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unhonestlymirror · 6 months

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I am horrified by how often I see people writing, "Well, we shouldn't take Holocaust into account when talking about Israel-Palestine war." Of course we SHOULD, and that's why:

"October 7 is getting rewritten and certain social media users are an active of the campaign to erase the atrocities.

I was barely awake on October 7th when news of the atrocities that were committed by Hamas began to trinkle in, horror by horror. With sleep still in my eyes, I had hoped it was a nightmare I could erase by burying my face in pillows and returning to slumber, but alas, reality was insistent. Hamas had butchered over 1,200 people, amongst them infants, pregnant women, the handicapped, and the elderly. Even dogs were not spared.

But Hamas didn’t just murder them in cold blood, they had tortured, raped, desecrated their bodies, and took hostages. Their depravity was limitless. And they were so proud of their crimes that they used GoPro cameras to record them, later releasing the sickening spectacles to the public as a form of psychological terror. Add to that the live streams, cell phone recordings, and CCTV camera footage, and you’ll probably have the most documented massacre in history—with a reported 60,000 video clips collected.

I’ve seen some of these videos, including those not circulating quite so widely in public. They will haunt me for the rest of my life—and that falls far short than the 47 minute “film” shown to select journalists and diplomats worldwide, a number of whom broke down and/or fell ill during the screening.

But as shocking as all of this deranged butchery was — which was entirely the intention — what stunned me in the aftermath is the world’s reaction.

Putting aside disputes of land and politics, it was jarring to hear such a blatant reframing of narrative. It started with calling Hamas the “resistance” and justifying the unjustifiable. A number of BLM chapters had put out “heroic” images of Hamas terrorists descending on parachutes. I half-expected them to release action figures of Hamas fighters too. Maybe they did?

And then came the "BUTs." Sure, some folks condemned Hamas, but it was always followed by a "BUT," justifying the unjustifiable. I've been asked, ad nauseam, "What would you do in their situation?" Well, my response remains steadfast: not commit random acts of murder, torture, and kidnapping. Call me old-fashioned. (For the record I’ve called many colorful words for my stance, but oddly that was never one of them).

It was a wake-up call for many, especially those of us in the global Jewish community. Overnight, the illusion of safety shattered, much like the dreams of anyone who's binge-watched a horror series alone at night. But now we were all collectively trapped in that nightmare, and couldn’t wake up no matter how hard with pitched.

The history of the Holocaust is taught in many schools around the world. “Never forget” and “never again” are sentiments that are echoed within that curriculum. Yet, while some might scoff at the persistent advocacy for Holocaust education, insisting that it’s hitting them over the head, a nationwide survey in 2020 reveals that the under-40 crowd seems to have missed the memo. Shockingly, one in ten respondents haven’t even heard of the word “Holocaust,” let alone being aware that as many as 6 million Jews perished in it.

Further, nearly a quarter of those questioned said they believed the Holocaust was a myth, had been exaggerated or that they weren’t sure. Meanwhile in Canada, one in five young people (under 34) either hasn't heard of the Holocaust or isn't sure what it is. And in Britain, one in twenty adults flat-out deny that it ever took place. Ah, the privilege of blissful ignorance.

Most who underestimate the number of Jews killed in Holocaust have neutral or warm feelings toward Jews.

But it's not just ignorance; there's an entire industry that has been propped up and dedicated to Holocaust denial, complete with books, “movies,” and groups. To make matters worse, alarmingly, fewer Holocaust survivors are around to share their firsthand accounts and counteract the flames of denialism.

Nearly half of the 1000 people surveyed had stated that they’ve seen Holocaust denial or distortion posts on social media or elsewhere online.

I’ve always thought that denials of genocide—such as the Holocaust —were something that happened over time, with history slipping away and being re-written.

However, I never expected to be observing this in real time.

While initially the so-called “resistance” was celebrated by a subset of society, this soon turned into full-fledged denials of Hamas’ actions on Oct 7. Despite overwhelming evidence in the form of videos captured and shared by Hamas themselves and shared on Telegram channels and elsewhere, I would read and hear people claiming that they had only targeted Israeli military. Absurd claims emerged using supposedly ‘leaked’ footage where an Israeli helicopter shoots at Nova music festival goers. That video was viewed over 30 million times on X alone. The video, which was actually originally shared by the IDF on Oct 9, was showing their attacks on specific Gazan targets—certainly NOT indiscriminate bombings of music festival attendees in Israel. (Here’s a great thread that details how this piece of disinformation spread and geolocation information that further confirms that the claim is fake).

I’ve heard countless denials of the rapes of women (and men), despite overwhelming evidence in the form of physical evidence, forensics, and a number of witness testimonies. Women’s rights groups, meanwhile, remained silent—thus offering a vacuum for denialists to fill. Proponents of “me too” also stayed silent. Worse, the University of Alberta Sexual Assault Centre’s director signed an open letter calling Hamas perpetrating “sexual violence” an “unverified accusation.” It took UN Women nearly two months to issue a lukewarm condemnation of the brutal attacks. “We are alarmed by the numerous accounts of gender-based atrocities and sexual violence during those attacks,” they wrote, following a letter writing campaign urging them to speak up. Better late than never though, right?

The roughly 40 dead babies claim was debunked as a lie. At least that’s what people on social media now declare as fact, citing a Haaretz investigation.

“Haaretz investigation EXPOSES all the ISRAELI LIES from October 7th just like I predicated (sic),” reads the post of one particularly large disinformation account.

These claims persisted despite Haaretz directly addressing that post and calling it “blatant lies” and insisting that it “absolutely no basis in Haaretz’s reporting.”

The denials continued regardless of the fact that a group of 200 forensic pathologists from all over the world had confirmed that babies were indeed murdered and that some babies were found decapitated, though it was unclear whether this was done before or after death. First responders also corroborated that they witnessed beheaded infants. Regardless of decapitation, these were babies, murdered.

The forensic pathologists also confirmed that humans were executed, bound and burned alive. Israeli police have over 1,000 statements related to the attack.

When some of the hostages were released, Hamas supporters claimed that the hostages enjoyed being held by them, that they hardly wanted to leave. That this was like a pleasant vacation for them, that’s all. Like sipping piña coladas by the beach. In fact, they would state that they were more concerned about their safety in Israeli hands. They even concocted stories of love affairs between a hostage who was shot in the leg and a Hamas captor. A sick and twisted take on reality where up is down, cats are dogs, and denial is truth. They dismissed the reality that many of these hostages watched their loved ones get murdered in front of them, and still had relatives being held in captivity. The hostages were also administered Clonazepam by Hamas, a mood-enhancing tranquilizing drug, before handing them over to the Red Cross, so that they would appear “happy.”

Meanwhile, the Yale Daily News published a correction of an opinion column stating that the “allegations had not been substantiated.”

The denials go on and on, and I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a version of Holocaust denial, except this time it’s happening in real time—not years after the fact. And this time, it has a Wi-Fi connection and a social media account.

The conditions for this were ripe. Moral relativism is why just several weeks ago, Gen Z embraced Bin Laden's 'Letter to America.' It has been building up for years across college campuses, a breeding ground for ideologies that support violent means to achieve political gains.

The perceived power dynamics play a role here too. In the eyes of many, the Israelis are seen as a superpower whereas the Palestinians, and by extension Hamas, are seen as underdogs. In their view, the underdog is always right because it is the victim, and the “power” is the oppressor. So how can the oppressor be a victim?

Israelis, despite the majority of the population being Mizrahi Jews, as well as 20% Arabs (who were also victims on Oct 7), have been framed as “white colonizers,” vs the Palestinians who are seen as “POC” in the context of this conflict. Never mind that Jews, including Ashkenazi Jews, can be traced back to the land through DNA, archaeological evidence, and historical documents.

An overall distrust for media is another factor, which has resulted in individuals taking the word of random influencer accounts as gospel over traditional media outlets. According to Gallup polls, Americans’ trust in media is near a record low. Only 34% of US adults have a “great deal” or “fair amount” of confidence as of 2022. This is a major hindrance to our sensemaking abilities.

And then, of course, there’s cognitive dissonance. When a group identifies so closely with the perpetrator and they commit heinous acts, confronting that fact happens to be uncomfortable. So, in an attempt to reduce that discomfort, they rationalize or deny the evidence. This means that they accept only evidence that supports their existing beliefs, while placing unreasonable demands on the other side.

But none of these factors would have gained as much traction if it weren’t for something that didn’t exist during the Holocaust: social media. This is the engine that helps drives this real-time historical revisionism and denialism. According to 2021 data from Pew Research, over 70% of Americans get their news via social platforms. A Reuters Institute report from 2023 found that 30% of respondents use social media as the main way to get their news.

We have a society that consumes sound-bites of information, both truth and lies (as well as lies based on grains of truth).

Social media algorithms—combined with human nature—tend to amplify outrageous untruths, which spread widely. Corrections, never make it as far as the original lie. They are just a faint hum.

Throughout the Israeli-Gaza war, we’ve seen AI generated images and bots used to paint a specific narrative—for evocative, emotional effect. But technologically sophisticatication isn’t a prerequisite for painting false narratives. Many “influencers” have taken to using existing images or videos and attaching misleading headlines to them—including sharing content that captures events in Syria while presenting it as taking place in Gaza. These networks of influencers have large reach, and can turn even the most blatant lie into a revisionist truth.

Researchers for Freedom House, a non-profit human right advocacy group, found that generally at least 47 governments have used commentators to manipulate online discussions in their favor, either via humans or bots. They’ve also recruited influencers to help spread false and misleading content, and have created fake websites that mimic actual media publications. Then there’s always Russia’s propaganda arm RT, and various other publications like Al Jazeera and Quds who have direct ties to Hamas and/or other Islamic regimes.

All of this has contributed to narrative confusion, and the erasure of unspeakable acts of brutality, and the denial of the facts of October 7, right before our very eyes.

If we cannot even share a common reality, how can have any hope of resolving anything?

“Never again” is happening now."

#jews #israel palestine war #hamas attack #russia finances hamas

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coffeestainedcamera · 6 months

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Started watching Carol and the End of the World bc flu got me (but yay, tested negative for covid). Anyways, that intro made me question if my feverish brain was causing issues. But nah, it's a nightmare of someone who's not handling an impeding apocalypse well.

I mean, Carol's depression and desire to revisit her childhood via haunting the abandoned Applebee's is an understandable reaction. I'd party through a planetary apocalypse but you know. I get her reaction.

This is such a mundane horror story, though. Like, she still worries about credit card debt until she's finally told that the bank doesn't care anymore. American tourists still have "life-changing" trips to Tibet. People still drink La Croix and need to deal with the laundry day. They have weirdo one-night stands. Somehow, the accounting department still needs to show up to work despite an apocalypse lol.

Also, it's neat how we have a quiet big middle-aged lady as a protagonist. Not particularly common on TV, even though streaming is supposed to be more diverse.

#text post #carol and the end of the world #netflix #television

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crazyoffher · 10 months

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ETERNAL BLUE.

warnings: nightmares, sarcastic commentary.

The night was gloomy, and window blinds were open to try and illuminate some light in the dark room, but only a light gleam from the moon shined through, barely enough for you to make out Jenna’s body some days.

Every night you’d go to sleep safe and sound in the arms of your wonderful girlfriend, and you’d never have any interruptions in the night, always waking up in the light of day to her humming a tune rather loudly in the shower. This night, however, was different.

You shot up, sweat coating the collar of your shirt, your entire neck, and your forehead. You panted hard, as if all of the wind had been knocked out of you, and you knew exactly why you were like this at 3:25 in the morning.

You had a nightmare, easy. They never happened when you were sleeping in the presence of Jenna, though, and it confused you just as much as it confused the shorter girl feeling you jump out of her arms in shock.

“Holy sh- (Y/N), are you okay?” She shot up as fast as you did to meet your level, her brown eyes darting all around your sweating figure. Her hand found it’s way to your back, disregarding the dampness of your shirt and rubbing in circles to comfort you. Your breathing was still irregular, your mouth agape as you turned to her, giving her a small smile.

“I’m doing spectacular. Why do you ask?”

Her hand left your back and joined her other hand in pushing you aside—almost off the bed at that. “Now is not the time to make jokes! What the fuck happened?” Concern was written all over her tone and face, and you felt a little bad at your joke.

“I have nightmares, duh.” She pushed you again, this time leaving you to fall off the bed and have the wind knocked out of you… again. Jenna mumbled an apology before pulling you up and pushing you back on the bed.

“You have nightmares?” You nodded, biting your lip and wiping away the sweat beads that sat on your forehead. “Have they always been there? (Y/N), we’ve been dating for almost a year now; why haven’t you told me?”

“I never wanted to worry you. You’re always busy with work, and I didn’t want to add any more stress.” You wiped the sweat off your palms before taking her hand and interlocking your fingers together, bringing your hand up to kiss the back of her hand. “I’m sorry, ba-”

“What are they about?”

“Hmmmmm?” You darted your head forward, dragging out your words, and Jenna pushed your head back. “Answer me.”

“It varies.”

“And what are the varieties?”

“Well...” You bit your lip once more, chewing on it slightly while you found the right words. Despite pressing you, Jenna remained patient as you collected your thoughts.

“Some of them have to do with Jonathan and some of them with my dad.” Jonathan was your ex-boyfriend who did things that a normal boyfriend wouldn’t do to you, and your dad wasn’t the best guy growing up, leaving you with permanent scars and more bruises than you could count during your teenage years. Jonathan was long gone in prison, your dad was dead, and the only way they could now haunt you was when you were asleep.

You hated it.

“I take medication for it, but it doesn’t always work. And now that I’m thinking back, I might have forgotten to take it earlier.” Your hands roamed your sweaty hair, pushing it back before falling back on the bed. Your arms sprawled out while Jenna eyed you with sympathy.

“You want to talk about it in the morning?” You nodded. Jenna got up, making her way to your shared closet before pulling out a shirt, shorts, and underwear and setting them in your lap. “Take a shower; you’re sweating like a maniac.”

You barked out a laugh despite the conflict in your mind, taking the clothes she handed you and giving your girlfriend a gentle kiss before heading for the bathroom. Jenna wasted her time scrolling through Instagram, her fingers creating a mind of their own, and scrolling through your account. She’d gleam at the pictures you’d post of you and her whenever you were together.

It was when you came back that she shut off her phone, immediately taking you into her arms despite your damp figure and burying her face into your shoulder. Her hand repeated the same motion as earlier, rubbing soothing circles on your back and humming a song that she knew was your favorite. Before she could process it, she could hear the soft snores that you’d generate whenever you were in a content slumber.

