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rose-tea-and-strawberries · 1 year

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Celebrating Ramadan With Kalim and Jamil

Masterlist

First of all, I would like to say that all of this is incredibly self-indulgent. I know that everyone has their own traditions and ways of celebrating Ramadan but this is how my family observes this month. I would love to hear anyone else’s input.

Okay, my mother would love to meet them because they are good, respectable boys.

Every year my mother goes abaya shopping where she has to buy three different abayas (one for Eid, one for Taraweeh/Jummah prayers at the mosque and one for everyday wear) and she always gets upset because I’ve been using the same abaya for the past three years and I only get another one once my previous one has been worn down. Well, now she shall be disappointed no longer because not only would Kalim buy me three wardrobe’s worth of the most luxurious abayas known to man with the fanciest matching shawls but he also, most probably, would get her the fancy abayas as well.]

Kalim would win her heart by buying her those really luxurious hijab shawls.

Oh my god, Eid dress shopping would be a whole other monster. After finding out that I buy two dresses/outfits for Eid, he would be like ‘ha you thought’ and just pull up a thick magazine and ask my mother to point out anything and everything she wants me to have - since she’s the one that does all of the Eid shopping - and the next day I’d find a pile of readily tailored clothes in my bedroom.

A few weeks ago, my mother bought me a golden bracelet with my name written in Arabic on it and honestly part of the reason I love it is because it is exactly the kind of gift Kalim or Jamil would give me.

Iftar and Suhoor would be a feast with Kalim, Jamil and the Al-Asim wealth. Like these boys would stroll up with the rich people dates and my mother would be sold (my mum and her dad love dates).

This has nothing to do with the rest of the post but I know for a fact that the Scarabia boys would get my name right on the first try and I love them for that.

(Context: I have an Arabic/Muslim surname and I spent all my life going to a whiter-than-the-antaractic primary school that used to be a church. That place was so white that we didn’t even have proper assemblies, we had ‘service’ where the priest from down the road would come and talk about the Bible to the entire school whilst the 10-20ish Muslim kids would sit at the back of the hall and read books. So whilst I was there everyone would pronounce my last name as the way you would spell it out in english whereas the actual arabic pronunciation is different but since everyone including my teachers, the librarians, my mum and dad’s coworkers etc called me by the western pronunciation, I thought that that was what my name is. It was only after my Arabic/Quran teacher pronounced my surname in its Arabic way that my dad told me that it's the proper way of saying it. Not going to lie, it felt kind of weird knowing that I’ve been getting my own name wrong for over a decade and I still use the English pronunciation to this day)

Similarly to how Kalim would win my mum with dates and clothes, Jamil would win my mum with handmade kunafa. Trust me, my family loves kunafa.

Also, my parents love arabic tea. My mum collects tea sets and her two favourite sets are her Turkish tea glasses and silvery metallic Moroccan tea set. Jamil would see her arabic mint tea leaves and he would offer to brew it for her and it would taste like perfection, I just know it.

There was this one Ramadan where my mum got into Arabic calligraphy so she bought this big canvas and some black paint and my sister and I tore out pages from my cartridge paper pad and used my calligraphy pens and we just sat and tried to replicate the arabic calligraphy art we saw on google images whilst listening to nasheeds and I KNOW that Jamil would love to do this. Like he would come out with a masterpiece after ten minutes and then judge watch me try to make mine look half decent before trying to help me.

I don’t think Jamil would be allowed in the kitchen when my sister, mum and I prepare food for Iftar since it’s a girls only zone but if he could enter it, I know that he would be all calm and everything would be ready at least ten minutes before the adhan compared to the rat race that happens in my house where there are some days where we are laying the table like a minute before it’s time to break fast.

So the day before or two days before Eid, my mother or her friends would invite all of the ladies and their daughters for a henna party where we pay a professional to come and put henna on our arms (and sometimes feet) and we play music and sing and dance and eat sweets and it's a whole thing. Kalim would be upset that he can’t join us but he’d understand since it’s a girls only party and there will be women who want to take off their hijabs and relax but he would pay for like ten of the best henna artists he knows and order food for us and he’d be such a sweetheart like he’d be so happy when I’d show him my designs and he’d talk about how his siblings would wear henna and he used to wear it before he got tattoos.

So, my family likes to celebrate my dad’s lunar birthday since he was born during Ramadan and then, since my sister and I made a big deal of it, my parents decided that they’ll also celebrate our lunar birthdays as well - and by ‘celebrate’ I mean that my mum would order takeaway from our favourite restaurants for dinner - and I can so see this as a thing that Kalim would do only he would treat my lunar birthday as an actual birthday with cake and presents and the whole she-bang.

I kind of want to introduce Kalim to my grandma only to see his reaction to her calling my little sister ‘shaytan’ (satan/devil) as a term of endearment.

Speaking along those lines, I also have a very artistically talented friend who shares the same morbid humour as me and as a gift she made me a canvas with the words ‘Kullu nafsin thaiqatu almawti’ (Every soul shall taste death) written in arabic calligraphy that I have hung up in my bedroom and I would love to see Jamil or Kalim react to that just being one of the first things they see.

#twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #kalim al asim x reader #jamil viper x reader

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lmelodie · 9 months

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The Day of Darkness

So I've been babying this idea for a week now because BlackIce angst/hurt comfort is my FAVE. So, since Killian is rather official unofficially CS canon, that means he was also around for the Day of Darkness. And I just wanted to see what the could've looked like. Fenagling the regular BlackIce timeline into the CS timelines for funsies!

Around 4.3k words for the curious. If you are unfamiliar with @safyresky characters this will make NO SENSE. Please read Crystal Springs. That is not a request 😌

564 CE

It was just a normal day! Or night where he currently was. That's how these things always start out. Everything is completely fine until it isn't. Killian was out in the field, doing his job. Sitting on a thatched roof in some unnamed human village, surveying the nightmares working en masse in the dimly lit homes. So, so ordinary, until it wasn't.

Until he feels it. A sensation that is very familiar to him, but never in such saturation as this. Almost like a really bad tension headache.

It's the pull of a massive collective fear spiking in Crystal Springs. The combined sense of doom from every citizen rippling through the entire continent. The whole of the country is doused in a terrible dread, and he can feel the pull of such a massive amount of unchecked fear in the back of his head.

And it felt wrong. The entire populace is all scared at once when they definitely shouldnt be. Something has happened and he doesn't know what. Something big. And he can't stand not being in the know. Especially when it's his domain to be concerned with. So he cuts his shift short and races off to Crystal Springs to find out what's got everyone in such a stir.

He trudged through the process of teleporting to the continent with much more difficulty than he was expecting. Something that's usually so effortless had him straining through the process. It left him wondering if he should even think about the possibility of doing that again once he reached his destination. And when he manifested the city center he could see why.

A horrible, terrible blizzard had taken the continent by the throat. Choking out any life that had once been idling in the streets. The gale force winds canceled out any other noise, big or small. And the tiny daggers of ice it carried on its back sliced through any open skin like paper. It was cold and dry and whiter than oblivion in all directions.

The sun was completely blotted out, plunging the magical world into an unusual and foreboding darkness.

The storm's presence assaulted Killian’s bodily senses as he stood in the midst of it. Not only his main five, but his sixth sense of fear factor was through the roof now that he was in the city. He can feel that everybody was hulled up in their homes; across all four corners, everyone feared what this could possibly mean. He stood in the middle of the whipping winds, squinting his eyes to try and see anything of value or use to him to figure this out.

But he did know one thing for absolute certain.

“Motherfucker!” he shouted into the howling winds.

He somehow knows that this whole charade he’s doing will also affect him one way or another. In a way that he definitely won't like dealing with. He can't decide whether he’s surprised about him doing something like this or not. A small part of him wants to believe that maybe this is Winters doing. Maybe he finally broke the poor woman and she finally snapped and went full snow queen on the Springs. But he knew that definitely cant be anyone else but him.

But before he could do any of that there was one place he had to go first. He knew Jack and his family would be doing just fine in a storm like this. One summer and three winter sprites should be able to hold their own.

But it was his own that might be having issues with conditions like these.

Again, it was a surprising trek and a half to teleport to the eastern province. He managed just enough to get to the massive open cave entrance on the evergreen mountain face. He wanted to be inside the thing, but just outside the front door will have to do.

But he didn't have a spare second to collect his thoughts before he was being shoved aside by a swarm of goblin citizens hurtling themselves through the cave entrance. Smacking into the back of his knees and shoving him a little of balance before eventually flowing around him when he didn't move.

