "i didn't shove the cocaine down his nose, personally. but, i also didn't stop him." you could see batman slightly grimace when you said that, but you couldn't really care. "took some time for him to trust me, but hey," you hold up the folder, "it was worth it in the end."

"what are you going to do with it? sell it?"

"no, i've got enough money. i'm just going to look over it, make some notes and then hand it over to you and the boy's in blue."

"and when will that be?" there's an edge in his voice as batman get's irritated the more you play him.

"depending on how soon i leave, it should take too long." you hum.

"you really think i'm going to let you go with such important information?" batman crosses his arms over his chest. even through the tactical suit you could still see his bulging muscles.

"well it's not up to you really." you give a mischievous smile. "you see, our friend there was supposed to make a phone call to his criminal friends. now, because of his untimely death, he wasn't able to do that. so now, they're on their way here. and i am going to leave."

just as you finished your explanation the sound of a car engine could be heard outside. batman looks out the window. there, were two cars, all filled with mobsters, no doubt coming up here like you'd said.

batman looks back to you to say something but pauses when he sees that you're gone with the folder.

fucking hell.

---

by the time bruce makes it back to the batcave it's nearing 5 in the morning. alfred's there with a warm cup of tea, like always, and ready to treat any possible injuries. bruce steps out of the batmobile tumbler and removes the cowl.

"rough night, mater wayne?" the old man asks. he walks over, swapping the cowl for the cup of tea. bruce rolls his shoulder and takes a sip of the tea. it was a special blend that was to help his sore muscles and help his sleep easier.

"something like that." rather then heading towards the elevator, bruce walks over to the massive computer and sits down.

after you had left he had to deal with six mobsters by himself and then called over gordon hoping for some information, only to be left with more questions. though, he was given a name.

"inescapable?" alfred reads aloud. bruce presses enter and the watches as the computer tries to decipher the word.

"is this some code?"

bruce grunts, rolling his shoulders. "something like that." he takes a sip of the warm tea. "there was a women, at the apartment. she was wearing some sort of gear. looked handmade."

"another vigilante?" alfred muses.

"if she were another vigilante then she'd have been on our radar. it's like she just appeared out of thin air." bruce watches as the computer worked to find something. when it does, it shows a series of articles and photos.

"adrasteia was the goddess of "inevitable fate", representing "pressing necessity", and the inescapability of punishment." the first article read.

alfred slightly leans over, pointing at a certain part of the article and read aloud. "the name adrasteia can be understood as meaning "inescapable". there's your link."

bruce clicks off to another article, this time it was a news article. "adrasteia takes down new yorks biggest crime family. so she has experience."

"but the question is, what is she doing in gotham?" alfred hums.

as the two looked through more article, more and more information surfaced about you. you were a vigilante that fought crime in new york. it started off small, handling petty crime before moving up to taking down rapists and murders until you took down one of new yorks biggest crime families. after that, it seems that you vanished and reappeared in gotham.

another thing about you, that rubbed him the wrong way, was that you weren't afraid to kill if necessary. you went after everyone, and like your namesake, you were inescapable.

after a few hours of more research alfred finally had enough and dragged bruce back to his room.

"you can look over all of this after you've had your rest. the last thing we need is bruce yayne collapsing at one of his charity galas due to lack of sleep."

bruce begrudgingly agrees and heads to bed. despite the exhaustion taking over him, he couldn't help but think back to you and your encounter with him.

what's this? another bruce wayne fic? and it's a series? whaaa <3

#batman/reader #batman x reader #batman x you #batman fanfiction #batman imagine #batman x batmom #batman x fem!reader #bale!batman x reader #bale!batman x fem!reader #pattinson!batman x reader #pattinson!batman x fem!reader #affleck!batman x reader #affleck!batman x fem!reader #dc x reader #dc x y/n #batman x y/n #dc fic #dc batman #k4marinafics #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x reader

[wannab-urs]

WIP Wednesday

Doing my own thing with WIP Wednesday this week and combining a couple typical tag games.

Step one: Post snippets of the fics you're working on (can be a summary if there's no snippet)

Loser, Baby - Dieter x Frankie

“Frankie, man, I just feel like such a fucking loser. I cannot get my shit together,” Dieter whines into the phone. He drums his fingers on the table top in front of him, contemplating ordering another whiskey.  “News flash, Dee. You are a loser,” Frankie’s reply crackles through the speaker. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” “You’re calling me from a bar. You are literally addicted to cocaine, smoke too much weed, and rarely go more than 24 hours without getting piss drunk. What do you want me to say?” “I don’t know, man.” Dieter trails off. He drains the last few ice cubes in the tumbler. “Reassure me? Make me feel better? You’re my fucking sponsor.” “We’re both losers, Dee. We met in NA for fucks sake, it’s not like I’ve always had my shit together.”  “Will you come get me?” Dieter’s voice is pathetically whiny. He feels stupid for even needing to call, and now he’s asking for this.  “Course. Give me 15. Don’t order another drink.” The line goes dead and Dieter saunters up to the bar to order another and wait for Frankie. 

Din/Ez Mandalorian rewrite (to be titled later)

(this would be the end of episode/chapter 1) “Well. They said 40 years old.” “This does look to be our target,” the droid quips.  IG raises his blaster as if to shoot the sleeping man.   “No. We'll bring him in alive.” “The commission was quite specific. The asset was to be terminated.” He raises his blaster again, but Din is faster. Before the IG unit can even register his movement, there’s a hole in its head.  The bounty is sleeping on the floor, a pile of ragged blankets serving as a bed. He’s missing an arm, the stump wrapped in dirty bandages. Din toes him with his boot, keeping his blaster trained on him. The man doesn’t wake up. Din kicks him a bit harder and he still doesn’t stir. He picks the man up and heaves him over his shoulders. He carries him out to the blurg Kuill let him keep and ties him to its back like a saddlebag.  It’s a long walk back to the ship.

Step two: put them in a poll and let people vote on which one you should work on

Step three: Every vote is one minute you put on a timer to work on that fic (ex. 15 votes = 15 minutes of writing)

Additionally, if you want to pick my brain about either one, I have a decent bit of lore planned out. Feel free to shoot me an ask or drop a comment <3

Tags: @chronically-ghosted @sp00kymulderr @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @burntheedges @beskarandblasters @pedgito @covetyou @jupiter-soups @toxic-seduction @futuraa-free @nerdieforpedro @kennysbellbottoms @valoxwayward @qveerthe0ry @rhoorl @party-hearses @rebel-held @dancingtotuyo @sin-djarin @littlegrungegirlaf @perotovar @javierpenaispunk @magpiepills @whatsnewalycat @schnarfer @heareball @always-andromeda @bitchwitch1981 @mothandpidgeon @all-the-way-down-here

#tag games #wip wednesday #poll