She didn’t wait too long before allowing the darkness to take her, her hands gripping your figure softly but firmly, as if she were afraid that something or someone would take you. But you were hers; she knew that, and she’d comfort you any day of the week if it made you content and happy. Because that’s what girlfriends do—they love you.

☟ ☟ ☟

taglist: @grandpatrolnut @annalestern @jennas-10 @rhythm-catsandwine @yara124 @daryldixonsw1fe @alexkolax @red1culous @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @n0vabug @idkwimdtbh

#crazyoffher #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams #celebrity x reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wattpad #jenna marie ortega #fanfiction #fanfic #writer au #tumblr #lgbtq #tara carpenter #lorraine day #drabble #lesbian

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lincolndjarin · 10 months

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Best Kept Secret

chapter fourteen : condemned (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 4.9k

summary : reader tries to take her mind off of things

warnings, etc. : domestic violence, language, angst

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

You’re having trouble sleeping.

You have no problem falling asleep, it’s mostly staying asleep. There’s a million different things that consume your thoughts and everytime you drift into unconsciousness you find yourself jolting awake, barely able to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time.

You’re haunted.

Your dreams are plagued by visions of faceless men. They’re fuzzy and vague, all you know is that you’ve been left behind, you just can’t keep up. And in every nightmare the faceless man carries on without you, as if you never meant anything to him at all.

You wake up covered in a thin sheen of sweat, gasping for air, with a dull ache in your chest.

So by the time the sun's up you’re more exhausted than you’d be if you had just stayed up without trying to sleep.

You have to fight to keep your eyes open as Lysa and Elaine carefully dress you, Elaine takes you by the arm and guides you to sit on the bed, crouching down to be eye level with you. Her mouth is moving but you can’t seem to figure out the words until she’s saying your name, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Sorry… what were you saying?” You manage to murmur out between yawns.

“How do you take your caf, my lady?

“Oh… I umm, I don’t know. I’ve never had it.”

Why is she looking at you like that?

“I’ll bring you some options okay?” You can only bring yourself to nod, your thoughts are muddled as she leaves, Lysa silently running a brush through your hair.

What had that look been? It had been sad, but it seemed like more than that.

Pity.

That’s what it had been. Huh. Maybe she had just noticed how tired you were these last few days.

Elaine returns just as Lysa is finishing your hair, she’s got a tray with three mugs on it, all containing liquids of various shades of brown. She hands you the darkest one first, it’s almost black, it smells… strong. You take a small sip and your face scrunches at the bitter taste as you quickly hand it back to her.

“Definitely not that one.” You cough slightly as you reach for the lightest one, a creamy beige, sipping this one carefully, not sure what to expect. You’re pleasantly surprised by the sweetness of this one, nodding as you take several sips. It’s the same color as the gown you’re in today, a light sort of cinnamon color. It makes your skin buzz, your mind still feels tired but at least your body feels awake. You watch curiously as Elaine sets the tray onto the vanity before taking the mug of black caf to the door, opening it slightly, setting it on the floor just outside before shutting it once more.

You continue to slowly drink yours, the girls standing across the room from you whispering to each other with a companionship that fills you with yearning. When you finish the caf you walk to the tray, setting it down, thanking Elaine as you open the door.

And there he is.

Setting an empty mug on the stone window sill across from your door.

And then there is an emotion you aren’t sure you’ve ever felt in your life, at least not like this. It’s an unpleasant feeling and you’re certain you aren’t doing a good job of keeping it off your face as you look at the mug and then at his visor. You desperately wish you could hide behind a helmet so he couldn’t see the wounded look on your face.

Jealousy is an ugly emotion.

And it’s one you have no right to feel for two very obvious reasons. One being that Elaine has done nothing to earn the resentment you feel bubbling up inside of you. She has been nothing but kind to you, she takes care of you, she has been a consistent source of comfort to you just by being in your presence. So why do you suddenly feel like she’s your adversary?

The second reason is plain and simple. You have no claim over the Mandalorian. No right to be bitter over him accepting a drink from someone who wasn’t you.

You need to stop. You can’t be thinking things like this, it isn’t healthy. So you summon Leo with a call of his name as you glare at Mando with a faint look of betrayal. He’s there quickly, giving you a low bow.

“How may I be of service, princess?”

“Can you find me a few empty journals? And some more pens, just bring them to the library if it isn’t a hassle.” It isn’t a hassle, nothing is ever a hassle when it comes to you and it’s getting infuriating. Only one person ever said no to you and you never thought you’d miss it.

Leo gives you a nod and vanishes as you storm off to the library.

For Makers sake, stop throwing a tantrum. He isn’t yours to feel envy over.

You get to the library in record time, pinching your eyes shut as you walk past the nook, deeper into the library to the table from yesterday, still covered in parchment. You shuffle them all into one pile and set them aside before beginning your search for books with pictures. You decide on A Field Guide to the Creatures of Tatooine and The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Fish & Shellfish of Naboo.

The Mandalorian still isn’t speaking to you.

At all.

Sure he’s always been quiet, (except when he’s fucking you senseless, then he can’t seem to shut up.) but this is different. It’s intentional silence, and it hurts.

So you pretend he’s just muted himself through the helmet, that he’s talking to you and doesn’t even realize you can’t hear him.

It doesn’t really help.

Leo is as quick as ever to bring you your items, two leatherbound sketchbooks and a handful of pens.

You immediately get to work, desperate to get thoughts of the Mandalorian out of your mind as you draw as many animals and fish as you can until you have to take a break because your wrist hurts. It’s a messy jumble of inky fish swimming around the pages and a lot of them were drawn so hastily you can barely tell what they are. But you stopped thinking about him, briefly.

And this works for a few hours. But then it stops working when you flip to a page with koi fish that has you furrowing your brow. You swear you’ve seen them before and before you can stop yourself from making the connection you realize that they’re the same fish that swim in the lake near the garden. The lake that he lives next to. The lake that he took you to.

And drawing in the library to distract yourself becomes a short lived success. So you decide to pack up your supplies and explore. It’s been a long time since you felt the urge to do so, giving you déjà vu to your first couple of weeks here. Maybe you could pretend you’re back in those days, when you could still be optimistic about your marriage, and the Mandalorian was nothing more than an annoyance. You walk the halls until you stop in front of a set of large ornate doors, you aren’t even sure what’s inside but you sit on the floor, your skirt falling in a circle around you, with your torso in the center as you open one of the sketchbooks. You draw the woodgrain of the doorframe. You leave an absence of ink on the brass door knob to show the light reflecting off of it. And you’re about to draw the stone walls around it but you freeze in place as you hear the familiar crackling static of a modulator.

It’s barely audible, most people wouldn’t ever notice it. But not you. You notice things, especially when they have to do with him.

You don’t dare move. Holding your breath in anticipation until it stops.

You resist the urge to turn around to look at him, hoping that if you don’t pressure him he might speak but it never comes.

He was going to speak.

That’s a start.

Do you want him to speak? Don’t you hate him? Do you even know anymore?

You’ve been so busy trying to not think about him that now you don’t know how you feel about him. That should be a sign for you to say something, or at the very least allow yourself to think about him.

But instead you stumble to your feet and start walking. And you keep drawing to distract you from the living armor that follows behind you silently. You lean against a wall as you draw the stone archway above a staircase, and once again, just as you're finishing up you hear that crackle, just behind you.

This time you can’t help but cock your head to the side slightly, the moment you do you’re back in silence.

Kriff.

This carries on like clockwork through the rest of your day. You draw as many doorways and windows as you can, if you were tired when you started the day you have no idea what you are now. You’re loopy with exhaustion as you stumble to your chambers.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or maybe you’re just sick of hearing that crackle but when you open the door you lean against the frame and stare at him. You don’t say anything but you give him the chance to if he wants, you wait several moments, just glaring at him.

He doesn’t speak. So you close the door. You don’t even make it to the closet, not bothering to remove your gown you collapse onto your actual bed.

✩

You get a few hours of sleep in this time. It isn’t much because you’re still chasing after faceless men but it’s better than nothing. This time when you wake you stumble to the vanity, the bags under your eyes are dark and they make you look too serious.

It’s clockwork again, You’re back in purgatory. Without Mando planning things for you to look forward to you’re trapped in the loop you hated so much when you first arrived.

Wake up, be dressed like some sort of doll, find an aimless task to keep your brain occupied, sleep, repeat.

Except today isn’t another day in the loop, because when the girls arrive Elaine already has a mug of caf in her hands for you and Lysa is getting a blue dress from the closet and you have to physically restrain yourself from groaning as you realize you have dinner with Kodo tonight.

Everything is blending together. Days seem shorter and you feel like you spend all your time trying to get to sleep.

Is this the rest of your life? Days so unremarkable you can’t remember them?

You gratefully take the cup and drink it down quickly as they dress you. At least you have something to worry about other than the Mandalorian today. You can worry about your revolting husband who was more than frightening last time you had spoken.

You push those thoughts away the same way you push thoughts of the Mandalorian away. When the girls are finished you thank them both before grabbing the sketch book and pens. You leave at the same time as Elaine and Lysa and you catch Elaine glaring at Mando, she gives him a look of rage and then raises her eyebrows expectantly at him before taking Lysa’s arm and walking off.

You didn’t even know Elaine was capable of anger, she was always so reserved and put together.

Maybe he did the same thing he did to you to her.

The thought makes your stomach ache.

You decide it’s best not to dwell on it further as you begin to walk. He follows behind you like always, just a few steps back. You don’t bother going to the library today, you don’t want to copy pictures anymore. Today you’re going to draw from memory. It takes about half an hour but eventually you find a window with a wide enough sill that you can sit in it, pulling your legs up as well so you can balance the sketchbook against your thighs. The Mandalorian settles against the opposite wall.

As of today it’s been a week since you last heard his voice.

Don’t.

Don’t think about him. Just draw.

You draw Elaine.

You draw the short horns that come up from the top of her head in cone shapes. The long head tails that fell down her shoulders, you’d never seen a Togruta with them as long as hers. You lightly shade in the red parts of her skin, leaving the white spots on her face empty of any ink.

You try to draw her with the expression she had made earlier.

You can’t seem to get it right. Your depictions never seem angry enough.

You draw Lysa.

Her big round eyes, her olive skin, and her short black hair. You draw her next to Elaine. It feels weird to separate them.

You draw Leo.

His head tails are significantly shorter than Elaines and he usually wears a beige cap over them.

You draw him exactly as he always is.

Stern looking and uptight.

You wish you had asked for paints so you could color his skin orange.

Before you know it you’re flipping to a new page and drawing someone unfamiliar.

Your eyes glance up for just a moment to look at him. There hasn’t been any static today.

You draw a sharp jawline, covered with stubble.

You draw round, plush lips, open just enough to see his front teeth.

You draw furrowed brows, and forehead creases from frowning too much.

You draw short buzzed hair, before deciding it doesn’t look right and scribbling it out.

You draw several noses. Some small, some large, some button and some bumpy. None of them fit the face you’ve drawn.

It looks all wrong, so you start again.

And again, and again, and again.

But none of them look right. None of them suit him.

You keep trying. Your wrist aches but you have some sort of primal desire to get it right.

You try hooded eyes, round eyes, almond eyes, at one point you draw squares just for the hell of it, of course they don’t look right but neither do any of the other ones. You try every face shape you can, round, sharp. None of it’s right and you’re starting to get frustrated.

Again.

And again, and again, and again.

And then there’s static.

He’s standing just in front of you now. You hadn’t realized he’s walked over as you slam the journal shut.

He clears his throat.

That’s it.

He doesn’t speak but he does make you aware of how much darker it is in the hallway, you need to go to dinner. You look at him once more, waiting, hoping he’ll say something but there’s nothing. So you nod and stand, walking to your chambers first, tossing the book inside along with the pens before heading towards the dining hall.

Your pace is sluggish. You know you’re already late but you have no desire to see him and Mando doesn’t rush you so you take your time.

Your walk is over too soon as the guards at the door nod when you approach.

As the doors are pushed open you can’t help but pray to all the gods that he isn’t sober. There’s no way you can handle that bone chilling venom in his voice when he talks to you without his drunken drawl.

You step in to see him already finishing what you assume isn’t his first glass of ale, relief rushing through your veins, the Mandalorian hot on your heels, Kodo looking up at the sound of your footsteps with a twisted grin.

“There you are my nervous mouse!” Nevermind, sober would be better than this anyday.

“Hello dear husband.” You mutter as you take your familiar seat across from him, the Mandalorian taking his position just behind you.

“How are you my mouse? Have you been well?” He chews with his mouth open, little bits of the meat pie before him spewing out from between his lips.

Maker, he’s disgusting. You wish he was the one who was sworn to forever wear a helmet.

“I’m perfectly fine, my prince.” You play with the food in front of you, you have no appetite as you watch him, possibly the most drunk you’ve ever seen him.

His dinner conversation is filthy.

He won’t shut up about one of the girls his brother just became betrothed too. He goes into graphic detail how attractive he finds her “lithe figure.”

There’s a sadness in your heart for this stranger.

Does she know what she’s marrying?

Of course he can never seem to stop talking about his brother's wives as he mentions that one is currently pregnant, claiming she’s the size of a barn.

You don’t hide your frown.

Why should you?

If he’s going to be a pig you might as well treat him like one.

Eventually he settles on rambling about how he wants to get more battle droids for his personal guard because the people in the city don’t seem to be fond of him, and because he’s often out in public spaces he needs more protection.

Personally, the six he currently has following him at all times already seems to be a bit much but you could care less.

They take your untouched plate and bring out another course that you don’t touch as he continues to ramble about his battle droids for the entirety of this course.

Finally someone comes to take the plates and you’ve only got dessert left to get through. He finishes another drink as he begins to talk with his mouth full of whatever pastry is in front of the both of you.

“Still hiding in the library little mouse” He raises his once again filled glass in your direction.

Your jaw twitches at the nickname.

“Yes my prince.”

“Still my little mouse I see. How dull.” He laughs loudly, when he slams his glass down on the table a bit of the dark liquid spills onto the white tablecloth.

“I suppose I just like reading.” You don’t want to entertain him any longer. You just want to go back to your room.

He hiccups as he releases the glass in his hand and points at you, taunting you.

“You’re a tedious little thing aren’t you?” There’s that cruel grin.

He must get off on this or something.

You have no interest in being a part of that so you just pick at the pastry in front of you with your fork.

“Did you hear me little mouse? Your prince asked you a question?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’d like to be dismissed.” You push your chair away from the table standing and collecting yourself before you start walking out. You hear Kodo’s chair screech against the wood floors and he goes around his side of the table to cut you off before you reach the exit.