The stragglers that were caught outside on their daily commute were trying to run back into the safety of the underground. Some more frostbitten than others depending on how far away they were coming from. The cliffside cave did most of the heavy lifting when shielding the city from the harsh conditions, but only somewhat. The goblin populace was still vastly unprepared for such a sudden onslaught.

But the moment he wasted in observing the chaos was short lived, as he too joined the trickle of people and all but leapt onto the stone path. He slithered through the shadows, swimming from one darkened corner to another at breakneck speeds. On the search for the only one here he really cares about.

He eventually finds Duna huddled up in her home, bundled in a heavy shawl, stoking an infant fire in the fireplace. He reforms just outside the smaller than average door and nearly kicks it off its hinges as he barges in.

“Duna!”

The goblin woman who carried the name turned to see the intruder. Her creased face lighting up upon recognition, nearly stumbling over herself to get to him across the cramped living quarters.

“Killian!” she called back in a thick romanian accent. She ended up squeezing the lower half of his legs before he set to crouch down to her level.

“Killian, that boy needs sense! Și-a pierdut mințile? (Has he lost his mind?)” she said, grabbing onto his collar.

“I have no idea what he’s done, let alone why. Definitely for stupid or petty reasons. Do you have any hypothermia?”

“Fah!” she scoffs with a grin, “Am văzut mai rece decât asta (i've seen colder than this). I lived under Regina Frosti!”

“I know, you're a tough cookie,” he says, “but these are nasty temperatures out there. You're all just lucky that the cave repels a good chunk of it.”

“We can't use the crystal balls,” she sadly explained, “Nothing gets through. Teleporters are down.”

“Yeah I know. Manual teleporting isn't doing much either. It's hard enough to cross provinces, but I bet it's damn near impossible to make it anywhere off continent.” He closes the space between himself and the floor and sits with his legs crossed, “The whole country is scared shitless so I had to come and see what it was about. But now I don't think I can go anywhere else.”

“Desigur că nu (of course not). You're not going anywhere,” she makes her way across the hovel yet again to continue stoking the fire.

“But I can't just sit here. At the very least I can try and find Jack and get him to stop the storm.”

“Use your head, Killian,” she sternly says, “Iarnă (winter) es a very powerful season. She will set things right, as every good mother does.”

His mouth tightens into a line, “I don't know. If she were able to, this storm probably wouldn't even be happening right now. Something isn't right here. And don't you trust my opinion about when things aren't right?”

“You're not going out in that storm,” she demands, pulling up a small wooden stool from the corner, and sitting herself down in front of the fire; sitting the iron poker against the wall with her palms facing the open flames, “Stai pe loc (stay put). The winds bite like dogs. You will freeze.”

He doesn't have any clever retort or valid point to throw back at her. Because he knows that she's right. Teleporting has been made difficult, and he won't last for very long if he just starts wandering out in those conditions. He crosses his arms and stares down at the weathered floorboards to try and think of something else.

“Babau.”

Killian doesn't move but looks up through his browline at the call of his nickname. Duna faces him over her shoulder with an unusually soft grin. A sense of tactness encases her sentiment, “Everyone will be fine. Calmeaza-te (calm yourself).”

And, surprisingly, begrudgingly, he did.

He, along with the rest of the springs, stayed in lock down for another full week. He occasionally lended a hand to Duna as she poured her efforts into helping those being hit the hardest in the town. One piping hot meal at a time. But Killian mostly kept to himself as the week crept on.

The blizzard never getting worse but staying painfully consistent. He watched from his ledge perch handing off the stone ceiling. He watches and he thinks and he waits and he stirs. He tries getting into Jack’s head to see what use this could’ve possibly served. Maybe a little area here and there, but the whole country? He could help but wonder if he’s actually gone off the deep end this time. What on earth would have set him off.

But after the week was up, and after everyone had given the ordeal a somewhat inaccurate name, the storm finally cleared. Everything was still frozen over but the air didn’t hold any malice anymore. The creatures of the springs poked their heads out of their homes to see that they were in the clear.

And now the cleanup work began.

Killian was quick on the uptake and immediately went to Frost manor to see if Jack was lingering around. But not even the usual residents were there. Eventually nearing dusk he managed to find Blaise giving instruction to a group of assumed city council members just outside the springs themselves.

Of course he asked about Jacks’ whereabouts, but his father provided little detail and was very avoidant about whatever thing had transpired that caused the blizzard. Says he wasn't anywhere near Crystal Springs and he hopes it stays that way. Praying for his son's own well being that he never comes near the place again.

When seeing Killian leave, the governor couldn't tell whether he should be angry at him by proxy or to pity the poor fool.

So Killian began a more extensive search for Jack. Another two days went by of him trying to juggle his usual job spreading nightmares and trying to hunt down Jack for an explanation. Of course he checked his home in Sweden first thing, only to turn up empty.

This proved to be the same outcome for other local haunts that he searched along the way. Spots in Norway, Greenland, Canada and Iceland all came up empty. Wherever he was, he was somewhere terribly far away or terribly hidden to avoid any potential fall out. Somewhere he himself probably didn't think too hard about.

And that's when the lightbulb went off.

Baikal.

Killian went trudging through the ankle height snow in the surrounding forests of Lake Baikal in Russia. Sleep deprivation showed on his face and under his eyes, but carried not in his body as he searched. He was perhaps more determined about this than he should've been. A bit more invested in this idea of looking for him than what was necessary. Definitely more than anyone else thought of doing.

You ask anyone else and they’d tell you they were glad he’s flown off to Timbuktu or farther. Happy to be rid of him.

But not Killian. Whether such determination was a good thing or bad thing, he continued onward. Sending out a swath of sentient shadows to cover more area.

It's one of less visited areas outside of work. But he comes here to think and to mess with the lake water during the winter. And after a moment more of almost aimless walking, he thinks he finds him.

A shadow came back with knowledge in tow of a strange fixture in the snow a couple miles ahead. So that's where he went. He slips between shadow and solid form to then search the supposed area of laden activity.

“Jack!” he calls.

It doesn't matter if he wants to talk or not, if he’s outright avoiding him as he wanders the vicinity. Killian has always been an excellent hunter, and he will find him eventually whether or not Jack himself wants to be found.

And it was then that he spotted the structure of snow in the distance. An unnatural rise in the snow levels. Killian moved as fast as he was able in the snow and closed in on the half wall. A wall of packed snow waist level high that formed a perfect circle. Leaning over to look inside the sunken indent was none other than Jack.

Laying on his back facing the heavens, and completely unconscious.

However, as a first reaction, Killian was more irritated at him than anything. Not having put all the pieces together quite yet. Of course he couldn't make this easy for him. He never does after all.

‘Oh for fucks sake.’

“Jack!”

He brute forced his way through the tiny walls that surrounded him, crumbling the snow as he passed through them.

“No sleeping on the job asshole! You got some explaining to do!”

Killian stood over Jack and kicked him in the leg in an attempt to stir him. When that didn't work he tried it a second time but just a little harder. Also a failure. He even tries a third time, even harder. But the physical assault does nothing. At this he cocks an incredulous eyebrow, and annoyingly crouched down to his level.

And it's only when he gets closer does the hostility finally start to dissipate. The hardness in his eyes ever so slightly softens as he gets a better look at the state of him.

He has the odd scorch marks on his sleeves, blackening the area and even exposing the burned skin underneath. More week old burn marks also adorned his hands, and his face was not much better. It was now that he fully settled to be sitting on his knees, gently taking the sides of his face in his hands, leaning in even closer to discern the visible damage.

A micro-bruise on his nose, another scorch mark far up on his forehead and a few shallow, scabbed over cuts in odd places on his face.

Suddenly the mask cracks. The terrifying persona that was The Boogeyman slips away in the cold presence of no one else but him. The silence of the forest around them rings out and imposes itself upon the pair. Killian’s deep and small breaths caught in clouds of white; his thumb absentmindedly running over his cheek.

He wracks his brain on this exact thing that Jack has told him about before. A sprite thing that puts them in a coma or something. He’s said something about it before, but he just couldn't be bothered to care at the time. And for the life of him he can't remember if it was physical or emotional damage that put them out.

He sighs, and lifts his head up to scan the general vicinity. Almost like he was checking to make sure no one else was there. That no one would be there to witness him care about someone. But with the coast abundantly clear, he turned his attention back to Jack and gently set his head down back onto the ground.

