#the wax and cracks does force him to slouch more though

[patriamrealm]

If the others see the cracks on Ingo's glass body, how would they try to fix it? Because I think Akari would freak out about it and try to fix it herself.

A crack is serious damage, potions aren't enough the only thing they can do for him is seal the cracks with combee wax and leave him to heal on his own. It's slow and agonizing to him but all anyone knows to do to help him.

Akari would probably accidentally make it worse honestly, it's a serious injury to him. What she can do is make getting wax easier with her combee. Good thing Ingo doesn't wind up with a cracked chest often.

#submas #pokemon!aspects #ingo #calaba #akari #akari would try for sure to take care of it herself #but it's best to leave it to calaba and the pearl clan healers #less risk to his health then #the wax and cracks does force him to slouch more though #straightening up moves the panels making it more likely to break the wax seal and making cracks worse

[sparrowsfall]

@himncskur​ confessed : “Come and pray with me, John. For the three of us.” 👀

The few lingering members of the congregation file out of the pews one by one, exchanging handshakes and words of gratitude for which he finds himself forcing whatever ghost of a smile he can muster. Gratitude for what, exactly? For the Bliss? For the violence? For their friends and family whom he’d happily led to a sacrificial slaughter, time and time again? It wasn’t always like this --- It wasn’t always feverish sermons of such militant subjects. Of grabbing their rifles and rising up to join GOD’S ARMY. He remembers the days before, when far more people knew him by John as opposed to Paul. When he could charm just about all walks of life from every corner of Hope County into the one-room chapel. When the devout and the secular, the sinners and the saints alike all came together as one to hear young Father John Pruitt --- a local priest, an AA counselor, a community leader, a friend --- preach not just God’s word, but words of LOVE and HOPE and RENEWAL.

     It all feels like a lifetime ago. 

He sits here now, slouched in the front pew. Daring to pray for forgiveness. Dark gaze steady on the floor as he hangs his head in shame, unable to bear the full force of the Only Begotten Son’s polished wooden stare. Only when he feels a familiar weight settle next to him does he finally crack a smile --- One look at Sarah’s ever-radiant face, and it’s like sunshine breaking through the otherwise melancholy clouds of his mind. 

Their fingers lace together. They give each other a tight little squeeze. A reminder that through all of the horror and the hardship, he has something, someone, still anchoring him to his humanity. All of these terrible things he’s done in the name of something that reveals itself as UNHOLY with each layer he peels back, in the name of a SELF-PROCLAIMED PROPHET who he’s no longer certain he has faith in, and born-again Paul Hill still cannot say he regrets it. Not one bit --- Meeting her, loving her, marrying her has made it all well worth it. John simply cannot imagine a life without her. Nor has he wholly, truly predicted the turn it’s about to take. Even with all their planning. Their wishful thinking. And whatever remains of their hopes and dreams that are still left untarnished by the BRUTALITY that has all but consumed their lives and their very sense of self.

     ‘ Come and pray with me, John. For the THREE of us. ’

To John’s credit, he tries to speak. Desperately, he tries, because he knows that Sarah is waiting for an answer, but his first attempts are made in vain. All he can do is sit and stare with that stupid, giddy grin spreading from one ear to the other, the very same grin that has her barely stifling a giggle. His tongue ties in his mouth, his voice tangles in his throat, as he sits there slack-jawed and smiling. What words would even begin to describe what he’s feeling? This feeling as though he’s about to COLLAPSE under the enormous weight of his own joy? He could make an earnest attempt to wax poetic about it, but no holy sermon about blessings or creation would suffice. He can’t tell her. He can only show her.

“ Oh my God. Oh my God, Sarah--- ” Large hands cup either side of his wife’s face and pull her towards him, until her lips catch his own after a moment all too long and all too silent. He can feel his heart swell with joy, can feel the excitement filling the hollows of his chest up, up, up until he swears he feels as light as air. Feels as though he’s floating. Hungry and passionate and urgent as his many kisses are, there is still something undeniably innocent about them, as he allows all of his love and all of his elation to bubble over. To pour out of him. To lavish her in it with every breathless affection laid across every beautiful freckle and every gorgeous scar that decorates her face.

     LOVE REJOICES WITH THE TRUTH, so says Corinthians --- It always PROTECTS, always TRUSTS, always HOPES, and always PERSEVERES.

Here now, is the first truth. It is offered to her with one hand still caressing her cheek, the other slowly slipping down to rest on the very bottom of her belly that has long yet to swell. To brush his thumb across the soft skin there, hoping those little thrums of touch reach the ears of their tiny, unborn, undoubtedly perfect baby ( if they even have ears yet ) : “ I love you so much...” It is less of a confession and more of a commandment. Something he is sure to always practice, to always show her, even when unspoken. An oath he made long before he married her. A WAY OF LIFE he follows as devoutly as his faith. “ I love the both of you so, so much. ” 

And this, then, is the second truth. One he realizes as he rests his forehead against hers : There is another life on the line now. Another life that is wholly innocent, in every sense of the word, that they will add to the throes of the Project’s chaos. A life that Father Paul Hill  JOHN PRUITT will be sworn to protect with every ounce of strength he can muster and every bit of ferocity he can stomach. He has a strange relationship with it --- this violence that has lain dormant in him until the Project showed him otherwise.  Until they reminded him that he too has teeth. And for all of the harm and the horror and the death that his fangs and claws have wrought, it is in this moment that he is at last grateful for them. It is in this moment that he understands that his growing tolerance for brutality will be given a most righteous purpose. That he will do whatever it takes to preserve this new life. To make Hope County better for the little soul they’ve been blessed with. HE SWEARS IT.