For someone as drunk as he is he’s surprisingly quick on his feet.

“You’re dismissed when I dismiss you.” He spits out, glaring down at you, even slouched he’s got a few inches on you. You roll your eyes as you start to push past him but you’re suddenly knocked to the ground, a sharp sting on the left side of your face.

It all happens in slow motion.

The force of the slap has you reeling to the floor. Your head knocks against the cold ground.

Your teeth cut deep into your lip, and you taste blood.

His handprint lingers against your face and you know you’ll have a mark.

All of this registers in an instant. The next thing you do is purely on instinct, your eyes go to the Mandalorian. Because somehow you know that if you don’t stop him he’ll do something irreversible.

You give him a warning look, eyes wide, shaking your head the tiniest bit, just enough that only he will register it.

And you were right to do it because his hand is already on his blaster and he’s taken a step forward in your direction, positioning himself beside you defensively.

You’re actually grateful for how drunk Kodo is because he doesn’t seem to notice any of this and it only takes one more stare from you to get Mando to take his hand off his firearm.

“Now you’re dismissed.” Kodo growls at you before throwing his glass against the wall, screaming at one of the servants to find his brothers, not bothering to be discreet as he yells about some whore house.

The moment he storms off you’re struggling to your feet, groaning, you never actually get to your feet though as you’re lifted off the ground.

The Mandalorian picks you up effortlessly, holding you bridal style as he rushes you out of the dining room, his helmet trained on your face as he brings you towards your chambers on muscle memory alone, his visor never looking away from you.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, trying to process anything that’s happened in the last two minutes, your hand coming to your face causing you to wince as you poke at the gash on your lip.

He’s shaking.

His entire body trembles and his grip on you is unyielding as he walks.

You stare up into the black line of the visor and the shakes seem to lessen so you stay like that, staring at each other as he carries you until you get there and he leans down to open the door, never letting his gaze falter as he brings you inside and sets you on the bed. He puts his satchel next to you before giving you one final look.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak since the night he ended things. The hoarse rasp of his voice crawls deep into your brain, settling like warm honey and calming your nerves.

You want to plead with him. Beg him to stay, but he said he'll be back so you stay put. He quickly leaves the room, grabs the book on flowers off the vanity on his way out. The one he had been reading that you had taken. He’s only gone a moment, you hear a tearing sound and when he comes back the book is gone.

You don’t push further as he approaches you. Taking your face in his hands to observe the injury.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” He says it like he’s the one who hit you. Full of regret and longing.

“I don’t want your apologies.” Liar. You want anything he’ll give you. You want his apologies, his insults, and his praises. But more than anything you want that soft tone, that gentle way of speaking that he reserves just for you.

“I don’t care what you want right now. My only concern right now is making sure this doesn’t scar.” You cringe as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down slightly to get a better look at where your teeth cut through the tender flesh there.

“I’m sure you’d hate that. What use would I be to you without my looks?” You don’t know why you say it. Maybe you just need someone to be angry at right now. Maybe he deserves it. You aren’t really sure. But there’s a harshness in it you didn’t know you were capable of. If he has a reaction to your words he doesn’t show it physically as he continues inspecting the small wound.

“I’m the last person who cares about that…” Now he seems concentrated on prodding and inspecting the red mark that’s certainly forming on your cheek as you push his hands away.

“Thanks.” You scoff, crossing your arms as you glare up at him. He lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You know that’s not what I meant, now can you not be difficult? For just a few minutes? This is really deep… it’s almost all the way through your lip. It will definitely leave a mark if I don’t take care of it…”

His gloved hands gingerly grab your chin, he sounds more frustrated than you’ve ever heard him. He reaches into his bag and retrieves some antiseptic and a rag. He pours a bit onto the cloth before dabbing it at the broken skin of your lip causing you to wince at the sting.

“I know. Just a little more.” It’s almost that familiar soft tone he takes with you as he finishes up before grabbing a small vial from his bag, a viscous clearish, white liquid in it. You can’t help but furrow your brows as you stare at it. It’s like he reads your mind as he uncorks the top.

“It’s bacta, you deviant.” He mutters as he pours a bit of the slimy solution onto the fingertips of his gloves as he generously applies it to the cut. Your nose scrunches up at the sour smell of it. He’s silent as he carefully coats the side of your face with a thin layer of the stuff before hesitating and then continuing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

No.

Not really.

You weren’t really sure how you felt about it. You knew Kodo was a bad person. You just hadn’t realized how bad.

And you’re married to him. Condemned to be his wife.

But you don’t want to tell Mando all that so instead you just shake your head no. You’re grateful that he doesn’t push you for more, he simply nods as he coats the inside of your lip with the bacta.

“Maker, that's gross…” You groan as a bit touches your tongue, it tastes just as sour as it smells.

“It is. But it won’t scar.” He hands you the rest of the vial. “Have one of the girls put more on in the morning, you should be good as new by tomorrow night.”

“Oh great. It won’t scar, thank the gods.” You roll your eyes as you take the tube, tossing it onto the bed.

“Watch it.” His tone is sharp and you feel it stab into your chest, it’s just like the first few days. When he’d snap at you because he thought you were plotting against him, of course, you were but he was presumptuous to assume that.

You don’t like that it reminds you of what you used to be.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore. You don’t get to do anything to me anymore, including tell me if I can or cannot have a mark on my face. It doesn’t bother me, so maybe when you leave I will wipe off this disgusting salve and let it scar, I don’t understand why you care so much about my face having an imperfection.” You shove past him.

You don’t know why you’re so mad. It isn’t his fault.

You definitely just need someone to be mad at and he just so happens to be here.

But that doesn’t matter. You deserve to be angry. And he deserves to have someone angry at him because of how he’s treated you.

You walk to the closet, as you open the door he’s already caught up to you, grabbing your arm. He immediately pulls it back, like your skin was ablaze and you had sent him up in flames. You glare, waiting for him to speak or leave.

It's quiet for a long time.

The only sound is the crack of the modulator.

It gives you goosebumps as you wait.

“If I had to look at you every day and see that reminder of what he did, sooner or later I would walk into whatever pleasure house he’s defiling on that particular day, and no amount of battle droids, or royal guards, would be able to stop me from cutting off the hand that had struck you.”

Oh.

You don’t have a witty remark.

Or any sort of comeback.

There are no words to explain how you feel so you nod before stepping into the closet and shutting the door. After a few minutes you hear the click of your bedroom door and you know he’s gone.

Oh.

You can’t really focus on anything that’s happened tonight. There’s too many things happening in your brain.

So you tug at your dress.

Desperate to be free of the suffocating blue fabric. You don’t know when you start crying but your cheeks are wet with tears and bacta and eventually you manage to tear the fabric in the front of your bodice as you rip the front of the dress completely in half. Frantically pulling yourself free of the cloth you open the closet door to throw the wretched thing into the main room before curling into a ball on your blankets.

You’re just so tired.

But you can’t stop thinking.

And you don’t want to think about Kodo.

So you let yourself think about Mando.

You don’t tell yourself to stop. And you don’t deny things as you think about what he said.

Eventually you fall asleep.

And that night in your dreams the faceless man stops running away.

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whitedarkmoonflower · 10 months

Text

Kidnapped Part 3

Sihtric x reader

Authors note: third and final part of the requested fic about Sihtric’s wife being kidnapped by Heasten while expecting a child. My warmest thanks for requesting this. I genuinely enjoyed writing it and I hope very much that you will like it.

Warnings: angst, despair and losing hope mixed with a great portion of heart-warming fluff

Word Count: 4,119

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Tags: @namelesslosers

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“Heastens camp is located at Beamfleot, near the river. He has amassed some ten ships there, and they are preparing to march," Rypere continued his account once the commotions after the fuss regarding Sihtric’s family news and him being a father of two children had calmed down. Sihtric sat at the table, his face wearing a dreamy expression as he got lost in his thoughts.

“Our plan remains unchanged, but we must act swiftly. I expect all of you to gather in the tavern for the next three days, pretending to be drunk and spreading the word to anyone who will listen that Edward, under pressure from his mother and the bishop, has once again banished me. Spread the news that I have grown weary of the Wessex kings' ingratitude, and we are setting off for Northumbria to reclaim Bebbanburg," Uhtred responded.

"Sihtric! Hey, Sihtric! Are you listening to me?" Uhtred's voice jolted Sihtric from his reverie, and he looked up in surprise at his Lord.

“Yes, Lord! No, Lord! What did you say?” Sihtric stammered.

"You will be pretending to be drunk," Uhtred emphasized the word 'pretending' unmistakably. "Is that clear? Finan, Osferth, keep a close eye on our newmade father." Sihtric blushed in embarrassment but did not protest.

Everybody stood up and started leaving the hall.

“Sihtric,” Uhtred called his friend to stay behind, “Your mind is filled with myriad thoughts, I can see it. Sihtric, no reckless rescue ideas on your own. If I were you, the first thing I would want to do after leaving this room is to run to the horses and ride to her. Don’t do that! Stick to the plan!”

Sihtric looked up at Uhtred surprise evident in his eyes at how well he understood the wild turmoil of emotions consuming him, and simply nodded in agreement.

The next two days were an agonizing torment, the hardest Sihtric had ever faced. The weight of uncertainty had already been unbearable while waiting in Winchester, but now, knowing your location and that you had given birth to his children only to be left alone in a Danish camp, it was as if his heart had been torn apart, leaving him on the brink of losing all composure. He tried to hold on, to stay strong for the plan they had painstakingly crafted and discussed with Uhtred countless times, but the agony of fear of what might be happening to you were almost overwhelming.

The nights were the cruellest as he lay in bed, restlessly tossing and turning, dreading to fall asleep. While awake, he managed, with enormous effort of will, to keep his emotions and anxiety under control, but he couldn't control his dreams. Each time he closed his eyes and sleep finally overtook him, he was haunted by the same dreadful dream. In the dream, he was always searching for you amidst the ruins of a devastated and half-burned camp. Torn tents and overthrown wagons surrounded him. Among the debris and lifeless bodies, he called out your name in despair, but there was no answer—only silence and the suffocating realization that he had come too late, that he had failed to reach you in time. The weight of his failure and helplessness consumed him, and he would wake up a scream clawing its way from his throat, his heart pounding in his chest, and his forehead drenched in sweat.

Sihtric was a warrior and no stranger to death. He had faced it time and again on the battlefield. He had killed men, seen the life drain from their eyes, and heard the chilling sounds of war echoing in his mind. He had endured nightmares, especially after the battles, when the sounds of swords and axes clashing, the battering of shields, and the cries of the wounded still echoed in his mind. Yet, nothing had ever filled him with such deep fear and despair as this. The pain of not knowing your fate, the torment of feeling powerless to protect you, this was an anguish unlike any other. It filled him with a sense of angst and despair that cut deeper than any blade ever could.

Finally, the day of departure came. Uhtred had gathered all his men in the bustling marketplace, strategically choosing this location so that as many people as possible could witness them leaving. He hoped that among the curious crowd there might be spies from Heasten’s camp who would deliver a message confirming that they were leaving Winchester and Wessex. Uhtred casted a worried glance at Sihtric, who sat in the saddle with a pale and tense face, dark rings around his eyes. He knew Sihtric was keeping himself up in the saddle with the last remnants of his strength. Finan and Osfert had positioned their horses on both sides of their friend ready to offer support and keep their fiend steady. And so, they set off.

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The camp had suddenly erupted into a state of frenzy, resembling a startled anthill. There was a palpable anxiety in the air, but no one bothered to inform you of what was happening. Preoccupied with your two babies, you had resigned yourself to the fate of being a prisoner. Escape had never been an option, not when you were pregnant, and certainly not now with two infants in your arms. You had your children; they were healthy and strong, and this was all that mattered at the moment. There was nothing more important than to take care of them and wait for Sihtric to find you. That was something you never once doubted. You firmly believed that nothing in the world could prevent your husband from finding you. So, you waited.

“There she is. Not the youngest anymore, but still pretty. She was a whore. Must have been a damn good one, as one of her clients married her,” the tent flaps were suddenly thrust open, and there stood Heasten, accompanied by another man.

“I don’t want money for the pups, consider them as a bonus. You can never know whether they will survive,” he continued, and your eyes grew wide as you suddenly understood what was going on.

“You, heartless bastard! You are not selling me!” you shouted at him, your voice filled with a potent mix of fury and fear.

“Of course, I am. What did you think?” Heasten callously replied, “We are marching to battle, and you are nothing but a burden. I would have sold you before, but no one is willing to pay for a slave who might die in childbirth within a couple of weeks,” Heasten’s narrow eyes gleamed with malicious light while his words only fuelled your desperation, and in a moment of rage, you lunged at him, attempting to scratch out his eyes with your nails. However, Heasten effortlessly overpowered you, seizing both your hands and ruthlessly throwing you to the ground.

“Look at the little bitch, how strong and fierce she is. She will last long,” he taunted, addressing the other man and pointing his finger at you, lying on the ground, suffocating with tears.

“Please don’t do it!” you begged, tiers rolling down your cheeks. “I am begging you, please have mercy. You don’t have to take us with you. Just leave us here in the woods.”

“And lose silver this man is ready to pay for you?” Heasten smirked, turning away. Both men left your tent, leaving you crying on the ground. A suffocating mix of helplessness, anger and fear overwhelmed you, curling in your stomach and spreading throughout your body. Your hands trembled as you pulled your hair and screamed, releasing all your despair. “Sihtric,” you whimpered through your sobs, “Where are you? Why haven’t you found us?”

A terrifying thought washed over you instantly. “Is he still alive?” You had never doubted it for a single moment before. You were so certain that nothing would prevent your husband from finding and rescuing you, whatever the cost, except for one single thing - his own death. The horrifying feeling that had found its way into your heart grew stronger with each moment you dwelled on it. More than half a year had passed since you last heard from Sihtric before you left to visit your sister, and another two months had gone by in Heasten's camp. What if you were never to see him again? What if the only person in this lonely world whom you loved more than your own life was gone?

It felt as if the light had been withdrawn from the world around you, leaving you in a cold, dark, eternal night. Shadows crept from the corners of the tent, enveloping you, embracing you, and swallowing you from all sides.

"No!" you screamed, tears streaming down your face. "It is not true! I would have felt it! The bond between us is too strong; if he were to die, I would have felt it," you shouted at yourself, refusing to believe the horrifying thought that had taken hold of you, but shadows seemed to tighten their grip, making it hard for you to shake off the dreadful fear that had engulfed your heart. You remained crouched on the ground, crying out your helplessness.