He knows that some serious shit has gone down and it is most definitely his fault. But there's not a lot of willing or available testimonies he had access to at the moment. For now, Jack is out of commission and possibly injured. Which means he takes precedence for the moment.

“Don't make me regret doing this,” he quietly warns.

He shifts to be crouching flat on his feet, and with some squirming to get the hold right, he slips his arms underneath Jack and lifts him into a bridal carry. Any limp extremities immediately trying to pill out of grip as he fully stands back up. And with Jack in tow, found and retrieved, they disappear into a swath of darkness.

Promptly reappearing in the dark corner of a bedroom. Jack’s bedroom. He left home a couple hundred years ago and made a new place for himself in northern Sweden. It was modest living compared to Frost Manor, but luxurious to the eyes of the average soul. It was spacious, clean, cold in its own right and at the moment, only illuminated by the beams on the daylight sun breaking through the windows.

Killian took hold of the home's owner and scuffed his boots across the hardwood to the bedside. Trying to set Jack down on top of the comforter as gently as he can muster. Even though he's already kicked the guy thrice and he didn't even twitch, he feels he should be more careful, considering the circumstances.

After setting him down he goes to the window on the adjacent wall and closes the blinds together. He then goes over to one of the nightstands and lights the oil lamp sitting on its surface, diluting the light that's in the room.

His final place is to be seated on the floor, with his back resting against the right side of the bed frame, closer to the headboard. He crumples to the ground and lets out a constricted sigh. His head craned backwards onto the mattress as he ruminates, his heart beating slowly in his chest.

He finds himself oscillating between being mad and irritated at Jack for doing who knows what, burning with intrigue about what exactly he did do, or being concerned for his well being. The latter option being only relegated to this room. Only in his presence will he ever be concerned about him.

‘What did you do…?’ he thought to himself.

In any case, his partner being unconscious after making a blackout storm was not something he thought he was going to have to deal with. All he knows right now is that all of this will surely come back to bite them both in the ass.

...............................................................

What he also didn't expect to deal with was the fall out coma of “The Day of Darkness” to last roughly another two weeks.

Crystal Springs was in the middle of trying to get itself back in working order. It was a large scale job that required all hands on deck. Of course he tried to further track down Blaise or Winter for an explanation on what exactly happened, but both were thrown here and there in the effort to dissipate the remaining ice. And even when he did manage to corner one of them, they both brushed him off and avoided the topic like the plague.

Blaise ignored him in favor of the thaw job at hand, simply having more important things to do. And his fiery temper sparking in and out of conversation in the lurch of the dreaded events, made him a less than ideal conversation partner.

And he never did talk to Winter directly after the fact. She somewhat joined her husband's efforts in defrosting the springs. But she provided even less conversation than Blaise. Her face lived in a permanent state of forlorn. Of grief. And she just wasn't around as much to try and bother with his questions. Blaise said she was at home taking care of Jacqueline and wasn't seeing any visitors. End of story.

Which means waiting for Jack to come to for his inevitably skewed explanation was now more of an anxious wait. The days went by and waiting for him to wake up was the only thing Killian could do. And usually he was pretty patient, after all you don't get a good scare unless you learn to wait for the right moment.

But this was different.

Like many things in his life, it was different because it was him. He was assured that a sprite sleep would do nothing but help, but he didn't like Jack being out for this long. It doesn't sit right with him. It reminded him of looking at a perfectly preserved corpse, and now in a fun way.

Like on his search, he did go about his job like usual, after all there was plenty of fear fodder to sow in the wake of such a continent wide disaster. Everyone had their own reservations about such an event. But he couldn't seem to fully enjoy the process.

He checked in nearly everyday to see if there was any progress. Just for a few minutes or so, just to see if he was still there. Check to see the healing process on his superficial wounds that he ended up cleaning a while back.

He visited for two more weeks before something changed. It happened when he wasn't even there.

Jack finally woke up in the middle of dusk, just as the sun was starting to set. The first thing he could see through squinted eyes was the color orange poking through the drawn blinds. It saturated the color of the ceiling above him as his vision slowly came into focus. His breathing came back to life in deeper pulls as he fully came to.

At first, he silently questioned why and how he woke up at home when he distinctly remembers falling asleep in the Russian woods. He works his memory backwards, retracing the steps he took to get there and then suddenly remembered the gravity of the situation.

His heart rate spikes just a touch at the memory of how he left. What he did. He slowly sat up on the bed and receded into the mindscape. He went searching and found the things that he was looking for; his tethers to things he chose to abandon.

He checked Jacqueline’s line first and foremost. Glowing a bright and strong light, signaling to him that she survived. And by all accounts he should be far more concerned for these people than he is. But for now, her being alive was good enough for him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting his elbows on his knees and closed his eyes as he walls off the connection tying them together. Nothing getting in or out.

Then he turned his attention to his mother’s line. Less glowy than his sisters, dull and almost limp. But just the thought of having that old thing still around stirred in him the anger he thought he left at the front porch. His next in line, a child’s line he wouldn't think of cutting. But his mothers? He needed no invitation.

He tore the thing in half and watched with the mind's eye as the rest of the glow disappeared and the thread fell to the ground. Something as taboo as that should have warranted far more thought beforehand. Drastic measures like these were not to be taken lightly. But to him? At this moment? Both of these troublesome little things are now out of sight and out of mind. He only hopes and prays that it doesn't take too long for him to forget they were ever there in the first place.

It's better this way.

After the fact he sat there for a moment. Getting himself in order in a room he doesn't remember entering, looking out to a world he left an indefinite amount of time ago. Gathering his thoughts, and pushing away and lingering feelings. An ice cold stare to oblivion.

But the world won't wait for him any longer. He doesn't know how long he’s been out, so he supposes that should be the first order of business; finding out what day it is. He stood up beside the bed and smoothed out any noticeable creases in his clothes. But he couldn't get even two steps toward the door when the night shift entered.

The darkness in the corner of the room deepend and writhed with activity, spitting out Killian in a slight hurry to check on Jack before work. But there was no need.

They both paused for a long moment and stared at the other for very different reasons. Neither one of them fixing to make the first move anytime soon.

Of course, Jack managed to forget one loose end. The only string still attached. The pieces started coming together that he must have been the one to move him during his sleep. And he quickly realizes that this poses a new problem.

He can avoid his family well enough, hell he could even avoid the entity of the springs if he has to. But him? There's no avoiding him. Not for now at any rate. And he definitely can't know the extent of what he did. The events of what went down need to stay secret. Because as much of an obstacle he is at the moment…he can't get rid of him just yet.

But he didn't have any more time to plan for such contingencies, when Killian came crashing into him; trapping him in a deceptively constricting hug. The amount of worry made abundantly clear through his grip and lack of words. He sewed his eyes tightly shut, and held onto him like he was going to fall unconscious all over again.

Jack was caught off guard for a minute, just sitting there letting him continue. Until he realized that he can put off spinning a cover up story for later.

He hugs back with minimal effort. The arms hanging off of his back nearly limp, ready to slip off at a drop of a hat. But even still he relaxed into the hold nevertheless. Not making any moves to avoid it or pull out of it, but just waiting for it to be over. He leaned his head against his shoulder, turning into the crook of his neck.

He smelled like firewood and iron.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Killian mumbled.

“I know,” Jack responded dryly, “I know…tell you over dinner?”

“It better be one hell of a dinner. It might be your last meal, so make it count.”

#musings #The Santa Clause #BlackIce #cs au #oops spoilers #this man cares more about the muppet than the muppet cares about him!#its a canon event #i cannot change this

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frankensteinsss · 2 years

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Summary: Whilst Andrew prepares for his day, he recalls a distant memory in the midst of his lament. Word Count: 1.5k

Cadaverous, cold hands splashed piercing, frigid water onto a distraught man’s face, stunning him awake. Proceeding to dry his face with a towel that was as smooth as silk, he glanced at the reflection of himself, which glared odiously at him. He shamefully brandished a complexion that was as white as the snow that rested on the Alps; a small, faded scar running across his nose, and two smaller ones that adorned his left cheek, crossing one another. Neck-length hair that seemed to be whiter than the finest sheet of paper disguised the right side of his face, serving as a sort of veil to conceal half of his shameful appearance. A permanent, sorrowful expression that was cemented upon his visage only revealed the feelings he had towards himself.

He loathed this part of the day with every fiber of his sickly being, where he would wake up from his tumultuous slumber and face his pathetic form in the mirror, and condemn every little detail about his visage that him and the wretched souls around him despised. He grew sick of having his crimson-violet, lifeless eyes stare right into his darkened soul, spitting venomous phrases about his appearance that were aimed towards his heart and brain. He was appalled and repelled with his own features even if he caught just a mere glimpse of it in the corner of his eye.