     Most importantly, it is in this moment that he realizes that there is LOVE and RENEWAL and yes, even HOPE to be found in Hope County, after all. Right here and right now. In the life he and Sarah share together. In the life they’ve made together that blossoms like a wildflower through the cracks of hot pavement. A miraculous mark of existence. Of resilience. Of life everlasting.

“ How long, uhm--- ” Even with a voice still cracked by his joy, the myriad of questions that swarm every expecting father’s mind soon begins to flow from his mouth. A strong and steady current of two parts exhilaration and one part nerves. “ How far along are you? Have you seen Patrick yet? Did he say? ”

#pregnancy / #ic. #book iv. #himncskur #divinitywept / how blessed i am to be with you in hell. #sorry this took so long i wanted to do this moment justice and.... i hope i did :') #if u wanna reply to this Do Not Feel Pressure To Text Match i know i got so carried away shnjdns #i am Not Sobbing i just fell into the produce aisle mist at the grocery store by accident!!!!

[inkstainedfanfics]

HAVE YOU HEARD THE NEWS THAT APPARENTLY THESEUS IS ENGAGED TO LETA LESTRANGE AND IF YOU HAVE THEN WOULD IT WOULD BE PERFECT FOR AN ANGST DRABBLE just an idea though

All right anon what the heck. You come in here asking for angst about something I’m so passionate about and expect me to keep it at less than 1000 words?? You greatly overestimate my abilities. So here’s my response to your prompt, it’s way too long and basically a fic itself I’m sorry (but also ily bc omg this was a great prompt haha tysm for bringing it to me!).

You try not to let it bother you at first. Not the sudden lack of nights spent cuddling nor the days waking up in a bed with one cold side. You pretend you don’t notice the vacant look that sometimes overcomes Newt when you’re eating supper and the card hanging from the mantle flutters in the wind. When Newt forgets your birthday, you tell yourself it’s nothing, he’s just busy with his book, he doesn’t have time to worry about such a trivial thing, right?

But sometimes ignorance is far from bliss. The lost moments, the ignored feelings, they build and build and build until the dam restraining them splinters and explodes, wreaking havoc on a life and a love, leaving nothing more than a muddy, destructive mess in its path.

Today is the day that happens. Today is the day you lose everything.

It’s dark outside already, the full moon’s light dancing with the flames of the candles you lit earlier and set on the table. Red wax drips onto the cream tablecloth, puddling around the golden candlestick holder Mrs. Scamander offered the two of you when it seemed like the relationship was going better, when it seemed like you two had some semblance of a future.

Now you sit at supper with a puppet of a man, his face pale, eyes glazed over as he thinks of something you’re clearly not invited to know.

Still, you want to know, want to feed those suspicions that won’t quit nipping at your heels anytime he leaves late at night or stares at the card fluttering against the fireplace mantle, so you steel yourself, pray, and reach forward.

“Earth to Newt,” you murmur tentatively, reaching out to brush the back of his hand with your fingertips.

He blinks, eyes focusing on you, returning from whatever wonderland he had disappeared to today. “Hm? Sorry dear,” he mumbles, stabbing a piece of the pie you’d baked for him, “I was lost in thought.”

“I could tell,” you try to tease, but the words come out stale, hard, far from the light-hearted tone you’d hoped for.

He smiles, though it’s truly more a grimace that graces his features. “Apologies. The book just has me nervous. That’s all”

You want desperately to believe him, but already the crack is forming in the stone wall you’d built to save yourself from what you knew to be the truth. So you draw in a deep breath, willing yourself to trust him the way you always have. “Nervous? What about?”

He sucks in a breath, “I’m struggling with the chapter on erumpents, quite honestly.”

You try to meet his eyes, but he refuses to hold your gaze for more than a few seconds, and you eventually give up the task, leaning back against the cushioned back of your chair, stomach churning. “I could help.”

“No,” he cuts in far too earnestly. He seems to notice this as his cheeks redden. “No, dear, that’s quite all right. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

“I’d be with you, Newt. I don’t mind spending a few hours with you and the creatures.”

He smiles again, but again it’s forced, faint. “I have it under control.”

You nod, cheeks burning in shame and tears biting at your eyes. It isn’t fair. You’re open, honest with Newt, and now he refuses to trust you, to tell you what’s wrong.

“You know, if it’s Leta you’re upset about, you can just tell me.”

Newt freezes, the fork halfway to his mouth, startled by your sharp words, by the way you stab at your pie. “I’m… sorry?”