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They had ridden the whole night and the following day with maddening speed, pushing both horses and riders to the verge of exhaustion. The previous day, one of the boys spying in Heasten's camp had brought the devastating news that Heasten was almost ready to march and that a message had been sent to Beamfleot, inviting slavers to the camp. As the grim reality settled upon them, the men gathered around the flickering flames exchanged worried glances, their eyes eventually turning to Sihtric. Without a word spoken, he rose to his feet with a resolute look in his eyes and began packing his belongings. In that moment, there was no chaos or panic, not even a haste or commotion in his actions, only a steeliness and a firm determination.

The mere thought that his wife and children were about to be sold as slaves sent a sharp, physical pain coursing through Sihtric's body. It was unbearable. You had already endured enough suffering before he took you away from your life as a whore in a tavern. All Sihtric had ever wanted was to cherish and protect you, to surround you with a shield of his love and care like a soft, comforting blanket, helping you forget your painful past. To him, you were his missing piece, the one who completed him and gave a new purpose to his life. Thoughts of you, your image in his mind, were what fuelled him to survive battle after battle, fighting like a madman, all driven by the one single desire – to return home to you and sink into your arms, knowing that you loved and accepted him unconditionally, just as he loved and accepted you.

He had promised you that he would never let you suffer again, and yet he found himself unable to keep that promise. The weight of this failure, shame and embarrassment had consumed Sihtric’s mind all this time, but now in this very moment there was no room for such emotions, neither for the anxiety nor the fear that had haunted him in the past days. They were all gone, replaced by pure, seething anger that coursed through his vanes, bringing a frightening calmness and composure to him. It was a feeling he knew so well, one that came to him so often amid a battle, when chaos engulfed everything around him. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only one singular purpose in his mind—to fight, to survive. Only this time, there was another driving force propelling him, yet the empowering sensation of being capable of anything, of being unstoppable, remained unchanged.

No one attempted to speak to him or dissuade him. Words were unnecessary; everyone understood that if the captives at Heasten's camp were to be sold as slaves, the chances of ever finding them again would be close to non-existent. Determination etched on his face, Sihtric mounted his horse and cast one last look at the camp, searching for Uhtred with his eyes He didn't want a permission to leave; nothing Uhtred could say or do would stop him. He only hoped for a reassuring glance or nod from his Lord, signalling that the rest of the men would follow the plan as intended. To his astonishment, he saw ten mounted warriors ready to depart, their expressions mirroring his own stern determination.

“Lord?” Sihtric’s voice was hoarse as he looked at Uhtred, the unspoken question hanging in the air.

“Did you really think we’d let you leave without us?” Uhtred responded with a smirk, spurring his horse.

With not enough horses for everyone, the other men would follow on foot, without rest. This was a desperate race against time. They knew they would be tired and hungry when they reached Heasten's camp, likely unfit for battle. The only advantage they could hope for was the element of surprise if the news of Uhtred's pretended departure to Bebbanburg had reached Heasten. Despite the odds stacked against them, not a single man objected to the mad plan.

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As the evening started approaching, you were packed onto wagons with other women and children, bound for a clearing somewhere between the camp and the next city, rumoured to be Beamfleot, as you had overheard from the conversations of other women in the camp. It took a few hours before reaching the clearing, where you were forced to leave the wagons and herded into a small paddock. In the distance, you could see wagons with metal cages, an ominous sight that sent a chill down your spine.

The captives around you were mostly women and children from nearby villages, taken by the Danes during the latest raids. A kind young woman offered to help you carry one of your children and reluctantly you agreed. Exhausted and emotionally drained, you had no more tears left to cry. You were ready to embrace the unknown fate whatever it will bring with a stern determination not to allow it to break you. You will survive, and you will endure. Your children depended on you, and you were determined to be strong for them. There was no room left for self-pity. As you looked around at the other girls, children and women torn away from their homes and families, your heart ached for them. Some were crying, while others wore a stoic, indifferent expression, concealing their inner terror. The atmosphere was heavy with fear and uncertainty as everyone grappled with the terrifying prospect of what awaited them. And deep inside you knew that you were better prepared for this ordeal than any of them.

You watched as several men arrived with Heasten, engaged in a heated argument. Their wild gestures and animated discussions pointed towards the paddock, and it became clear they were bargaining over the captives. After a short moment Heasten nodded to his warriors, and the wooden gate creaked open. The captives were dragged out one by one, forced before the slavers, and then herded towards the waiting wagons. The scene was a nightmare of angst and desperation, with women and children crying, some attempting to resist, only to be met with merciless force and being knocked to the ground and dragged further, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. Tears welled up in your eyes as you felt a mixture of fury and helplessness, witnessing the depths of human cruelty and being unable to do anything about it. You felt sick and dizzy, reduced to a mere commodity, traded and sold as an object.

“Don’t hit them in the face, you idiots!” one of the slavers shouted. “I will not pay for a single bitch with a broken nose!”

The warrior, who had just knocked down a screaming and crying mess of a young woman, casted an annoyed look at the slaver, seized her by her hair and began to drag her along the ground. He managed to do just a few steps before he suddenly froze with a look of complete bewilderment in his eyes that instantly changed to a grimace of pure fear as he released the woman’s hair, fell to his knees, and collapsed face-first into the mud, an axe protruding from his back. The woman sensing the grip on her hair loosen scrambled to her feet, letting out a piercing scream of terror at the sight of the dead warrior behind her.

In that very moment an absolute chaos engulfed the scene. Women and children cried out in fear, slavers run to their wagons and tried to jump onto them, frantic commands filling the air. Heasten and his warriors yelled at each other, attempting to form a makeshift shield wall to protect themselves from the sudden threat that had appeared out of nowhere. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to make sense of the unbelievable scene unfolding before your eyes. Who were these attackers? Was it the long-awaited rescue you had desperately hoped for? The thought filled you with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Your gaze darted around, searching for familiar faces in this chaotic turmoil.

Your eyes widened in a mix of hope and disbelief as you recognized Uhtred and Finan charging into the fray. With swords drawn, they, along with a handful of other men, smashed into the small shield wall that Heasten's warriors had desperately attempted to build. They broke through it with little effort. The suddenness of the assault had left Heasten and his men stunned and almost paralyzed, catching them off guard, with waves of fear rippling through their ranks.

As the battle raged around you, your heart pounded in your chest, and your breath came in shallow gasps. You frantically scanned the clearing, desperately searching for the one man you wanted to see most, the man who meant everything to you. Your heart almost froze in your breast as you couldn’t find him and you felt the dark shadows of doubt seizing you with their cold hands, threatening to suffocate you. All those evil whispers that had found their way into your thoughts this morning and that you had tried to ban, were back again, taunting you, telling you that your hopes were in vain, that he was gone, that he couldn't possibly be there to rescue you. The weight of uncertainty threatened to overwhelm you, and you felt your strength faltering. You sank to your knees, holding your child close, feeling the world collapsing around you and then you saw him. You saw Sihtric – your husband, your love – amidst the chaos and the battle. Relief washed over you like a tidal wave, and tears of joy streamed down your cheeks as you realized that he was alive, and he had come for you. In that moment, everything else faded away. The battle still raged around you, but all that mattered was the sight of your husband, the man who had promised to protect you, who had vowed to be by your side always. He was here, and nothing else in the world could compare to the overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude that filled your heart.

Your eyes remained fixed on Sihtric, and what you saw left you breathless. His face contorted with primal fury, he screamed incomprehensibly as he moved with a deadly precision, swinging his battle axe like a force of nature, leaping from one warrior to another. It seemed as if the god of war himself had descended upon that small clearing, delighting in each death he dealt to those who dared to challenge him and threaten what he cherished most.

The efficiency of his movements was awe-inspiring, driven by a mixture of raw power and madness that you had never witnessed before. You had always known that Sihtric was a warrior, that he was killing people if it came to a battle, but this had always been far away from you. It was just a distant knowledge with no real substance. Now, it was all too real, and you couldn't tear your eyes away from the terrifying, yet captivating sight of your husband in his element. His eyes glinted with the thrill of killing, a side of him you had never experienced, that you had never known it even existed.

As the battle gradually subsided, Uhtred's men swiftly seized the few surviving and surrendering warriors, including Heasten himself.

With a loud groan, Sihtric yanked his axe free from the fallen enemy's back. His gaze swept the area, searching for any remaining threat. Sihtric's breath were ragged and uneven, his body tense with adrenaline as he stood amidst the aftermath of the short battle, blood and mud covering his handsome face, his hair matted and dishevelled. His hands, gripping the handle of his war axe, trembled slightly, the knuckles turning white from the strain. In this very moment he was a predator seeking for his next prey, his eyes shining with anticipation and deadly precision, but there was nobody left in the small clearing, so his war axe remained lowered near his side as his eyes finally found you on your knees in the paddock pressing your daughter to your chest, while the woman holding your son stood next to you with absolute terror in her gaze.

As his eyes fell upon you, everything shifted. Sihtric’s face turned pale as he instantly recognised you. The layers of battle-hardened resolve melted away, revealing the raw emotion of a man who had feared the worst and now found the love of his life before him. The mad enraged look in his eyes faded instantly and turned into painful mixture of fear, anxiety, unending love and tenderness, his hands letting loose the handle of his war axe as he run towards you. His eyes never leaving you, he rushed to your side and dropped to his knees, taking hold of your face in his trembling hands and lifting your head to meet his eyes, his dirt-covered hand gently caressing your cheek, wiping away the tears that had mingled with the dirt on your face. Cupping your face gently, he showered you with tender kisses, tracing every inch of your cheeks, nose, and forehead as if reassuring himself that you were real and unharmed.

"I found you, my love, I finally found you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, “I am so sorry that you had to endure this. I was so afraid that I have lost you. I …” his voice broke and for a moment he was unable to say anything, emotions overwhelming him and tears welling up in his eyes as he looked down at the small bundle in your hands.

“Gods, … is it true? Is it … ?,” he managed to whisper, “May I? …Would you let me? Please…” his words were a fragile plea, his voice trembling in anticipation and fear you might refuse him, deny him this simple happiness of holding his child. You smiled, your heart swelling with love for the man before you, as you gently extended your arms toward him, giving your silent consent and placing the fragile frame of your daughter into Sihtric’s arms. His eyes lit up with an indescribable happiness, his trembling hands carefully accepting the small bundle, cradling your daughter against his chest as if she were the most precious treasure in the world.

“Gods… I don’t deserve this,” he murmured, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I don’t deserve you,” he breathed barely audible looking into your eyes. There was no need for words, as his eyes were speaking for themselves. The fear of losing you, the happiness of being allowed to hold his new-born child in his arms, the endless love and tenderness, the uncertainly of the future and the silent plea for forgiveness mixed with pure bliss, an overwhelming sense of gratitude and wonder at this moment all mirrored in his gaze as you leaned in to kiss him, dismissing all his doubts, all his fears and insecurities. Your kiss gently brushed against his lips like a fresh breath of the wind, it conveyed more than words ever could—a profound reassurance that you loved him unconditionally, and that he was deserving of your love and all the happiness in this world.

“I love you so much,” Sihtric whispered, holding your daughter tightly, every breath in his body radiating a promise to protect and cherish you, knowing that he had found his true purpose in life—to love and be loved by you.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

#sihtric #sihtric x reader #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric fic #tlk #the last kingdom #tlk fic #sihtric x you

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madsmilfelsen · 4 days

Note

dear mads, do you have any rust fics that you recommend? I fear I have run out.

I’ve been writing like a damn fiend so I haven’t read much (and I typically avoid reading anything i’m writing as to not influence my insanity)

I’m sure I’ve shouted off the rooftops about my love for Dead Flag Blues, @barbie-nightmare-house really is one of the most engaging writers I’ve read with an acute level of introspection I will never dream of achieving. Even though I know roughly where the story is going I’m so stoked to bottle it up and drink it down like cough syrup again and again and again. Detective Indiana Abelard can come kick my ass any day.

No Dominion by rosereddawn (E, rust/ofc need to be logged into ao3 to read) one of my favorite Crash-era reads with a fantastic perspective, gave more depth to the girls of Iron Crusaders than anything the show did for them

under a swollen silver moon by blackeyedblond (M, rust/marty centric) MONSTER RUST MONSTER RUST MONSTER RUST SHAPESHIFTING AU OF MY DREAMS

I think we’re all familiar with the masterpiece The Creeping Woods (E, rust/ofc) by am7f that knocked all three eras out of the park and let us see Rust as a dad again (I wept like a baby for at least two hours after finishing myself)

No Mouth to Scream (T, no pairings) haunting lil piece following “Rust Cohle lies in the dark and dreams of women”

Something Stuck in Your Teeth by enkelimagnus (E, rust/marty) it is not often something can make me blush but boy howdy (a sequel was recently added too!)

What I’d like to read:

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw by ohnoitsnina (M, rust/ofc, first person pov)

lavender bitters by blackeyedblonde (E, rust/marty/maggie)

Strange Is The Night Where Black Stars Rise by orphaned account :’( (E, rust/reader)

A History of Bad Men by am7f (E, rust/ofc)

something in the night by harryhart (M, rust/ofc)

cornflower blue by blackeyedblonde (G, no pairing)

basically everything @reds-writings has ever posted

shades of black and blue by saintsansa (T, rust/ofc)

The Last Time I Saw You by scioscribe (M, rust/marty)

out of time man by @palmviolet (M, rust/marty, which i’m only seeing now is apart of a series with SIX WORKS IN IT!!!!!)

Snippets/Upcoming pieces I haven’t stopped thinking about

@netherfeildren I know ur working on something that i’m going to sink my teeth into a shake like a rabid dog

A Crash-Era snippet by themilkteeth

A Crash-Era snippet by @argesta

#answered #rust cohle

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r0ttenhearts · 1 year

Text

After the Storm

haunting ex!scaramouche x reader

angst, slight mentions of sh, self indulgent, no comfort

“how many days has it been..?”

glancing at the corner of your monitor, the time reading 8:16 felt almost torturous considering what had occurred over the past few hours. slamming your fist onto the cold surface of your desk, screaming into your pillow, the aching dullness on your thighs as tears blurred your vision. it had been a long night.

it had been exactly a week since you’d last seen scaramouche, and you had decided to torture yourself by checking his spotify followers, seeing it go up by one with his account following some girl named “pasia” back.

you blinked slowly, your heavy, swollen eyes feeling the lack of sleep catch up to you. you sighed, stretching yourself out as you felt your bandages shift. “i’ll have to change those later.” you mumble to yourself as you leave your room after being cooped up in it for most of the previous day.

feeling almost zombie-like, you make yourself a cup of coffee. sleeping would most definitely be sentencing yourself to a nightmare. hearing his voice, seeing him. it was too much for you.

stirring the cup of dark liquid, you figured you’d try and make it a little more tolerable by dunking ice cubes into your mug, pouring caramel into the drink as you turned it into a sweet coffee.