Heaving a sigh that was deeper than the ocean, he left the washroom and proceeded to change out of his sleepwear. He put on a simple white dress shirt that matched his skin tone, and slipped into a coat that was darker than the night, his gloved hands matching the somber color. His pants and the ascot tied around his neck were a dull hue of dark forest green, and his worn-out boots and leather belt were a somber shade of brown. His shoulders bore a slightly tattered capelet that donned the same, gloomy shade belonging to that of a funeral. Lastly, he bestowed a necklace upon himself containing the symbol of the Cross. Sauntering slowly towards another mirror, he checked if his outfit was more acceptable than his complexion. Ending up staring at his reflection for too long, his mind recalled a distant memory when he was a delicate child.

“Look in that mirror,” an older, frail woman crouched down to her small son, looking directly at his reflection. “Do you know what I see? I see an angel right before me, and every day I’m grateful to take care of him.” She scooped up the tiny boy in her arms, ambling a little closer to the antiquated mirror.

“But, mum, everyone in the village calls me names and stares at me strangely.. the people outside our house think I’m a… a demon.” The little boy nuzzled close to his mother’s collarbone. He was referring to the vast amount of their rather hypocritical neighbors surrounding their tiny, dilapidated house, who preached about loving one another despite shouting curse words and giving disconcerting stares of utter death directed towards a child. Even more distressing images of children hurling rocks at him and adults threatening the poor boy with pitchforks and torches began to lurk their way into his eyes—his grainy vision becoming much more misty as he reminisced upon his cruel fate.

“Pay no mind to them,” His mother caressed his white, soft strands of hair. “They don’t know how much of a blessing you are to the world. Do you know why I named you Andrew?”

Andrew shook his head. “Why?” His desolate, tear-brimmed violet eyes focused on his mother, lighting up a little with the feeling of curiosity.

“In the Bible, one of the first followers of Jesus Christ was named Andrew. Your name means courageous and strong. The apostle Andrew helped spread the message of Jesus Christ and God to many lost souls, guiding them to the light. And just like him, you guided me through my most horrendous of times. Even if you can not go out in the sun and play like other children, or have a sight as clear as them, you will one day overcome what limits you. That is why your name is Andrew,” she smiled warmly at him, gently stroking his cheek and calming his tears, “When other children and adults say that the color of your skin is wicked, and that your eyes are the devil’s, remember my words. You are a child of God. Your beautiful skin and eyes were crafted by His wondrous hands. One day, all of those people will truly realize they were wrong, and will finally discover how much of a blessing you are.” Finishing her words, she tenderly moved away Andrew’s snow white hair, and placed a kiss on his forehead benevolently, bringing him back to the present. Upon reminiscing this memory, his vision seemed to blur even more than it had been before. He felt nostalgic for his mother, and countless of memories began to flood his mind—small, crystal fragments of the days where his mother would place an hourglass upside down, and hold him benevolently in her thin arms, humming a lullaby for him to drift off into the land of dreams; hearing nothing but her mellifluous voice and the tranquilizing sounds of the grains falling softly in the hourglass. These were the only moments in his childhood where he truly felt safe—away from all of the rambunctious shouting, away from the various cruel souls who taunted him. Andrew ultimately longed to see his mother, and decided to pay her a visit. He dried his tears with his darkly gloved hands, and proceeded to head out of his door courageously, with his head held high as opposed to its usual position of looking at the barren floor. He was strong for dealing with the outcries and poisonous glares of his neighbors, and was more than brave to face them with each and every passing day. “It’s the demon!” A deep voice cried out, prompting strangers to turn and look at Andrew with blatant disgust and absolute hatred. Children hid behind their mothers and fathers, whilst others paid no attention at all and carried about with their busy day.

Stones and sticks were hurled at Andrew, who ignored them and continued walking, pretending that they were not there. These types of people never failed to frighten him terribly, but over the years, he had grown skilled at not showing any emotion towards them, and had grown numb whenever they would hurt him successfully.

“Wretched vermin!” Another voice roared, “Go back into the stinking pits of Hell!”

All types of objects were flying all over the place, with the initial goal of hitting some part of Andrew, in hopes of knocking him down or receiving some sort of reaction.

“It’s the White-Haired Monster! Run for your lives!”

This time, multiple people tried to throw water his way, all unsuccessfully drenching him. The bustling streets of London were quite dangerous for Andrew, as he would constantly get bothered and attacked relentlessly despite his quiet demeanor; however, these voices gradually became silent, and soon the assaults became no more once they realized that their efforts to wound him had no effect. Purchasing irises at the flower shop, the clerk gave him a piercing, but all too very familiar, stare of death as he paid for them. However, Andrew was unbothered. He focused on the irises, and how they were both his and his mother’s favorite flowers.

“Irises resemble the connection between Heaven and Earth. They help guide deceased souls to God and His Kingdom.” His mother’s voice played in his mind as he ambled towards the only person who showed him genuine kindness. Strangers shielded their children’s eyes and looked the other direction as he passed through, but Andrew soldiered on, ignoring their existence.

“Good morning, mother.” Andrew placed the vibrant, purple irises onto her grave. “I hope you haven’t been too lonely. I think about you every day. Today marks the seventh anniversary of your departure to Heaven.” He looked to his hands, which were softly clenched on his lap. Andrew was trying his best not to shed a tear, as his mother detested seeing him cry.

Withholding his tears, he continued, “Today was the same as always. However, I always feel better when I am with you.” He told his resting mother about how his week went, about what happened at work and what he thought about. His days were rather uneventful, but somehow, he managed to stay chatting with his mother until the evening.

To the world, he was a wretched soul, a cursed man who only had ill intentions; a monster who had no right to live or to have even been born. But to his mother, and to the multiple friends that were awaiting him in the future, he was simply a human being just like anyone else, such as you and I, desiderating to be finally understood, desiring for the warmth of humankind.

#andrew kreiss #idv grave keeper #identity v #idv fanfic

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nuggets-and-french-fries · 1 year

Text

~Grant Gustin: Bare Naked Love.

Note: This is not edited, and I wrote half of this before I got sick recently and so I had to put it hold. I just now finished it so it may not be my best. Regardless, I hope that you enjoy this.

===

Being sick was never a fun thing. It always wiped Grant out to the point of only wanting cuddles and to sleep. So, for days on end, Grant and y/n spent time in their bed cuddled under the covers while drifting in and out of sleep. Sounds ideal right? Wrong. The one thing Grant never thought would happen, was now happening.

He was sprawled out on the sofa while the doctor, y/n’s ex boyfriend, gave his body the once over before getting his gloves on to do a proper examination.

Don’t get Grant wrong, he wasn’t ashamed of his body, in fact he was quite proud of it but, being examined by the ex who looked as though he had been carved by the gods, that was a little ego crushing to say the least.

“This is weird.” Grant mumbled to his girlfriend, who sat next to him, holding his hand in support.

“It will be over before you know it. Right Ian?” Y/n said, addressing the doctor.

Doctor Somerhalder smiled at the woman.

“Absolutely. Now Grant, hold still for me. This won’t take long.” Ian said, moving closer to his patient.

Grant tried to calm himself while his upper half was being examined and with y/n running her thumb over the back of his hand tenderly, he quickly forgot what was happening. He loved this woman so much and secretly; he loved the power she had over him.

“So, how have you been Ian?” Y/n asked, taking her attention off of Grant, who had his eyes closed to try and hide his embarrassment as Dr. Somerhalder continued his examination downward.

“Busy. Everyone and their cat seems to be getting sick recently.” Ian replied as he gave y/n a smile. She could see in his eyes that he was tired.

“Oh my gosh, tell me about it. Do you remember that one year where I got sick all the time and no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake it.” Y/n said, picturing herself whiter than a sheet of paper and unable to move from her and Ian’s bed.

“Oh yes, I remember that well. I had never felt so helpless watching you go through that.” Ian replied.

“I hate to break up this little walk down memory lane but are we done here? This is really uncomfortable.” Grant said, hating the feeling of his bare balls in the doctor’s hands while the doctor and y/n reminisce about old times.

“What about the time we went camping and it rained so much. We both got colds and were laid up for days on end. That was pretty gnarly.” Ian added, going back to fondling his patient.

By this point, Grant had had more than enough of this and jumped up. Normally being touched wasn’t a bad thing but not when it was done by someone other than his girlfriend.