“You think I’m oblivious?” Tears prick your eyes, crude and hot and humiliating, blurring the crust of your pie, melding it with the silver ceramic of your dishes. “I can see the way you hover around that card, staring at her smile like some doe-eyed thirteen-year-old. I’m still here, Newt. I still exist.” Your voice wavers and the tears rush forward, and you know it’s hopeless to fight now.

There’s no point in an argument, not when Newt just slumps in his chair, eyes downcast, voice low. “I don‘t look at her like that.“

The words are heartless, empty, worthless when the way his eyes flicker to the card betray his heart.

You bite your cheek, glaring at him, praying that he will fight, argue, do something to prove that you were more than a replacement, more than a waste of his time.

He does nothing but slouch lower, and when he meets your eyes, you can feel the floor fall out from under you, can tell already what you’re going to hear next.

“I’m sorry, love.“

You shove yourself to your feet, letting the chair clatter onto the ground, flipping away from you, nearly taking a vase down with it. Good. Good, let it all be destroyed; maybe that would teach Newt.

He just flinches. “Please don’t leave.”

“Was I… was I ever anything to you, Newt? Anyone at all?”

“Of course.”

You swallow the knot creeping up your throat, fighting to keep the world from blurring with your tears. “Were you ever able to look at me and not see her? Not see her smile? Her eyes?”

“Of course.”

“When, then? When did you fall in love with her again? Was it at the Christmas party? When Theseus introduced her to your mother? Or was it after that, at Theseus’s promotion party? Or was it before all of that, Newt? Did you ever fall out of love with her, or did you just try to convince yourself that you did? Did you just use me as some worthless substitute to try to hide the feelings you had for your brother’s girlfriend? His girlfriend.” You hiss the final two words, absolutely seething, praying Newt feels half the grief you are.

You wait, hands clenched into fists at your side, nails digging into the skin of your palms, tears running races down your reddened cheeks, waiting. Praying and waiting, but the words you need never come.

Newt just slumps further, face buried in shame and guilt, hands tearing a napkin apart. “I’m sorry, dear.”

You shake your head, stepping away. Your foot catches on the leg of the toppled chair, and Newt instinctively stands to catch you, to help you.

You recoil, anger and repulsion and deep, deep grief clear in your expression, in the way you shy away from the hand he extends.

“Dear…” he murmurs, brows furrowed, hand returning to his side, disappearing deep into his pocket as he swallows the lump in his throat.

“Don’t,” you manage to choke out, face burning in shame and anger, “don’t you dare try to say anything to me. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

He nods, eyes downcast.

“I can’t be in love with someone that never gave me a second thought. Someone that loved another person all this time. I can’t…” you shove the heels of your hands into your eyes, rubbing away the tears, trying to shake the image of Newt’s face when he as good as confessed his lack of feelings for you, “I can’t do this. I need to go.”

Newt nods, “I’ll help you pack.”

“No,” you nearly shout, the one that’s too loud this time, too clear in your denial. “No,” you repeat, softer, backing away from Newt. “I don’t need my stuff, not right now.”

“That’s preposterous. You need—”

“I need to be with someone that loves me, Newt. Someone that cares for me more than for a memory of somebody that’s untouchable.”

At Newt’s stricken expression, at his widened eyes and heart-breaking slumped shoulders, you step away, denying the guilt that is trying to claw its way to the surface. This is his fault, his fault. You’ve done nothing wrong, and if Newt feels bad about it, well, good. He had better. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault.

You feel like you’re choking, suffocating on the grief that’s tying up your throat. Shaking your head over and over, you try to forget it all, try to forget the past three years you’d spent—wasted—believing and trusting in a lie. Your fingers scrabble at your throat, grasping the delicate silver chain of your anniversary gift, the one Newt had bought you after three full years, three years you’d thought were happy and honest. Now that they’re lies, now that they’re nothing more than wasted time, the necklace is strangling.

You toss it at him, watch it land twist and tangle in the air before thudding to the ground at his feet, dull and meaningless now as it lays in a knot on the wooden floor. The niffler charm doesn’t shine, and for a moment, you swear you see Leta’s name where your own should be.

Clenching your eyes shut, you feel for your wand in your pocket. “This is your fault, Newt. This is all your fault.”

You barely hear it over the pop of your apparition, over the roar in your ears from the feelings tearing through your body, over the sound of your own sob breaking from your chest. But you do hear it, and it somehow makes everything worse as you disappear and leave the man you’d always thought would be your future.

As you apparate away, Newt’s voice breaks your heart as he whispers, “I know.“

#newt Scamander x reader #angst #I hope you enjoy it!! #thanks for the drabble request #I think it's an absolutely ridiculous scenario #it basically ruins my entire character of Theseus that I've created in my head lol #Idk the movie had better do some serious explaining to make me okay with this #bc what the heck #ugh #my poor Newt doesn't deserve that #this shows a 'keep reading' when I'm on my computer #but not when I viewed it on my phone and idk why #so I'm sorry if you have to scroll through the whole thing on your dash on mobile :/ #idk how to fix it