“you’re blurring out of sight.. keeping the myth alive..” you hum to yourself as you take a sip of your coffee. this moment was nothing but pure bliss. a moment of peace from the chaos that wrecked your mind every passing minute of the day.

“i don’t know how you like that stuff (y/n). it’s disgustingly sweet.”

and just like that, your moment of peace was taken from you. you gasped, dropping your cup onto the floor as it shattered into pieces. the coffee now on the floor with the porcelain.

the ringing in your ears drowned out the sounds of your own breath desperately gulping in air with the feeling of your chest constricting on itself. “please.. leave my mind already.” you gasped out, placing your hands on the countertop to steady yourself.

you sob, covering your face with your hands as you realize this would be your new normal for awhile. just until you got over the three years you spent with scaramouche. easier said than done. you can’t just forget 3 years you spent day and night with someone. losing your firsts to, making promises to. all to someone exceptionally cruel.

once you calmed yourself, you cleaned up the sticky coffee and broken cup, retreating to your room to indulge in whatever brightly pixelated game caught your eye. things would go on like this for the rest of your summer break. moping in your room, creating more art on your skin.

“i’m safe with my sulk, i no longer want any means.”

a/n: very self indulgent after another hard night. stay safe everyone! thanks for reading!

taglist: @samarill

#genshin angst #genshin x reader #genshin x reader angst #wanderer x reader #wanderer angst #scaramouche x you #scaramouche x reader angst #scaramouche angst

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sexybabystevie · 2 years

Text

Up to the Gods

Protective Best Friend!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader

Tags and Warnings: Only Mild Volume 1 Spoilers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arguing, Self-Sacrifice, Possible Character Death, Slow Build, References to Depression, Vaguely Implied/Referenced Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Anxiety, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Best Friend!Steve Harrington, Protective!Steve Harrington

Word Count: 9057

Summary: The time you have left to save Max is speeding away, so you come up with a last-minute plan. Your best friend Steve, however, isn't so keen on you following through with it.

A/n: Please read warnings for possible triggers. This is my first time writing for Steve (and writing on this account) so I hope you enjoy! If you want a part two, please let me know, and if you have any feedback at all, then tell me! I love hearing from my readers!

Steve Harrington Masterlist

It had been two hours since Max revealed that her headaches and nightmares had started five days ago, which meant that you now had approximately 17 hours to find a way to save her. 17 hours and 24 minutes, not that you were purposefully counting down the minutes – seconds even – but your anxious mind was running out of things to do that could effectively distract you as you sat on an old, dusty couch in the Wheelers’ basement, so one of the only things you could do was periodically look at the watch on your wrist.

To everyone else, it was obvious that you were a ball of anxiety. Your left leg was bouncing rapidly against the hardwood floor, one hand at your mouth as your teeth bite your fingernails down to the skin, the other thrumming your fingers against the itchy material of the arm of the couch. Your eyes blankly stared ahead of you, unconsciously boring holes into the back of Dustin Henderson’s head.

All of the kids sat together on the floor, crowded around Max. The room was silent as everyone was both unsure of what move to make next and was also exhausted after spending yet another day trying to keep Hawkins and its residents safe from the Upside Down’s wrath. However, you were all too on edge to make any attempt to sleep, so the heavy air in the room remained the closest thing to communication among you all.

The smothering quietude and your own nerves made you feel as though you were floating, like you were somewhere far off into space, an astronaut abandoned by their crew, left to swim among the bright stars, instead of a helpless teenager who was about to lose yet another friend. If you were more in touch with your emotions, you might say that it was almost relieving.

About to lose yourself to your murky mind once more, you were brought back to your haunting reality by Steve Harrington’s hand resting on your knee, sending a sense of warmth throughout your body. You tentatively look at your best friend, who you had forgotten was next to you on the Wheelers’ couch, and you can tell that he’s as uncertain as you are from how his hand slightly shakes against your skin and from the way his bottom lip is partially buried in between his teeth. One of your first instincts is to cover his hand with your own, to intertwine your fingers with his in the hopes that maybe it could provide the both of you with a little comfort, but your mind is too tired to even think about dealing with the surge of emotions that would evoke in you.

Suddenly Steve’s hand is feeling too warm – like a blanket that was once comforting but quickly became uncomfortably, suffocatingly hot – and you softly brush his hand away and stand up a little too rapidly. Your head is spinning and you latch a hand out onto the wall so that you don't fall over, eyes closing tightly to try and steady your dizzy head.

“You okay?” The concern in Steve’s voice is more obvious than ever, and you make an effort not to turn around so that you can avoid seeing his face. You don’t want to think about how the inner part of his brows are probably raised, how his lips would be slightly downturned as his eyes would be softly squinted at you, scanning your features before meeting your gaze in an attempt to read you. You don’t want to even entertain the idea of him directing his protective nature towards you, not when everything is going to Hell and poor Max is in grave danger.

Taking a deep breath, you compose yourself and stand up straight before conjuring the least ridiculous and most believable excuse for you to get up.

“Yeah.” You nod at the stairs ahead of you, still incessant upon not meeting his gaze. “Just gonna go get some water.”

You only receive a noise in response, something that sounds half like a grunt and half like a hum, and then you slowly climb the stairs to the Wheelers’ ground floor, your knees popping and aching at their sudden movement.

A dim lamp hanging over the kitchen sink is the only thing lighting your way as you step carefully into the kitchen. Hushed whispers bounce and echo off of the walls, and you’re met with two shadowy figures who are bent over a small table residing on the outskirts of the room.

A quick glance confirms your beliefs; Robin and Nancy are seated at the little breakfast nook, hunched over with tired eyes and hands grasping coffee cups. It takes them a minute to notice you in the dark atmosphere – you also froze at the sight of them, previously hoping that you wouldn’t have to interact with anyone else – but they welcome you with tense smiles and beckon you over.

You hold up a hand, signaling that you’ll join them in a moment, and walk over to the cabinets to scavenge for a clean cup. You were going to use the water excuse as a way to avoid talking to other people, both Steve and the two girls, but ironically a glass of cold water seemed pretty good right about now.

After filling the cup with water from the kitchen sink and taking a few long gulps, the cool water soothing your dry throat more than you expected, you approach the breakfast nook again.

You sit your glass down on the table and pull out one of the metal chairs, cringing as the sound of the legs against the floor squeal louder than you anticipated. Robin’s face scrunches up at the sound and she instinctively covers her ears while Nancy just flashes you a sympathetic look.

“Sorry,” you mutter, awkwardly taking your seat and running anxious fingers against the fabric of your pants.

Nancy shakes her head and takes a sip from her coffee cup before speaking.

“It’s alright. My parents went to sleep hours ago, and there’s this weird draft upstairs that pretty much makes it impossible to hear anything that happens down here.” Her eyes glance towards the basement opening. “The only ones we have to worry about waking are ourselves.”

You scoff at the thought of anyone being able to sleep when faced with your current predicament.

“Yeah, everyone’s just about as awake as the two of you are,” you say, gesturing towards the mugs held in the girls’ hands.

Nancy nods, as if she already expected that answer to a question she hadn’t even meant to pose, and Robin fiddles with the handle of her cup before releasing a short and mirthless laugh.

“Yeah no, this is Sprite,” she speaks with a sense of urgency which you chalk up to her typically excitable personality. “Coffee makes me so fidgety and anxious that I feel like I have to pee for like three hours after I drink it. Plus, I don’t really like the taste. Even with lots of sugar and creamer and stuff, it tastes too bitter.”

Her words bring an involuntary smile to your face. You just can’t help it; you can’t possibly imagine a more fidgety version of the girl ahead of you. Not that it was a bad thing – in fact, you quite enjoyed her random ramblings when you, her, and Steve had unbearably long shifts at Family Video. Many boring nights of taking endless inventory were slightly more manageable thanks to her bumbling on about whatever thoughts entered her head.

You had known Robin for months now, thanks to being coworkers and bonding over making fun of Steve and complaining about your boss Keith, and while you weren’t as close to her as you were to Steve, you liked being around her and interacting with her. It was easy to get along with her because she knew about you via the grapevine – also meaning that Steve had talked about you so much that she practically knew everything about you except for your Social Security number – and was quick to bond with you when she found out that the two of you shared a sense of playful snarkiness. You could easily call her your friend, one of the few you had that were actually your age, and you were usually quite comfortable around her, but something in tonight’s air made you hold back from engaging in your normal banter. Maybe it was the looming weight of the situation you all would have to face in less than 24 hours, or maybe it was the other girl who sat at the table with the two of you.

You were shocked as you had watched an unlikely friendship form between Robin and Nancy a few days ago. The two were seemingly incompatible; Robin was energetic, passionate, and could sometimes get carried away quite easily when around others that made her comfortable. She had a cooler, more calculated side as well – one that you had heard about and witnessed briefly during last year’s fall of Starcourt – and was always exceedingly smart and was quick to grasp new topics, something that you oftentimes envied her for. Meanwhile, Nancy Wheeler was quiet and kind, but never was one to waste time on bullshit. She was headstrong and brave when she needed to be, and often was persuasive enough to get others to see things from her perspective. She was a girl who really wanted to be someone and who held the potential to be someone who could do big things, and while Robin was just as capable as she was, she wasn’t as deeply motivated in the same ways that Nancy was.

But then again, you weren’t as well acquainted with Nancy as you were with Robin, despite knowing the former for longer.

You had known of Nancy back in high school, your impression of her a good one as you considered her one of the few people in Steve’s original crowd that were tolerable. She never spoke to you, allowing you to fade into the background as the others did, but you still found her more approachable than anyone else. You thought that maybe, if you ever made the effort, she would have spared a glance and a few words for you.

Your impression, however, was tarnished and faded a little as you met Steve. It was at the Halloween party, back when the two first started having more obvious relationship problems. You watched as Steve stormed out of the party and your curiosity got the better of you, so you followed him. Somehow, at the stroke of a mere miracle, he was hopeless and tipsy enough to spill what had happened to you – all of it. You were shocked and had wondered for a split second if this was some kind of Halloween prank, but that broken and worried look on Steve’s face forced you to believe that this was reality. You tried to provide some comfort, although you weren’t the best at it, and that had just been the beginning of the two of you having some very chance run-ins until you started to hang out willingly, both surprised to find out that the other was actually a pretty decent person.

You were there when Dustin had dragged Steve to his house to find and kill Dart; you were there when Steve found out about Nancy and Jonathan’s unnervingly close company; you were there when Nancy finally broke things off with him and ran off to Jonathan, something that you expected but were nonetheless disheartened to see. You were there as you and Steve became surrogate parents to a group of pre-teens that were left without supervision, and you were part of the reason why your venture into the tunnels beneath Hawkins was successful in burning up the roots of the Upside Down.

You were there for so much of Steve and Nancy’s breakup, alongside Steve, that things between you and her were still awkward, despite both of you having expressed your acceptance and willingness to move forward from the situation. You had never spoken about it and sometimes wondered if you were the only one who felt it, but it was like a constant thickness in the air and a tenseness that was held in both of your voices whenever you spoke to one another. You had always just assumed that things were too awkward for you two to ever make a true attempt at bonding.

Still, as you sit with her and Robin inside of the shadowy kitchen, you feel like maybe this could be a chance for you to try and work together with them – maybe the three of you can come up with some kind of way to take action to save Max.

You leave your thoughts behind and clear your throat; even if Nancy Wheeler did hold a distaste for you, collaborating to save your redheaded friend was worth far more than holding some petty grudge.

“Have either of you thought of something we can do?”

You don’t have to specify what you’re talking about; you’re sure that it’s the most prevalent thing on everyone’s minds at this very moment, whether they want it to be or not.

Silence falls between the three of you, and no one has to make a sound for you to know that that is an answer in itself.

“I want to,” Robin reveals, voice steady and sincere, “but it turns out that intercepting a secret Russian message and decoding it is a lot easier than trying to figure out how to take out a cross dimensional wizard guy.”

You nod in understanding and suddenly feel guilty that she’s been brought into all of this. She’s just a senior in high school; the worst thing she should have to worry about is passing economics class, not wondering if an innocent young girl she knows is going to make it through a fight with some evil being.

But then again, you think, Max doesn’t deserve this either.

She’s been through enough the past few years, having unfortunately moved to the biggest literal hellhole in the entire United States and then being promptly thrown into being some kind of hero for it. Not to mention the worst part, which was that she lost her stepbrother Billy during the disaster that was last summer. You had known Billy from high school, and admittedly you weren’t a huge fan of his jerkish behavior, but that didn’t mean that you thought he deserved to die. From how Max had completely retracted herself from others and changed into a totally new, much more gloomy person, you could tell that she wasn’t taking it easily, despite the fact that she revealed on multiple occasions that she hardly even really knew him at all. You couldn’t imagine the thought of losing someone like that and being left to wonder if you could have been closer if only you had made the right steps, and so you always tried your hardest to be there for Max in the little ways, like driving her to school and taking her out for dinner so that you could make sure that she got at least one meal a day.

The truth was that, in your shenanigans with Steve, the two of you had grown to love and provide for these kids almost more than their own parents. They were witty, snarky, and unabashedly hilarious. Most of the time they seemed to be more capable with their intelligence than even you and Steve, but that just gave you yet another reason to admire them.

It was this bond between all of you that had you so anxious; you couldn’t bear to lose any of them. It was your job as their older-sibling-but-also-parental-figure to protect them and make sure that they were being properly taken care of, and this mishap was not an exception. You had to save Max, if not because of your role as the kids’ caregiver, then because you personally didn’t want to even imagine a life where she was gone and you couldn’t sneak her out to get fast food during her lunch period at school. You had already lost El and Will – you understood why they moved away and were a bit less worried about their wellbeing because you trusted Joyce’s judgment as a mother, but at the same time that didn’t completely resolve the way you dearly missed them – and you knew you wouldn’t be able to cope with really losing one of them.

Just as your thoughts were dangerously close to spiraling into heartbreak territory, a fleeting idea crosses your mind and your eyes widen like saucers. You force yourself back into reality and flicker your gaze between Nancy and Robin, eyes sparkling with hints of hope that causes the two girls to give you a questioning glance.

“I think I might have an idea.” You speak with such excitement that your words tumble out of your mouth and onto the table, blending into one extremely long and warped noise. It takes your companions a few delayed moments to comprehend what you said, but when they do, their faces mimic yours, surprised and auspicious, so you waste no time in continuing your thoughts.