“Wow there, I’m not done the exam, so please, sit down.” Ian asked but Grant shook his head and pulled his clothes back on as fast as he possibly could.

“I think you are. Either I’m healthy or I’m not. Fondling me isn’t necessary.” Grant responded.

“Grant, calm down. Ian’s just doing his job.” Y/n defended. Grant looked at her with unconvince.

“I see. The ex-boyfriend enters the picture, and the boyfriend gets the boot. Good to know where your heart lies.” Grant huffed, throwing his hands in the air.

Y/n scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“I think your being a bit childish right now so why don’t you go and make us some tea for us all.” Y/n suggested.

“It’s fine y/n. Today has been pretty awkward if I’m honest. I can see where he’s coming from. I’ll gather my things and leave you two to talk.” Ian said, looking at his ex. Y/n nodded and smiled at him.

“Oh sure, agree with pretty boy. That makes me feel so much better.” Grant grumbled and walked off.

“I’m so sorry Ian. He’s not normally like this.” Y/n said, apologizing on Grant’s behalf.

“Please don’t be sorry. If my girlfriend’s ex showed up to examine me after being sick and I had to be stripped down to nothing, I’d act the same way. He’s within his right. Just make sure you give him lots of love and be sure to tell him that he’s good to go back to work.” Ian explained.

Y/n smiled. Ian was always so sweet no matter the situation. He was a good man and she wished him nothing but the best for future before closing the front door and walking to the kitchen where her hot pouty boyfriend stood with his arms crossed watching the water in the kettle boil for their stupid tea, or so he called it.

===

#grantgustin

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vidavalor · 2 years

Text

SamBucky thoughts that evolved into short drabble fic...

Just Sam showing up every other week in Wakanda while Bucky was still in his deep freeze, bringing Shuri candy from around the world while she worked to find a way to help Bucky. Sitting by him and occasionally talking to him sometimes. Telling him he was freakishly pale, whiter than usual, while trying not to be unnerved by how dead Bucky looked. Asking Shuri the occasional question, trying to sound casual: what level of conscious is Bucky -- can he dream in there? Just wonderin' 'cause he says he has bad dreams sometimes... Can he hear us, do you think?... Is this going to mess him up more, the stillness for this long?... There's no risk that he's not going to... ya know... not remember anybody right?

The day they can finally wake Bucky up and Sam is hiding nervous energy. Keeps rubbing his thigh to have something to do with his hand while he watches and waits for the drugs in Bucky's IV to kick in and they don't immediately and Sam's heart nearly stops in his chest but then there are jumps on the monitors and Bucky's frost-laden eyelashes are slowly starting to crack apart and Sam exhales.

"Took your sweet time, Snow White," he gripes but it's his jacket spread over Bucky's chest in an instant when he hears Shuri say that they need to help Bucky warm up a little faster.

The first movement Bucky's face makes is a little corner of his mouth lifting and his lips parting for a barely audible, cracking "Sam" and Sam isn't thinking thoughts, just neurons firing somewhere, and out of his mouth comes:

"You asshole. You left a *note*? The f*ck am I s'posed to do with a note, Bucky? Steve busts me out of that prison and gives me a letter. You know nobody writes those, especially on paper, anymore, right?"

Bucky's face settles into a slightly fond smile, the most effort he can make while still freezing and adjusting to being awake, and he manages to roll his head a little to look at Sam, ice blue eyes looking at Sam for the first time in months, when he wondered if they ever would again.

"Hi Sam," he whispers, and Sam hustles past his shoulder, leaning over him from where he's rubbing Bucky's non-IV-laden forearm... to help with the circulation and the warmth, of course. Medically necessary. Sam all but tosses the lid of the ice bucket on the floor and scoops out a cup of ice chips, bringing it to Bucky's mouth.

"Here. Some of your natural substance, Queen Frostine."

Bucky sucks a chip between his dry lips and his eyelashes flutter a little at the water now forming as the ice dissolves in his mouth. He makes a short little sound that Sam would like to hear again, many times over. He tilts the cup over again, his hand gentle at the back of Bucky's head to help him to the ice.

"It's ok," Sam says quietly. "You're ok." He might be reassuring himself, his eyes darting to the monitors, to the nurses and to Shuri, all of whom do not seem alarmed anymore and Sam exhales a little more.

"Sam...," Bucky whispers again and Sam realizes he's had all he wants of the ice and puts the cup down after easing his hand away from Bucky's head. Sam doesn't hear a question in there and doesn't find one when he looks in Bucky's eyes. He's sure Bucky has a million. How long has it been? Is everyone ok? But right now, he's still coming around and all he seems capable of saying is Sam's name.

Sam asks a question of his own instead, swallowing hard, his mind thinking of how many times Bucky must have come out of ice, not knowing his own name, and glad he is here now, safe and getting warm.

"Was it always like this?" Sam isn't sure his question makes sense, he just can feel Bucky's wrist beneath his fingers and it's like holding an ice cream carton. Were you always cold for awhile after? he thinks he's asking. Did you always need an IV? Were you thirsty, hungry? Were there doctors, nurses, people to help you?

Sam knows the answers to those questions but it raises everything he has eaten to the bottom of his throat to admit it.

Was it always like this? No.

"No," Bucky whispers, still shivering. He understands what Sam asked-- Sam can see it in his eyes. "This is... the first time."

The first time, Bucky's eyes say, that I had the doctors, the nurses, the water, the IV to help ease the pain. The extra blankets, the time to ease back into the world. My own mind.

Someone like you.

Sam cannot look away from him and takes a beat too long to reply, swallowing as he makes his voice sound casual.

"Yeah, well, good thing they figured it out 'cause another week and I mighta almost started missing you."

Bucky huffs a short, dry laugh that looks like it hurts his still de-thawing lungs and he is the lucky one, Sam thinks. Those melting icicles on his long eyelashes provide a lot of cover.

#sambucky #sam wilson #bucky barnes #sam x bucky #winterfalcon #winterfalcon fic #sambucky fic #bucky x sam #caatws #tfatws #marvel

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goliath-de-senfina-sango · 2 years

Text

Danny Fenton's Jock Squad

A Mystery to Unwrap ao3

A present for @floralflowerpower

Wesley Joshua Weston was, unlike the rest of Amity Park, not blind.

His brothers refused to believe him, Easton questioning his mental state, and Kyle mocking his ideas with lame jokes that didn’t bear memorizing. Dash accepted that he was probably right about the supernatural existing, but only ever since that stupid dance that apparently all of the freshmen went to last year, and the blond gorilla refused to fess up to what changed his mind. Star respected his dedication to journalism and ‘allowed’ him onto the school newspaper but refused to take him seriously, always telling him that hypotheses without proof were just ideas with no base. Whatever. Wes saw proof the other night, the biggest breakthrough he’d ever had, and everyone else in the gymnasium had too.

A giant green dog had simply appeared from thin air next to the hoop after Dash had flinched at the sound of its bark and started barking louder at everyone. Wes, like any sane person would, ran the other way. The thing was bounding after them now, and he just barely ducked under a pounce before running the other way. Flying up through the floor, a kid with hair whiter than paper and a monochrome Fantastic Four cosplay on shouted at the dog, his voice echoing more than so many bodies in the auditorium would allow. “C’mon boy, can you please just go back to the Zone and stay there? I didn’t sign up to be ghostly animal control.”

Wes sprinted for the exit after that, not waiting around to hear more complaints while a fucking hell hound rampaged through the gym, and found at least half of the visiting team in the locker room, cowering. “What the hell are you all staying in here for? We need more leg room than this if that thing comes through here!” Not waiting for the rest to get the message, Wes charged out of the doors and sprinted down the hallway, adrenaline singing through his veins and demanding he put as much distance between himself and that monster as was physically possible.

When he found himself outside and next to the equipment shed, Wes collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping for air. “Holy shit,” he muttered once he had enough breath to do so. “Holy shit, that was real, it was there, and everyone knows it was there. Fuck, I almost died!”

“Wes?” The ginger flinched, nearly toppling over before he realized it was just Kwan walking over to him from behind the gear shack, Dash right behind him. The big softy pulled him up to his feet and Wes sighed in relief. “Dude, are you ok?”

Wes patted himself down and nodded, before shaking his head with a laugh. “I mean, physically yeah. Mentally? Dude, we just almost got eaten by a fucking ghost dog.”

“Ghost?”

“Yeah, that kid with the white hair in the weird black and white suit who flew in to yell at it said uh something about ghost animal control.”