“What if we can distract Vecna?” You’re aware of the way the girls’ faces scrunch up in confusion, but it feels like maybe you’re onto something and you don’t intend on stopping until you’ve shared with the class. “Obviously he’s targeting specific people, but so far he can only actually attack one person at a time, no matter how many he has partial control over. So… what if we can somehow get someone to break into his mind? Like, we send someone in as bait to keep him preoccupied… Kind of as a way to either stall him or maybe attack?”

Robin chews on her bottom lip and her eyes look distant, as if she’s racking her brain for something that could be of help to you, and Nancy furrows her brows in thought and gently shakes her head.

“The best person who we could send is Eleven, and even if she did have her powers, she’s with the Byers in California.” Nancy seems to be skeptical of your idea – which honestly makes your heart plummet into your stomach – but when she continues speaking, it seems as though maybe she thinks you’re more capable than you realize. “She would be our best shot at taking him down normally, but…” She pauses and looks up at you, meeting your gaze with a small, tiny nod of agreement. “It’s the best plan anyone’s thought of so far.”

You swallow the lump in your throat that had formed previously and nod back at her, taking a deep breath of relief. Whether or not you were liked by Nancy Wheeler wasn’t one of your top priorities, but knowing that she approved of your half-baked idea filled you with an odd sense of pride.

Robin, however, makes a quiet grunting sound and blinks her eyes several times before looking at you. Before she even utters a word, you can tell that she’s found some sort of hole in your plan.

“Vecna only takes people that he wants, for whatever creepy reason he has. We would have to make sure that this person is of use to him or he will just discard them.” She softly sighs and fidgets her hands around her coffee cup again. “It has to be someone with trauma, and from who the other victims were, it seems like it has to be some pretty shitty trauma. I just don’t know of anyone else that we have here who could possibly be effective bait…”

She gives you a small frown, as if she’s sorry that she’s potentially ruined your one shot at being able to protect Max, but you hadn’t told them everything yet. The truth was that you had someone in mind the minute the idea had fully festered in your head, you just weren’t sure if Nancy and Robin would think you were crazy.

Throwing all caution to the wind, you decide to tell them. After all, like Nancy said, this was your best shot at a plan.

“When I thought of all of this, I had someone in mind. Someone who fits all the criteria and who Vecna might take instead.” As the remaining pieces of the puzzle fit together inside your brain, you leave Nancy and Robin to wonder in anticipation as your feet are rushing towards the basement stairs. You quickly turn around and yell, “Sorry, hold on! I’ll be right back!” before you’re bounding down the steps.

When you reach the basement, you ignore the way that all of the children look over at you, heads tilted as they no doubt question why you were both running down the stairs like a madman and rushing towards the pile of bags and backpacks that’s against a closet door. You can feel Steve’s eyes on your back as you dig through the mountain of everyone’s things – he’s staring hard enough to cut into your very soul – and you feel guilty, as if maybe he can somehow telepathically understand your intentions. Your hands run across the familiar leather of your purse, and you take it before you rush back up the stairs to explain yourself to Robin and Nancy. You don’t acknowledge Steve or the kids, you just stomp right up those steps again and feign ignorance. They won’t react well to your idea; plus, you don’t really have the time to fill them in. You’re limited now, time ticking down to less than 15 hours before Vecna strikes.

As you reach the kitchen again, you approach the countertop next to the sink and set your bag on it. You unzip the main zipper on the purse, widening the opening and plunging your hands into it; it’s too dark to see clearly, even under the lamp above the sink, so you use your fingers to search for that ridged cap that you know is hidden inside.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the two girls leaving their places at the breakfast nook, hesitant yet curiously stepping closer. Your gaze flashes back to your current task at hand, and if you had only paid more attention, then you would have noticed the addition of another set of booted footsteps.

“What’s going on?” The tentative voice of Steve Harrington finally registers in your mind, but you’re determined now – you have to do whatever you can for these kids – so you say nothing in response and let Nancy and Robin explain for you.

“(Y/N) has an idea,” Nancy relays. “She thinks that maybe someone can distract Vecna from going after Max.”

“Yeah,” Robin cuts in, “and she ran downstairs like crazy to get her bag and hasn’t said a word since.”

As you continue looking through your purse, now opening other side pockets and navigating your fingers throughout them, Steve is nearing closer to you until he’s in the center of all of you, Nancy and Robin further in the back as there are only two or three steps between you and him. He’s about to speak, to ask you if you’re okay, but you mutter “Finally!” under your breath and turn around before he can.

You have a small, accomplished grin on your face as you showcase an orange pill bottle in your hands, the rough, rigid edges of the lid pressed into the skin of your fingertips.

The two girls just stare at you, blinking with blank, perplexed faces. Nancy narrows her eyes at you – you can imagine her verbally asking you if this is a joke – and Robin just is completely silent, her mouth slightly agape as she seems not to have a single coherent thought.

It even takes Steve a few minutes to recognize what you’re trying to do, but when he reads the tiny font on the side of the bottle – Paxil – it hits him like a freight truck. He looks at you with gaping eyes, almost in disbelief.

“No,” he says firmly, already shaking his head at you in the same way that he shakes his head at Dustin when he insists that he’s old enough for Steve to teach him how to drive. “Absolutely not. Are you insane?”

You can see Nancy and Robin giving each other tilted glances in your peripheral vision, communicating something to one another only through their eyes, but you ignore it. With Steve’s current disdain present in his narrowed gaze, the last thing you’re worried about is coming fully clean to the two girls behind you.

“We don’t have any other plans, Steve.” Your voice is low and quiet and you flash a brief, uncertain glance towards his face, maintaining uncomfortable eye contact for barely a second. You had hoped to see his features softening – maybe that would mean that he would give you a solid chance to explain – but they don’t. He remains stern and still, like a soldier reporting to their general.

“Then we find something else. We come up with a new plan.”

“You know it isn’t that easy. We’ve spent hours trying to come up with something, and this–” you shake the bottle in your hand for emphasis, “–is all that we’ve got.”

You’re beginning to lose your patience. You expected a fight from him, for him to be upset and worried about the implications of your suggestion, but you also thought that he would trust you enough to let you follow through with it. You know it’s risky – anything relating to the Upside Down is – but you know you’re right. You don’t really have much of a choice, but Steve is more stubborn than he’s ever been throughout your lengthy friendship.

Of course, he’s losing his composure as you are, and you feel your throat tighten as he raises his voice at you.

“Then I’ll think of something!” His voice cracks as it increases in volume and you think that for a single moment you can recognize hints of desperation burrowed into it. Still, you’re too frustrated and tired to even consider dealing with the possibility.

“Why does it always have to be you?” you ask, body trembling against your will. “Why is it that, when I have an idea, suddenly it’s you who has to come in and try to come up with a better one? Why do you always act like I’m completely incapable of anything when I’ve been around for more than enough of this hellish shit to know what I’m doing?!”

Steve just rolls his eyes and scoffs as if he can’t believe what you’re saying.

A fleeting thought crosses your mind – that this reminds you a lot of the entitled way that he acted during his ‘King Steve’ phase in high school – and you push it away before it causes you to become emotional enough to angrily voice that thought.

“Well, maybe when you come up with an idea that isn’t completely stupid, we can go along with that.” His tone is cold and almost uninterested, and it causes you to falter. Your face contorts – mouth twisting downwards and brows rising as your eyes quickly scan over his, searching for a sign that maybe he regretted the words that just spewed lethally from his lips like molten lava spurting from a volcano – before your pain and disorientation forge into rage.

Robin anxiously steps forward and makes you realize that you had fully forgotten about the two other people in the room with you and Steve. She bites her lip as she stands between you both, hands with black painted fingernails holding the two of you away from one another without touching. She takes a long, uneven breath before speaking.

“I know you’re both angry,” she starts, head turning back and forth so that she can maintain eye contact with you both consecutively, “but let’s try to take a deep breath and calm down. Arguing isn’t going to help any of us.”

You close your eyes and do as she instructed, several deep breaths in and out. From the heaving noises you hear in front of you, you can tell that Steve is doing the same.

When your eyes are opened again, you nod at an expectant Robin in order to signify that you’ve gotten yourself handled. She gives you a small, friendly smile prior to shifting her attention to cooling Steve down. After he mirrors your actions to her, she mutters a few hasty ‘okay’s under her breath, as if encouraging herself to continue playing mediator. You don’t blame her for being so frazzled; you and Steve had never fought like this before.

“First,” she says softly, glancing at the orange bottle still gripped tightly in your hand, “what the hell is that?”

You lift the container in question up and display it in your palm before explaining.

“It’s an old medication my doctor recommended to me.” You tried to keep your gaze centered on Robin, knowing that any kind of interaction with Steve would probably go sour, but you still see him wince at your words. You try not to think about how it makes your stomach churn. “It was supposed to help with… some things, but it ended up making them worse.”

“Yeah?” Robin nods enthusiastically, probably just satisfied with the fact that you haven’t started arguing with Steve again, but another voice pipes in and interrupts.

“Sorry, but what does this have to do with distracting Vecna?” Nancy takes a step closer to the three of you, leaving her place among the awkward and uninvolved shadows. “You said you had a plan that might work, but I don’t think I’m following what this has to do with that.”

You freeze and look down to your feet.

This is it. This is when you have to reveal just how reckless and absurd this entire plan of yours is. You knew Steve was right when he said that it was dangerous and stupid – you just didn’t want to admit it. But saying and elaborating on this… that was admitting that this was risky as hell, and you were suddenly worried about how they would react.

You could see Steve looking at you expectantly, wondering if you were going to say it. Wondering if he was right in what he assumed you were going to do.

But he already knew he was right, and you did too.

“The medicine gave me severe night terrors and headaches, along with hallucinations.” You meet the calculating eyes of each of your friends and chew on the inside of your cheek. “Consistently.”

The room falls painfully silent as everyone processes your implications. You can practically hear the sounds of the pieces of the puzzle connecting together in their brains, and you try to calm down your hammering heartbeat.

“That’s still not everything,” Nancy says, one brow arched as the other is furrowed against the skin of her forehead. “Chrissy, Fred, Max… They all have one other thing in common with each other that Vecna likes to take advantage of.” She doesn’t have to say it, you already know exactly what it is she’s talking about, but she does anyway. Ever the detective, was Nancy Wheeler. “Trauma.”

Everything is silent again, but this time it’s filled with a deeper heaviness, as if the air itself is carrying the weight of the world on its shoulders. Steve’s brown eyes are bouncing between you and the other two girls – he knows something that they don’t – but you can’t read him. His face is flashing through emotions like a parent snapping thousands of photos at their child’s kindergarten graduation, and you have a feeling that Robin and Nancy might be coming to the realization that there’s much more to this endeavor that they aren’t yet aware of.

Everyone’s eyes are on someone else’s; Nancy’s flipping between looking at you and Steve, Robin’s watching her, and Steve is staring at you with the intensity of a military grade, high-beam flashlight. Your own gaze fixates among all of your companions, feeling like a deer caught in between the headlights of three different cars at once.

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Steve’s whisper bounces off of the walls until it reaches your ears, and while he seems much more calm and collected than he was prior, the fact that he still doubts you – still doesn’t see just why you’re so adamant about this – causes frustration to bubble up into your veins.

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“Not when it’s the only way!” Your voice wavers despite how loud it is and your lip quivers between your teeth while your chest fills with an ache that you can only describe as pure desperation.

Your outburst shuts everyone up, too stunned and concerned and perplexed to muster up their voices. Quietude covers the room like a fresh fallen snow, freezing time and extending it all at once, and you can’t decide whether you hate this awkwardness that keeps hold of your tongues or if you want to relish within it.

The tension of the room is broken by the creaking of the stairs and your head shoots around rapidly, worried that you had completely screwed up by waking Nancy’s family. The last thing you wanted was to be on anyone’s bad side, especially the people who were so kindly giving you a place to stay as the world was becoming a living nightmare.

However, Karen and Ted Wheeler didn’t stomp downstairs with fuzzy slippers and lavish robes on, roaring and ready to lecture you about respectfulness and noise levels before ultimately deciding to kick you from their home. No; in fact, the culprits behind the case of the squeaky staircase happened to be a set of three heads that were peeping around the edge of the wall, carefully looking at you with widened eyes and fretful frowns.

With one shared glance between them, Robin grabbed Nancy’s hand and led her towards the children, rounding Max, Dustin, and Lucas back down the steps with reassuring whispers and gentle, guiding palms resting against their shoulders. Through the echoed sound of descending footsteps, you hear the kids grumble various words of protest, insistent upon their worry for you and Steve. Regardless of how upset you are, you feel your heart swell momentarily.

Only half of your group remains, leaving you and Steve in a silence that’s both more awkward than before and more comfortable. Being around him never failed in making you feel as if you were safe and accepted for who you truly were, but the absence of Robin and Nancy also meant talking about the inevitable. It wasn’t as if you really had any other choice, so – argument or not – you ultimately just want to get this over with.

“I don’t know what you think I’m trying to do, but I’m not trying to senselessly put myself in danger.”

Steve’s mouth opens, as if he’s already prepared to speak in protest of you, but you hold up a hand and stop him before he can.

“Just listen to me, okay? For just a minute?” you ask, sighing into the gap betwixt the two of you.

Luckily he nods, an almost sheepish look crossing over his features, like maybe he’s starting to realize that you might have some kind of end goal here that doesn’t have to do with getting yourself killed.

You feel a tiny bit of guilt when you see how his lips downturn slightly, and you try to lighten the mood a little.

“I promise I’m not crazy.” You send him a genuine, playful smile – the kind that are as familiar to him as the strands of hair on his head – and he chuckles in response.

He smiles fondly and shakes his head at the ground in front of your feet. “Yeah, that’s not true.”

You release air you didn’t know you were holding in and softly giggle with him; it isn’t even really funny, you both just need something to get rid of some of the tension that’s still clouding the room like smoke. The moment ends all too soon, though, and he looks at you with eyes that are painfully expectant.

Swallowing a nervous lump in your throat, you begin, “I know it seems unnecessary and stupid to you, but I meant it when I said that I don’t think this is dumb.” You can see the uncertainty flickering through his warm, brown eyes, but you continue on anyway. “If it can save them, then it’s worth the risk.”

He’s completely still while he processes your words. You can see his eyes swap through emotions under his furrowed brows; he’s fully and wholly unsure of what exactly to say and how exactly to feel.

He sighs and runs his hands anxiously through his hair, and after a few more conflicting facial expressions, he caves.