Dash tensed up, taking a step closer into Wes’ bubble. “Did he have a weird echoey voice and glowing green eyes?”

“Can’t say for the eyes but his voice was bouncing around my head, yeah. Why, he your grindr match?” Dash shoved him back and Wes laughed, shaking his head. “No really, Dash, does he sound familiar?”

Dash looked off at the school, quiet for a moment before he nodded his head and focused back on Wes. “I saw the dude back at last year’s dance, in April. He was fighting a fucking dragon, and when I told Paulina she said that Manson had turned into it after putting back on this necklace that Fenton said he got her.”

“That’s wild, man, didn’t Fenton disappear the other day when we were chasing him?” Kwan shuddered, rubbing his arms. “Val growled at me to go hurt him and he ran, and then he was just gone a second before we ran into each other.”

“Fenton also kinda vanished on me at the party that I invited him to cause his sister asked for it. She never did come, by the way, and I can’t believe I wasted all that energy accommodating his wardrobe budget.” Dash scowled. “And he trashed my room.”

“So Fenton, Manson, and probably Foley too all have some weird shit going on with them, huh?”

“Oh god, Wes I know that look,” Kwan said, pointing at him. “Dude, we’re going to stop messing with Fenton cause we don’t wanna know if he can reach through shit like a ghost can, stuff like our fucking chests – right Dash?”

“Yeah, yeah, no more wailin on the freak.”

“So don’t go fucking around with what you can’t handle just cause you’re feeling nosy. I know I probably can’t stop you from looking into it, but please be careful, ok?”

Wes rolled his eyes when Kwan held both of his shoulders and nodded. “Ok, fine, I promise to be careful while I look into this. I’m not some little kid who's gonna get himself maimed because he thought climbing a tree to the top just to grab a stuck kite instead of getting an adult was a good idea.”

Dash snorted and laughed, the tension between them all nearly melting away. “You’re never gonna let Easton live that down, are you?”

“Now why would I do that?” They laughed, and for a moment, nothing strange and terrifying had happened to them. Then, however, Dash’s cellphone rang and Wes groaned. “We gotta check in so they know we didn’t get eaten.”

“Dude, don’t put the idea of getting eaten in my head. That dog was massive.”

#Danny Phantom #Wesley Weston #Dash Baxter #Kwan Ishiyama #Kyle Weston mention #Easton Weston mention #Danny is shit at keeping a secret identity #Rexy Writes #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #phanfiction #phanfic #fanphiction #fanphic #phanphiction #phanphic #phic

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jaskierisbi · 3 years

Text

lines and verses from every amazing devil song that hit

King

But our voices collide with each howl of the tide || Singing all hell and its fire waits for us

All that matters || Is that you’re here

Pruning Shears

My entire life it's running away too fast || Watching everyone I've ever loved walk past || Never really quite getting the knack of || Knowing no one will not || Ever come back for you

Shower Day

Would have stayed if you'd had asked || But instead you just walk past

You're the one who told me my hair looked better black || You're the one who told me to never look back || You're the one who asked me if I'm feeling ok || I said I'm fine || It's just a sitting down in the shower day

Leave the room but you get caught in the rain || Know you should love him but it's such a pain || Would have stayed if you'd had asked || But instead you just walk away

Elsa’s Song

I can hear the cannons calling || As though across a dream || And I can smell the smoke of hell || In every stitch and seam || And like flowers, the bodies tumble || Around this muddied lot || I cannot hear them scream || ‘Forget me not.’

Pray

Pray for me, I'll run until I begin to understand || What holy men really mean || When they speak of sin

God made all man in his image || Honey I'm I'm I'm no man || I'm what’s left when children go to war

Run from you, I'll run until I begin to understand || What holy men really mean when they speak of sand and sons and seams and symphonies and sweat and sex and sin

Why you cannot sleep for sighing || Why womanhood is more than crying || I'm stronger now than you have ever known

The cracks you made I fill with mortar || A broken pot can still hold water || Symphonies and sweat and sex mean nothing when you are obsessed || With sin and soil and strength and song and all the words that came out wrong and him

Little Miss Why So

Did you tell them about the time we met little miss || You'll love the way I tell it || And I'll yell it from the rooftops for you || He says

He says || You're going too fast || You'll burn up soon

I don't know how to reach you when you get like this || I've been waiting for you to come home || I don't know how to reach you when you get like this || I've been waiting for you to come home

Why won't you just tell them all to fuck off love and be mine

He says || Why so sad || I'm here and I'm alive || Stop making up death wishes and take my lifeline

Why won't you believe I love you if I'm not hurting you, he says || Can't you see that I'm enough for you but you don't want me to be || 'Cause that means you'll actually have to be content

Why so why so sad || Stop asking why I'm sad just know it's enough to know I'm sad

New York Torch Song

But your blood does not bleed red no more || It's whiter than the sun burns, bright with every hum || From within this gaping wound of ours || A new us has begun. A new us has begun. A new us has begun

Tear me up and burn me up and rip me up and leave your || Hand on the wall as you go

Are you god or devil, ghost dishevelled || Childhood friend or drunken revel

I cannot find the words to keep you || I cannot find the words to keep you

Two Minutes

It's like all the wallpaper inside my heart || Is slowly slowly peeling off || And I'm showing || All the stains and things || They wrote on the wall before

These hands are growing cold ||They're running out of things to hold || Give me two damn minutes and I'll be fine

If I'm good will you come back || If I'm good will you come back || If I'm good will you come back || To us

Not Yet/Love Run

Sing me awake with a song about pirates || And I will try to harmonise || And sip the sunlight from your eyes || Oh sing me awake || With all the things we’ll do today || But instead we’ll build a den || Out of pillows and get drunk again

If my old mum could see me now || Oh how she’d howl she’d howl

Love run, love run || For all the things you’ve done || Run for all the things that drum || Run for all those pages thumbed

Love run, love run || For all the things we wished we’d done || Run from all you know that’s coming || Run to show that love’s worth running to

All that matters || Is that you're here ||All that matters

- - - - - - - - - -

The Rockrose and the Thistle

n/a sorry y’all

The Horror and the Wild

You are that space that’s in between every page, every chord and every screen || You are the driftwood and the rift, you’re the words that I promise I don’t mean

We’re drunk but drinking (sunk but sinking) || They thought us blind (we were just blinking)

Remember me I ask, remember me I sing || Give me back my heart you wingless thing

Think of all the horrors that I || Promised you I’d bring || I promise you, they’ll sing of every || Time you passed your fingers through my hair and called me child || Witness me, old man, I am the Wild

Wild Blue Yonder

So one last time, love, come and rip my clothes || Get a grip, we're grownups

Come and rip off my socks like you’re blasting the locks off of a bank vault. Halt! || This time we’re done for

Let’s hide under the covers || We don’t know what’s out there || Could be wolves || So hold me, lover, like you used to || So tight I’d bruise you || I’d bruise you, I’d bruise you too

Every stone you threw, I stood on to better see the view

Don't you ever wonder, what could have been? || All those wonders sit in wait for us, we tried

Every brick you hurled, I’ll use to build this world || This world, this world, this world

Welly Boots

And I love you, don’t you know || That I’ll be with you all along, as long as you are kind

And when you scream that it’s not fair || It’s like I’ve gone off to the coast || Left you behind just standing there || Pretending not to see your ghost || If only you could hear my voice || But you are screaming far too loud to hear me swear || Just because I left doesn’t mean that I’m not still there

'Cause you were always strong || When you were young, you’d kick things just to see if they would fall || They said ‘That girl, she’s wrong’ || But I’ll stick up for you, even though you haven’t got a clue, you haven't got a fucking clue

Farewell Wanderlust

He said ‘Hey darling hey, hey darling hey’ || I’m the hardest goodbye that you’ll ever have to say

I promise you I’ll be better || I promise you I’ll try || But like rubbing wine stains into rugs it’s my curse || To try and make it right, but by trying make it worse

I promise you I’m not broken || I promise you there’s more || More to come, more to reach for, more to hurl at the door

Goodbye to all my darkness, there’s nothing here but light || Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night || This here is not make up, it’s a porcelain tomb || And this here is not singing, I’m just screaming in tune

Fair

It’s what my heart just yearns to say || In ways that can’t be said || It’s what my rotting bones will sing || When the rest of me is dead || It’s what’s engraved upon my heart || In letters deeply worn || Today I somehow understand the reason I was born

She laughs as though she’s not heard the joke ten thousand times before || And he adores her, he watches her get dressed as though she’s hurtling through time

And she brushes her hand through his hair, he’s got so much fucking hair

And he holds her close just to keep the world at bay

"It’s not fair, it’s not fair how much I love you || It’s not fair, 'cause you make me laugh when I’m actually really fucking cross at you for something," || And he’ll say || "Oh how, oh how unreasonable || How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do || I spend my days so close to you 'cause if I’m standing here, maybe everyone will think I’m alright,"

'Cause darling I was born to press my head between your shoulder blades

And calm throughout his melodrama, she will turn and say || "Dear heart, it’s me, it's me || You don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not || 'Cause it’s not like I’ve never heard you fart and snore || And for some godforsaken reason || I’m still here, love, like I’ve always been before,"

Burying her head into his chest and clinging to the moment || "Where have you been?" she’ll whisper || "I’ve waited oh so long for you to come" || And as the stars above them hum and hear them || He’ll turn to her and say, "That’s what she said"

That Unwanted Animal

You try so loud to love me || I cannot seem to hear || ‘Be good to me,’ I whisper || And you say ‘What?’ || And I say ‘Nothing dear’

I’m the paper cut that kills you || I’m the priest that you ignored || I’m the touch you crave, I’m the plans that you made, but fuck all your plans I’m bored

And you rip my ribcage open || And devour what’s truly yours

'Cause if we join our hands in prayer enough || To God I imagine it all starts to sound like applause

Marbles

And I chipped my teeth on every joke you cracked

You stole the best years of my life || I’ll give them back

'Cause I will wait and hope || Your eyes aren’t rivers there to weep || But a place for crows to rest their feet || And I will wait and hope || And rest my head at night content || Knowing where my marbles went

She sang, ‘Do you think I’m sexy?’ and oh god I really did

Oh, if one more guy calls me darling then I || Swear to you and to god I will murder them all

All the bastards applaud when I show that I’m flawed || You’re not flawed darling, you’re just a little under-rehearsed

I’ve loved you, for a hundred years || Certainly fucking feels like it

The minute I met you, the colours of my life began to pour

And now, even though you’re mad and these memories won’t stay || That's okay || 'Cause then I get to meet you for the first time every single day

Battle Cries

Tell the truth to me, love, does my hair look as nice || As it did when you once tangled up in your eyes? || Look at me as you say this, don’t look at your phone

‘Cause these plates they smash like waves || And the wine stains hide the tears || But that breathing you hear, don't mistake it for sighs || Don’t you realise? They’re just battle cries, dear

And these lines aren’t wrinkles, dear heart || They’re just dollops of paint on a new work of art

And as I walk away, I know I’ve been through the wars || But that creaking you hear in my bones is not pain, it’s applause

This isn’t a break up, dear heart, it’s a season finale

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dcforts · 3 years

Text

[day 13: poinsettia]

It started as soon as Cas joined them at the diner and slipped into the booth next to Dean liked he usually did.

“Thanks for coming, Cas. We really need your help with this one,” Sam said.

“I’m here. Tell me everything.”

Sam was shuffling through his papers, about to bring him up to speed on the case, when he heard Dean snap, “Can’t you sit on the other side?”, with such vitriol that Sam looked up at him, shocked. His brother’s face was twisted with hostility, “It’s a little tight in here.”

Cas rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner but got up anyway to move next to Sam.

“So,” Sam started, frowning at his brother, back to sipping his coffee like nothing happened. He turned his focus on Cas, “just in this past week, twelve couples from this town filed for divorce.”

Dean scoffed, “Yeah, I’m still not sure this is a case. It’s Christmas, everyone fights during the holidays.”

“Yeah, but the point is – once they started, they simply couldn’t stop. The neighbours say -”

“So we’re playing marriage counselors now, what a way to hit the botto-“

“Could you be quiet?” interrupted Cas sharp, throwing Dean a glare. “I’m trying to listen to Sam.”

“What’s there to listen? I told you, there’s nothing for us here.”

“How can you be so sure -”

They were raising their voices and people from nearby tables started to crane their neck towards them.

“Guys,” Sam hissed, “I don’t know what’s happening here but can we -,” he tried to say, but it was like he wasn’t there anymore. Dean and Cas were throwing daggers at each other and as Sam’s gaze moved between the two of them, he started to suspect that something not normal was going on there. So maybe the marriage requirement for the curse wasn’t as literal as they thought.

He started sweating, “Uh, can we go back to the case now?”

“I don’t know,” said Cas, his voice dripping sarcasm, “maybe Dean has something more interesting to do.”

“Look, you’ve been here five minutes and-”

Sam sighed heavily. “Alright. Guys- guys, w-why don’t you take this outside? I’ll pay the check and be right out.”

Scoffing and grumbling, then slipped out of their seats and stormed out of the diner.

Sam sighed and raked his hands through his hair.

He tried to tell himself that it could be a coincidence, but his confidence whitered considerably as he watched through the windows his brother stomping through the parking lot and Cas following him with his arms crossed on his chest.

He took out his phone and called Rowena.

“What is it now, Samuel?” she answered.

“Hey Rowena. I- I need your help.”

Not even halfway through the story she interrupted him with a chuckle, “Oh, don’t worry Samuel. I know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“You do?”

“But of course. And I know who’s doing it. It’s a witch, goes by the name of Emlen. They like to cause mayhem during the holiday season. Harmless curses, wear off right after Christmas. It happens every few years.”

“How are they doing this?”

She thinks about it for a moment, “At the victims’ houses. Did you happen to notice a poinsettia?”

“Th-the plant?”

“Yes, a poinsettia Sam, the Star of Bethlehem, the Fire Flowers of the Holy Night.”

“Yeah, got it. I don’t think so, I mean, everyone’s got one these days. So, maybe?”

“Well, the last time that’s what was setting off the curse. It’s very clever actually,” she went on, “They have them delivered to their door, and the plants let out these fumes -”

As she talked, and the wheels turned furiously in Sam’s head, his eyes fell on the centerpiece in the middle of the table. In a little jar, among glitter red berries and snow covered pine-cones, set a fresh plant with red and green leaves.

Sam shook his head, defeated. There was no doubt now.

Dean and Cas were in trouble.

He sighed, and snatched the plant to stuff it in his bag. He threw a couple of bills on the table and hurried to the exit still with his phone attached to his ear.

“So I need to look for a florist?”

Rowena sighed, exasperated. “No, Samuel. They are way smarter than that. I bet they enchanted a florist to do the work for them. You’ll need to go and gather all the plants and in the meantime – I imagine I could prepare an antidote of sorts to stop the effects right away. You’ll have to give it to the victims.”

“What about the witch?” he asked as he pushed open the glass doors and stepped out in the cold parking lot.

“I’ll take care of Em. We’re old friends, I’m sure they’ll be reasonable if I asked it as a favor.”

Sam let out a sigh of relief but his worry spiked again as the Impala came into his view. Even from there he could see Dean and Cas talking fast at the same time, clearly arguing.

Rowena said, “Did you say twelve couples, right? It’s twenty four vials.”

“Uh – actually. Can we make it twenty six?”

“Sure, Sam,” she said, sarcastic, “and I bet you want the express shipping as well? You know I only have two hands and can’t possibly…”

“Just – Please,” cut her off Sam, trying to express the frustration he was feeling. And he was feeling a lot of frustration as he was approaching the car and could hear indistinct shouting from the inside, “I’ve got a bit of a situation here. Um, Dean and Cas are kind of at each other’s throat.”

Rowena chuckled, but didn’t sound surprised at all as she said, “Of course they are. Fit the profile, don’t they? Alright Samuel, I’ll be there soon. Just try and hold tight, my poor boy.”

“Yeah, thanks Rowena.”

The ride to the motel was frosty at best. Sam stayed absolutely still in the backseat and did not comment on the Dean’s jerky driving or the fact that Cas stared grumply out of the window the whole time.

He had tried a weak, “Are you guys still fighting?” when he’d slipped in and they both had given him a stern “No,” that obviously meant the opposite.

Back at the motel the situation did nothing but worsen. They sat on opposite sides of the room and resolutely did not look at each other.

Well, at least until Sam broke the silence to say, “Rowena is on her way. This will be over in no time,” and his brother commented under his breath, “Yeah, Rowena is always there when you need her. Must be nice.”

And Cas whipped his head around, “If you’re referring to me, I’ll have you know that I came as soon as you called.”

Dean snorted, “You mean, as soon as you decided to pick up your phone.”

Sam let out a whimper.