“This is important to you,” he starts, establishing direct eye contact in the soft way that he does whenever he’s about to tell you something that he knows you don’t want to hear, “and I get it. I mean, I’d do anything to keep the kids safe too, but I just don’t think this is–”

“–Steve.” You harshly interrupt him, knowing in advance how his sentence is going to end, knowing that he’s once again tossing your idea to the side. You want to be angry, to argue and scream and shout at the tops of your lungs, but you just don’t have the energy, so you settle for showing how you truly feel – exhausted.

“Why don’t you trust me? We’ve been best friends for years and you always do this,” you start, annoyed and angry and confused, but most of all, just so sick of this. “When we were going underneath that farmland to set those vines from the Upside Down on fire, you made me stand back with Dustin ‘so I had someone to protect me.’” Your hands make sarcastic air quotes as you recall his exact words.

“Back then I just thought that you thought I was incapable because you didn’t know me that well, because we hadn’t known each other for very long... But you still do it. You wanted me to stay with Dustin and Erica instead of driving back to Starcourt with you and Robin so that we could help Eleven. When you were first translating that secret Russian code, you tried keeping it a secret from me for days before Robin finally told me, and when we got stuck in the Russian base underneath the mall, you let Erica – an actual ten year old – help out more than you let me.”

Your breathing staggers and you clench your fists so tightly that your fingernails dig into your palms. You feel tears threaten to fall from your lids and down your cheeks, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you bring your gaze to settle on his.

“You treat me like a child.” Voice strained, eyes watery, and chest drumming with anxiety and hurt, you feel as though your friendship with Steve could be ruined by what you say. And yet you don’t stop; you’ve gone too far into your feelings to leave the rest of it unsaid. “You treat me like a helpless, useless child. A child who has no freedoms and purpose, because, hell, even any other kid around has more value during these kinds of things than I do.”

You hold your stance firmly as Steve says nothing, just staring at you without any apparent emotion. The worry and apprehension from before is gone, and all he has left in front of you is himself. An unreadable version of himself. You don’t know what you expected, but this ambiguity is almost heartbreaking; from your perspective, it really didn’t seem like he cared about a single word you had just said.

Minutes pass and there’s still nothing; no words from Steve and no emotions from him either. You purse your lips together and squeeze your eyes shut; if this is how it’s going to be, you only have one last thing to say.

When you open your eyes again, you ignore the stray tear that cascades down the hill of your cheek.

“I just wanted to help. That’s all I ever wanted to do.” Your voice is an unintentional whisper, which isn’t that surprising since you wouldn’t consciously trust yourself not to quiver either. “And I want to keep the kids safe. That would be my way of helping… So please, Steve. Just let me go through with my shitty plan so that we can buy Max some time.”

To your unwavering disappointment, Steve heaves a sigh and somberly shakes his head at you. You can’t tell if the ghosts of teardrops that you see at his lashline make it worse or not.

“You don’t understand.” He speaks softly and tranquilly, which is more than you expected from him, but it still doesn’t resolve things between you. It still doesn’t make you feel any less useless.

“Then make me understand!” you beg, voice crumbling under the pressure of its own volume. “If I don’t understand then just tell me!”

Steve’s gaze snaps to yours and stays there, his mouth pressed and trembling against his teeth that are chewing on the inside of his lower lip. While you assumed that he would be more angry, more defensive, as he’s standing in front of you now, he just looks like a sad, young boy who is petrified at the thought of losing his best friend.

“I can’t just sit here and let you take those meds because you know that it’ll do much worse than give you nightmares and headaches,” he reveals, tone hushed and fervent. “It’s dangerous because you’re at risk by putting yourself in the hands of a bloodthirsty villain from another dimension, and you’re at the risk of your own hands.”

You shake your head quickly, ready to disprove his point.

“I’ve been doing better, Steve. I haven’t done anything like that or had thoughts like that in months, I can–”

“No,” he says sternly, using the voice that you know means no more negotiation, and then his hand snatches the bottle of pills out of your hand. You’re fuming as you realize that he intends on trying to use intimidation to get you to cower, but your rage falls a little when you watch a tear fall from his pleading eyes. The combination of guilt and panic that you see in them makes your brain completely disregard how his knuckles turn white at how much force he’s using to grip the orange bottle, makes you forget that he even took the bottle from you in the first place. Finally seeing how this is all really affecting him, you let your anger fall away.

“I watched as you started to hate yourself more and more every day. I waited when you kept ditching our movie nights and our parties with the kids because you thought that you deserved to isolate yourself.” He pauses, face contorted in nothing but agony and dread. “I watched my best friend turn into someone that I didn’t even recognize anymore, and I can’t… I can’t do that again.”

He grunts to try and cover up the way he’s sniffling up his unfallen tears, and you feel your heart collapse into your stomach. You knew that he hadn’t reacted well when all of this went down, but to this extent..? You believed him, though, at such a vulnerable state it was disrespectful to even suggest otherwise. Plus, if your roles had been reversed, you would have felt as frantic and hopeless as he did.

Your throat tightens as you start to realize that maybe you’ve both been unfair to one another. That maybe you both should have been more honest instead of resorting to angrily upholding your pride.

“Steve, I–” You try to apologize, to explain yourself – you’re not really sure exactly what all it is that you’re trying to do, but you feel the need to fix this somehow. After seeing Steve like this, you’re certain you’d do anything to reassure and comfort him, but he misinterprets your resignation for defiance and doesn’t give you the chance.

“No!” There’s something raw in his voice, in the way that he’s almost too quick to snap his face to look at yours, and it’s as if the words that have been spewing from his mouth have been shards of glass, slicing the insides of his throat until he’s hoarse and drowning in his own blood.

“I don’t care, okay? Whatever argument you have against me is nothing because I won’t let you go back and relive that night in the hospital again.” He tries to be authoritative with his tone but it fails, and suddenly everything he’s saying is sounding more like a set of desperate pleas than a nonnegotiable demand. “I won’t sit there and be some useless bystander again while you’re barely hanging on to a thread of life.”

Steve opens his mouth and then halfway closes it, eyes flickering and features conflicted. He wants to say more; you know what he wants to say, but you also know that even he – as clueless as he sometimes can be – understands not to cross that line. Not to shout at you about your past turmoil like it’s your fault, because he’s fully aware of the fact that it isn’t.

He also keeps his tongue bitten for your own dignity, to keep the kids and your few friends from hearing about this without you being ready, and regardless of how your current relationship with him is fairing, you find yourself mentally thanking him for holding back.

You make a move to close the smothering space between you two, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder and rubbing your thumb along the edge of his collarbone. Surprisingly, he relaxes into it like he would any other time, when you weren’t in the middle of an argument that could potentially mess up everything.

“Steve,” you say his name slowly, sickeningly sweet as it tumbles from your lips, as if you’re trying to tell him so much with just his name – ‘I understand,’ ‘I forgive you,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and something else that you’re not quite ready to admit to yourself that feels like falling and flying all at once.

You don’t say anything then, knowing that what you’ll have to say won’t be what he wants to hear, so instead you keep your eyes on his, praying that somehow your thoughts can telepathically connect to him like they do when Vickie walks into Family Video, a sweet smile on her face as she asks Robin about her movie preferences. With pouted lips and brows tilted upward in concern, you hope that he gets it.

Minutes pass, and then you see the first sign of acquiescence – his face eases a little as his eyebrows straighten. It’s hardly anything and it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, but it was enough for you to know that his insistence was starting to crumble.

“It’s for the kids,” you whisper, gaze floundering all over his face so you can monitor each feature that changes. You could say more – that these kids were thrown into the mouth of Hell at the ripe age of 12, bearing witness to more destruction, death, and heartache than anyone should ever have to – but you don’t have to. Steve already knows; it’s part of why he does all that he can for them. “I would do anything to protect those kids.”

Without a single beat passing, Steve replies, “And I would do anything to protect you.”

It’s quiet, hushed and whispered into the room as if it’s a secret for only you to hear, although anyone else could see it with their own two eyes, plain as day. It’s soft and warm and ever-comforting, like when you wash your sheets and immediately cover yourself in them when they first get out of the dryer, shrouded in familiarity and the steady feeling of returning home during the holidays, the promise of a warm meal and your own bed no matter where you roam, forever there and forever yours.

And suddenly everything makes a little more sense. The uncharacteristic stubbornness from Steve, the anger and hesitance and fear that radiated from his disposition; because that’s what it really was – fear. The looming sense of doom that filled the boy’s head and heart at the thought of you going against Vecna alone.

It was a fear that ran deeper than any he had felt before – even when the Russians under Starcourt had taken you hostage to try and strip you of your information and pride – amplified by swirling thoughts of your hand brushing against his as you sorted movies at work, the sound of your shared footsteps and giggles as you hid in the back room of Scoops Ahoy to sneak far too many ‘free samples’ of ice cream, and the feeling of you pressed against him – crying and breathing and safe – after you reunited as the smell of fire filled both of your lungs.

You and he, alike, had come to self-realization, but uncertainty and a different kind of fear had kept you from acting upon it. Unsure of one another, of where you stood among the thin line between best friends and something more, until now. Until you heard it in his voice, in that same little admission that was an enigma just for you, and you just knew without him even saying it. You knew.

Your arms are around him in an instant, grasping at the soft cotton of his t-shirt and burying yourself into him. His eyes close as he pulls you impossibly closer, hands at your shoulders and his lips soft against your forehead in an eternal kiss. Warmth floods throughout you, filling your chest until it feels like it might be exploding, filling your lungs until breathing is a little easier, a little harder.

“I can’t lose you again,” he whispers against your skin, his breath hot and tingly, “not even for a second. Not even partially.” He doesn’t have to add in the next part, you already know and he does too, but he does it anyway, a murmur that you can barely make out against the white noise of the Wheelers’ loud refrigerator. “Don’t you get it?”

And you do.

You don’t have to look up to see the fondness in his eyes or to watch the way that a small tear rolls down his cheek and lands on the top of your head. You don’t have to hear him say it because his fingers tighten around your shoulders and he takes a long, deep breath; you can practically hear him repeating a mantra in his mind – You’re here, you’re here, you’re here…

Overwhelmed with emotions – far too many of them – your own eyes start to water again and you move yourself to rest your nose and mouth across his shoulder, both at an attempt to ground yourself and because teardrop stains on the shoulder of his shirt would be less uncomfortable than having them against his chest, not that you thought he would mind at all.

You steadily inhale the fabric of his t-shirt and the smell that can only be described as him, an intoxicating mixture of sweet patchouli and faint vanilla that has an inkling of his floral-scented laundry detergent.

You’re both doing the same thing: breathing and living and holding one another up and together, like the roots of two trees that have been intertwined for decades, now having to branch into one after the wake of a tornadic storm. You’re in the middle of your own thunderstorm now, with everything around you spinning and yelling and uncertain and tumultuous; all you have and all you want is one another, to stay as tightly interwoven as you’ve always been, so you clasp your bodies together in hopes that it will see you through the eye of the hurricane.

You hold each other until you’re slightly sweating and your bodies are beginning to grow stiff, but you never falter, hopelessly devoted to each other like the sun and the moon, lovers forever in pursuit of their counterpart without ever touching, but without ever receding either.

You’re sure he can feel it in your touch – or in your gaze or your words like you could see it in him – but you want to say something anyway, so you whisper, “I know,” with your lips close to the smooth skin of his arm. You want to push the thin cloth away and preach it into his bare flesh, over and over again so that he remembers it forever, but you don’t because it won’t save you.

It won’t save Max. As much as you might want them to, the feelings and fears that Steve holds for you – that you hold for him – are not capable of turning into soldiers that can defeat Vecna and the Upside Down. So far, there’s only one person who you both know that’s ready – as ready as you can be for battle with a great unknown – and who might have a shot, and that’s you.

But, like everything else that remains comfortably unspoken but not unacknowledged between the two of you, Steve knows this too.

“I have to do this,” you mumble, feeling the most regret that you had the entire night, “for them.”

Steve doesn’t argue this time. He swallows the lump in his throat and wills his few tears away, aware that this is your choice to make – not that there really is much of a choice to make. With one last overbearing inhale against your forehead, as if he’s branding the scent of you and the very sensation of you into his brain forever, he slides something into your jacket pocket that rattles as it lands – the orange pill bottle – and ignores the very crushing of his heart as he gives the fate of his most beloved person up to the gods.

#steve harrington #stranger things #stranger things 4 #st4 #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #stranger things four #stranger things fic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington angst #steve harrington hurt/comfort

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she-posts-nerdy-stuff · 4 months

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The Girl Who Accidentally Broke The Universe

Hi, so I've had a little bit of interest on here recently about the book I've written and am currently querying so thank you guys for that, I've honestly taken a little creative hit because publishing is a tough industry to break into and the rejection is quite draining but I'm really trying to fall back in love with my manuscript right now so I thought I'd tell you all a bit about it!

A lonely goddess. A girl who's the last of her kind. A lost boy. A garden child. A missing princess. A monster. And the end of the universe. What could go wrong?

Oh, that's right - everything.

Meet Kala Sparsdon: the girl who broke the entire universe

… Twice.

In her defence, it was an accident. Sort of. Up until around eight months ago, Kala had about as normal a life as she thought she'd get - yes, it's a bit boring, and yes, she's haunted by her constant nightmares, and yes, she has no idea what she's supposed to do with her life, but she's happy and safe and all she needs in the world is the love and support of her best friend Olivia Greene. But when Olivia is killed before her eyes and Kala flees the crime scene in panic, everything she's ever known is thrown into question. As she runs from Olivia's attacker, she meets the mysterious Sienna Haden and Karter Kershaw - who claim not to be human. What started as night terrors becomes an all too real world of magic, mystery, politics, and danger as a bewildered Kala is named the saviour of this enticing new society on the verge of war with its own gods.

The Girl Who Accidentally Broke the Universe is a retrospective narrative recorded by a group of historians attempting to create an accurate and accessible account of the supposed end of the universe. Their first point of call for interview was Kala and she agreed to help create the account on the condition that it must be told almost entirely in her own voice. Upon agreement from the historians, Kala recorded herself explaining her story for it to be transcribed by an editor, who adds further details, any necessary explanations, and occasionally personal opinions to the story through footnotes over the course of the book.

As much as I have a never-ending love/hate relationship with my own writing, I know that I truly love this story and I had so much fun writing it (even if sometimes it made me want to bang my head against a table) and it would mean the absolute world to me to one day be able to share it as an actual book. If anyone wants to hear anything more about it in the future then please let me know, and thanks so much for reading this post because even just this little bit is (excluding the industry) the most I've shared about it anywhere except for in long rants to my friends (who I'm sure are fed up of hearing it by now, love you my darlings thanks for putting up with me)

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cleolinda · 2 months

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Weekend links, April 7, 2024

My posts

This week feels like it has been a hundred years long (not in a bad way).

Somehow we joined together to balance the seesaw just right so Ava Gardner and Jean Seberg could both go through in the Hot Vintage Lady polls (percentages rounded). Like, I’m wearing the Ava jersey and even I encouraged people to vote Jean when necessary. Honestly, I just wanted to see if it could be done. And it COULD.

Round three has begun. It is already horrific. This is the first round that’s really going to hurt because we spent the last one really getting down in the dirt and championing our ladies, or learning about actresses we’d never heard of before and getting attached to them. And now? We are reminded: memento mori. Everyone loses but one.

(I personally pitched in for Sara Montiel. “BUT JUST LOOK AT--” Yeah, I did, thanks.)

Reblogs of interest

April Fool’s Day: You were here for the Boopening, yes? The whole thing was that you only got badges for giving boops, not receiving them, which is a great way to not reward popularity contests, but also means that every last one of us was out here trying to figure out who to bap with a cat’s paw 1000 times. I said, listen, my notifications are already trash garbage today. I’ll take the bullet. Boop at will.

The Activity graph isn’t too clear on this point, but it looks like I had something like 65,000--hits? engagements? boops?--that day. Listen, I got the black paw badge too. We all did what we had to do in the Boopening.

A Shakespearean boop of goodly length: “And, Meowntague, come you this afternoon, to know our further pleasure in this case, to old Food-bowl, our common judgment-place.”

I had to go lie down awhile after a pun like “The Purrge.”

I had just gotten up from that pun and then I had to go lie down again.

Account security gothic

The Canada griffin

Dinotopia nostalgia

Two pairs of spectacles, one made from slices of emerald, and the other from slices of diamond

An old favorite: Cerberus as a puppy, guarding the gates to heck

I feel like these two posts have the same energy: Time cops will not let you travel back to the Titanic and bloodthirsty gazebos are currently in a dormancy period.

The birds are still troubled

PSA: The best sunscreens for your face

Video

A collection of various American Indian/indigenous American languages, including Navajo, Tlingit, Lakota, Colville Okanagan Salish, Cherokee, Yucatec Maya, Greenlandic, Mohawk, Yup'ik, and Mi'kmawi'simk.

A trans health-and-wellness fundraiser (Mercury Stardust, Point of Pride, and friends) kept getting banned off Tiktok due to assholes. Here’s how to donate; I saw a few “here’s how they helped me” notes, so it seems like these programs are both legit and effective.

You think you’re going to sit staring at this video because Chocolate Guy is weaving chocolate. Then you get into it, and it just keeps going.

“Too Sweet” is doing hilariously well on the charts for a song that didn’t even make the album proper. Hozier’s bees would like to thank you for your support.

I know I said that Stevie Nicks would make you sing backup on your own haunting, but late in this 1997 live performance of “Silver Springs,” she makes Lindsey Buckingham, the man she wrote this song about, look her in the eye while she belts it at him. This specific performance was released as a single (I was there, Gandalf) and nominated for a Grammy. Watch the video and you will see why.

The Women Those ‘Evolution Of Beauty’ Videos Leave Out

I don’t really know how to describe this rubberhose-style cartoon of Cab Calloway as a singing nightmare clown. Betty Boop is also there. “You just described it!” No, I really didn’t.

How movable type worked 1000 years ago, from scratch.

Unrestrained seasonal yak fun

A snowy raven photoshoot

The sacred texts

I don’t know how to explain this double Sacred Text about ominous dreams that comes with its own comic, except to say that they’re so iconic that I first saw both posts in lo-res Pinterest screencaps.

April Fool’s: The ultimate sacred text.

Personal tag of the week

Wet beast Wednesday, which had both a headshake stickflip and bears on a swan boat.

#weekend links #odds and ends #linkspam

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pxnsneverland · 7 days

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Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 2)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,025

warnings/notes: Still kind of an introductory/background chapter. But Austin does get introduced in this one :)

Chapter 2: An Unwelcome Visitor

One particularly bleak morning brought more than typical London drizzle; it brought Mr. Henry Cartwright—or 'Rat,' as he was aptly nicknamed—slinking through the narrow, cobbled streets towards their humble abode. His arrival was never without dread; his shadow seemed to cast a pall over whatever it touched, and today, its reach felt more chilling than usual. Violet watched from behind the partially closed door as this man who held her fate in his greasy palms approached. She could see the false smile plastered on his face, a grimace disguised as a greeting.

“Miss Everly,” Henry Cartwright began, his voice smooth like oil, but with an edge that hinted at the impatience beneath. “Your father has failed to meet his obligations again. And here I find myself, contemplating what measures to take to assure his... cooperation.”

Violet’s heart sank. She knew too well what this meant: further debts, more threats, or worse—actualization of those threats. The room felt colder as he stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a definitive thud.

“I have no money to give you, Mr. Cartwright,” Violet said quietly, her gaze steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides. Her voice carried a defiance born not of hope but of resignation to whatever might come next.

Cartwright chuckled darkly, pacing slowly around the sparse room as if appraising it for valuables that did not exist. "Ah, but my dear," he sneered, eyes glinting with a cruel amusement as he stopped to face her, "it's not your money I'm after. You must understand, the debts of your father have grown too substantial to be ignored any longer."

Violet felt the walls close in, the weight of her impending doom pressing down on her shoulders. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of a horse-drawn cart rattling over cobblestones outside. Henry Cartwright's gaze was like a vise, tightening with every second she remained silent.

"You see, Miss Everly," Rat continued, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper as he leaned closer, "your father's ineptitude has forced my hand. There's a certain... clientele at my club who would pay handsomely for the company of someone as rare and beautiful as you. It would certainly settle his accounts... and maybe even leave some over for your own keep."

Violet recoiled as if struck. The very air around her seemed to thicken with revulsion. Her mind raced, desperate for an escape from this nightmare, but her body felt frozen, ensnared by the horrifying reality of Rat's proposition. Rat's smirk widened as he observed her horror, taking perverse pleasure in the power he wielded over her. Violet's heart pounded mercilessly against her ribcage, each beat a drum of panic. Yet, amidst the terror, a spark of her indomitable spirit flickered to life.

"No," she whispered, the word barely audible yet loaded with all the conviction she could muster. Rat paused, his expression shifting to one of surprise and then quickly to anger.

"What did you say?" he hissed, stepping closer.

Violet straightened up, her gray eyes hardening like flint. "I said no." Her voice gained strength from somewhere deep within her, a place untouched by fear or despair. "I am not a coin to be traded at your whim."

Rat laughed, a cold, humorless sound. "You might think you have a choice in this matter, Miss Everly, but let me assure you — you do not. This is not just your fate but also a solution to your father’s incompetence."

"I would rather die than live at the mercy of your vile desires," Violet retorted, her defiance lighting up her gaunt features.

The amusement on Rat’s face vanished, replaced by a menacing scowl. "Be careful, young lady. You are in no position to issue threats. Remember, I can make your life exceedingly difficult."

Violet's resolve did not falter, though her heart trembled within her chest. She knew the danger of antagonizing a man like Rat, but the thought of subjugation under his control was more terrifying than any threat he could utter.

"Then you shall have to do what you must," Violet said, her voice steady, though inside she felt like a fragile bird in a storm.

Rat's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting into a cruel sneer. "Very well, Miss Everly. Since you choose defiance, expect no mercy from me." With those chilling words, he turned on his heel and strode towards the door, each step heavy with menace.

As the door slammed shut behind him, Violet slumped against the wall, her legs weak with relief and fear. Tears threatened to spill over — not merely from fright but also from a deep-seated rage against the injustice of her plight and the depravity of men like Rat. In the silence that followed Rat's departure, the small, dimly lit room felt both sanctuary and prison. Violet's breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a battle against the despair that threatened to engulf her. Her father, who had been silent during the entire confrontation, now looked at her with a mix of bewilderment and indifference. His gaze was glazed, numbed by alcohol and years of moral decay.

"Violet, you shouldn't have spoken to him like that," he slurred, his voice barely rising above a whisper. "You've just made things worse for us."

Violet turned to face her father, her expression wrought with a mixture of pain and defiance. "Made things worse? How, Father? By refusing to be sold like property?" Her voice trembled from the intense emotion that churned within her, but her stance was resolute. "No, Father, it is you who have made things worse with your recklessness."

Edward Everly shuffled uncomfortably, his bloodshot eyes avoiding her piercing gaze. "You don't understand, Violet.”

"That does not excuse you from your vices!" Violet's words cut through the dim room like a blade. The very air seemed charged with her fury, an electric tension that made even Edward shift uneasily on his feet.

Edward's gaze shifted again, landing on the grimy window pane as if seeking an escape from Violet’s searing condemnation. “You think it’s easy? Surviving in this godforsaken place?” His voice cracked, an unusual display of emotion from a man she knew more as a figure of stubborn indifference and cruelty.

“Survival does not necessitate the selling of one’s soul,” Violet retorted sharply, her eyes never leaving his face despite the sting of tears that blurred her vision.

A shadow passed over Edward’s face—a flicker of guilt, perhaps, or merely resentment at being challenged. “You don’t know the burdens I carry,” he muttered, turning away from her piercing eyes.

Violet felt a momentary pang of pity for the man who had once been her protector, before quickly steeling her heart against it. "And you, Father, have never understood the burden of your actions on others," she replied softly, yet with a steeliness that surprised even her.

The tension between them stretched taut as a bowstring. Edward stood, his jaw clenched, the veins in his neck bulging with suppressed rage. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows on his face, making him look more monster than man. Abruptly, he grabbed his coat from the hook by the door and yanked it on with jerky movements.

"Where are you going?" Violet asked, her voice steady despite the fear that gripped her heart.

"To settle things with Rat," Edward growled, his words slurring together as he struggled to maintain control over his enflamed emotions.

Without waiting for a response, Edward stumbled out of the room, his heavy boots echoing against the wooden floorboards. Violet watched him go, a whirlwind of emotions churning within her. Fear for what her father might do in his drunken state mixed with fury at his betrayal and sadness for the broken shell of a man he had become.

Left alone, Violet’s thoughts raced as she pondered her next move. The walls of the dank room felt like they were closing in on her, each shadow playing tricks on her eyes as if mocking her plight. She knew that standing up to Rat had probably only bought her a brief reprieve. Men like him did not take defiance lightly, and she had no illusions about the lengths to which he would go to assert his control.

The sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses from down below reminded her of where she was — in the bowels of a club. Rising to her feet, she wiped the tears from her cheeks, refusing to allow them any further claim on her spirit. With quiet steps, she went down the stairs and approached the door that led into the club.

********************

The dimly lit back room of the club was thick with the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke, a miasma that clung to every surface as obstinately as the patrons clung to their vices. Violet's heart hammered in her chest, each beat a loud echo in her ears that seemed to drown out the low murmur of conversation around her. She stood stiffly beside her father, her fingers clenched tightly around the fabric of her worn skirt. Rat sat behind a cluttered desk covered in papers and empty glasses, his beady eyes appraising Violet like a merchant assessing a piece of merchandise. Edward shifted uncomfortably beside her, his gaze avoiding hers.

"Ah, the gem of the night," Rat exclaimed with a greasy smile, his voice dripping with feigned delight.

Violet felt a shiver course through her spine at his words, her skin crawling under the weight of his gaze. She remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line, as Rat stood and circled around the desk with the predatory grace of a vulture swooping down on its prey. He stopped inches from her, his fetid breath brushing against her face as he leaned in close.

"You'll do nicely," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with unwholesome anticipation. Violet recoiled instinctively, but Rat's hand shot out, gripping her chin with a firmness that made escape impossible.

“Get your hands off of me,” Violet spat struggling to keep her eyes locked on his. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her weak.

Rat snickered roughly letting go of her chin. “You’ve got fire. I’ll be sure to do something about that quickly.”

“What are you talking about?” Violet raised a brow.

Edward's laugh, a hollow sound devoid of any paternal warmth, grated on her nerves. "Now, now, Violet, be good," he chided, his words slurred slightly as he took another swig from the bottle he had managed to procure upon their arrival.

Rat's chuckle was low and menacing as he turned his attention back to Violet's father. "Edward, you've truly outdone yourself this time," he sneered, eyeing Violet like a hawk regarding its next meal. His voice lowered into a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for Violet to overhear. "Remember our agreement. She's mine until the debts are squared away."

Violet felt her blood run cold at his words, the finality of her situation crashing down around her like the walls of a decrepit house succumbing to its own decay. A surge of panic threatened to overwhelm her, but she quashed it quickly, her instinct for survival sharpening her focus. She needed to think, to plan, not simply react.

"Never," she breathed, her voice trembling not from fear, but from a fierce resolve that took even her by surprise. Violet turned sharply to face her father, stepping forward so that they were eye-to-eye, forcing him to confront the reality of what he had done. "How could you?" The accusation was more than a question; it was a denouncement of every moment of neglect and abuse she had suffered under his care.

Edward, his face a mixture of inebriated confusion and dim irritation, tried to formulate a response, a pathetic attempt at justification hanging limply between them. "It's all for the best," he stuttered, his eyes not meeting hers. "You'll have food and—a roof."

Violet's laugh was bitter, laced with incredulity and contempt. "A roof? A cage, more like," she retorted sharply, her anger giving her voice a steely edge. "You barter away your flesh and blood for a few coins to squander on your vices. You are less than a man."

Edward's face reddened, his eyes briefly flashing with something that might have been shame, but it was quickly drowned out by a resurgence of his habitual defiance. "You don't understand the pressures I'm under!" he shouted back, his voice rising over the din of the club.

"I understand perfectly," Violet countered coldly. "I understand that you are a coward, Father. A coward who would sell his daughter to shield himself from his own failures."

The room seemed to hold its breath, the usual cacophony momentarily subdued as patrons turned to witness the spectacle unfolding. Rat, sensing the shift in atmosphere, clapped his hands with mock cheerfulness. "Enough of this family drama," he interjected smoothly, his tone brooking no argument. "Violet, you are now under my care. Edward, you know the terms. Don't make this uglier than it needs to be."

With a disdainful glance at her father, Violet pulled her arm free from his grasp and took a step back, distancing herself both physically and emotionally. Her heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage, each thud resonating with the resolve that hardened in her eyes. She wouldn't let despair consume her; she would fight, somehow.

“Now, Now, Cartwright,” came a voice that belonged to a hooded figure seated near them at the opposite table. “You should know better than to do your dastardly deeds in the open.” The figure removed his hood revealing a young man with blue eyes and blonde hair that flickered in the candlelight.

Rat sneered. “Lord Butler. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Stay tuned for part 3!! Click HERE to view!

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