“As I already told you -” thundered Cas but Dean cut him off, raising his voice, “I don’t wanna hear it, Cas. You say the same thing everytime and they you disappear again for two weeks!”

“Uh, guys? Why don’t we -” Sam tried to interrupt them by blocking their view of each other but they just stood up and walked around him.

“You know what’s funny?” Cas went on, sarcastic, talking over him, “That you’re always saying that I should be around more, but when I am around, you sure go out of your way to make me feel unwelcome.”

“Fine!” exploded Dean, “If that’s how you feel than I’ll just stop asking you…”

“… as if you ever asked. You just assume…”

“… then I won’t have to…”

Sam resisted the urge to press a pillow on his face and just closed himself in the bathroom.

When he finally heard knocking, Sam ran to the door and pulled Rowena in uncerimoniously.

“Oof, Sam, this is no way to greet a lady,” she complained but then her attention was caught by Dean and Cas behind his back, shouting in the middle of the room a few feet from each other. Her jaw dropped.

“... wish you’d just stop covering your feeling with humor...” Cas was saying.

“... well, I wish you’d stop snooping in my head every chance you get...”

“... If you think one needs to have celestial powers to see what’s clearly on your face Dean Winchester...”

Rowena met Sam’s desperate gaze and winced.

She patted his arm, reassuring, “I’m here now.”

“I’m not drinking that.”

“This is ridiculous. Dean and I are not married.”

“I know – just – please. You’re driving me nuts,” said Sam, pratically shoving the vials in their faces. Rowena had proposed to magically bind them and Sam was starting to consider it.

Thankfully - without even stopping glaring at each other - they took them from his hands and downed them in one go.

There was a moment of stillness and then Sam saw them sprinting towards one another. He gasped and tried to step in, thinking that they were about to throw punches but instead they ended up – smashing their mouths together.

Which was definitely more jarring for Sam. He stood frozen in shock and then made his way to Rowena, who was calmly putting on her coat, her back to the scene.

“Er, Rowena?” he called, alarmed. “Uh, they’re – is this normal?”

She threw a look over her shoulder at Cas wrapping Dean in his arms and Dean yanking Cas’ hair.

“Oh, it’s just a little after effect,” she said lightly. She met Sam’s worried eyes and explained, “The antitode has some ingredients in common with love potions. A little nudge, just enough to reverse hostility. It brings out desire. It’s nothing, Sam,” she shrugged, “and it’ll wear off in a couple of minutes, so I say we get out of here now and go deal with Emlen and the other couples. You know,” she smirked, “in case they decide what’s good for them and decide to stay.” She shouldered her bag, “Chop chop now, Samuel,” she said cheerfully, shoving him slightly. “We got work to do.”

Two minutes later, Dean and Cas pulled away from each other in the empty motel room.

They looked wide eyed, their faces red, their lips swollen. Dean’s voice was on the verge of hysteria and disbelief when he said, "We kissed.”

He was still holding the lapels of Cas’ trenchcoat and Cas still had his arms tight around his waist.

Cas blinked at him, “Yes,” he said, “I think we were cursed.”

Dean nodded briefly and tried to think fast. “Sam must be working the case,”. He thought about calling him, making sure he was alright and didn’t need assistance but his eyes couldn’t stop flicking between Cas’ eyes and lips, “Seems like whatever he’s doing is working. Uh - Sorry about -”

“I’m sorry too,” Cas said, still a little out of breath, “Can we keep kissing now?”

Dean exhaled, “Yeah, good idea,” he said, throwing his arms around his neck.

joining @bend-me-shape-me in doing this!

#SPNAdventCalendar2020 #deancas #destiel #deancas ficlet #destiel fanfic #1.8k #rowena #this is very silly #they get cursed #case fic #old married couple #im still sorry sam #it's not me it's them #all my works should be tagged #season? what season?#i may take a break after this #my writing

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up-to-some-good · 3 years

Text

Part 1: 5 times I fixed it...

When Remus arrived home the flat was empty. Sirius’s boots were missing from their spot by the door. Sighing, he ambled to the kitchen. He had been away for three weeks. Now that they had finally repaired their relationship, all he had wanted to do was cuddle up with Sirius on the couch and watch muggle television. Apparently, this would not be happening today.

In the kitchen he found a note from Sirius, left next to a magically warmed cup of tea.

Last minute mission, won’t be back before you. Tell you all about it when I’m back. Love you

The last few words were squished in the corner of the small piece of paper. Remus smiled at Sirius’s handwriting, the pureblood cursive he had tried and failed to get rid of back in school.

He grabbed his cup of tea and moved to the living room. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he tried to imagine Sirius was there with him, asking how everything had gone with the werewolves.

Despite Dumbledore’s explicit orders, he had told Sirius about his spying missions. Six months of losing trust in each other after a spy was discovered in the order had almost destroyed their relationship. It had taken him a long time, but eventually he told him in the middle of a fight, two days before he had left for another three weeks.

The fire sparked a bright green, drawing Remus from his thoughts.

“Pads…” he started, before noticing that it was not his boyfriend, but the Potters.

Lily, normally quite pale, was whiter than usual and James’s dark skin was ashen. He quickly ushered them over to the sofa and made them each their own cup of tea before joining them.

“Moony,” James said hoarsely. “Where’s Padfoot? We need to ask him a favour.”

“He’s on a mission, didn’t say when he’d be back. What’s wrong?”

Lily looked up from her tea. She had tear tracks down her cheeks.

“Voldemort… He’s… he wants to…”

She took a deep breath before starting again.

“We have to go into hiding,” she whispered.

“There’s some sort of prophecy,” James continued. “Voldemort thinks… he’s going to try kill Harry.”

Remus couldn’t breathe for a moment. Harry Potter was only a month old. He was likely back at the Potter Manor with Effie and Monty, blissfully unaware of his parents’ worries. Everyone in the Order had been delighted when he and Neville had been born, the first bright spots in the war since the Potters’ wedding.

“What does this have to do with Sirius?” he asked eventually.

“Dumbledore suggested we use the Fidelius Charm,” James explained. “We want him to be our Secret Keeper. He’s my brother, there’s no one I trust more.”

“We know he’ll protect us,” Lily said, pulling James’s hand into her lap. “He’d do anything for Harry.

Remus felt like someone had poured a bucket of ice water on him. Sirius protecting the Potters would make him a target for Voldemort himself. He’d have to hide too and even then; he may not be safe.

“He’d die for you,” he said quietly. “Pick someone else.”

When he looked at the Potters again, his vision was blurry. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to stop himself from crying.

“What?”

“Moony…”

“He’ll jump at the chance,” he continued. “But everyone will know it’s him. He’ll be a target, Prongs.”

James reached froward and grabbed Remus’s hand.

“He’s the only one we can trust to protect us,” he said quietly, like he was comforting a child.

“And who the fuck is going to protect him?” Remus yelled, standing up. “What’s the plan for when they come after him? When they torture him for your location? What’s the plan?”

No one responded. Remus left the room. He started to make himself more tea. He heard the Potters muttering between them before he heard the door opening, and James run to Sirius to explain the situation. No one came to get him.

When he returned to the living room, Sirius immediately pulled him into his lap and wrapped his arms around him.

“I’m okay, Moons,” he whispered gently. “I’ll be okay.”

“We may have a solution,” Lily said after a few moments of silence.

Remus looked at her but didn’t say anything. She exchanged a look with James before continuing.

“We need to put this flat under the Fidelius as well,” she said. “Then we can hide, and so can Sirius.”

“I’ll be the Secret Keeper,” James continued. “That way none of us can be found without finding the others first.”

“We’ll all be okay, Moony,” Sirius whispered to him. “You can stay here with me, and we’ll all be safe.”

Remus couldn’t speak, but he nodded his consent and kissed Sirius’s forehead. He wasn’t making progress with the werewolves anyway. He would leave the Order if he had to. This was more important.

One week later, they cast the charms and the four went into hiding.

Over a year later, Voldemort was defeated in a historic battle, preceded by Regulus Black’s destruction of his horcruxes. The Potters celebrated in Godric’s Hollow with their baby. In London, Sirius started crying when they received the owl.

“We’re safe, love,” Remus whispered, holding him tightly in his arms.

#five times i fixed harry potter and one time i absolutely did not #marauders #godric's hollow #fix it fic #harry potter #harry potter fic #marauders fic #harry potter fix it #marauders fix it #lily potter #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #5+1 fic

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hellothere-generalangsty · 3 years

Note

I HAD A BRAIN WAVE MOMENT

DO YOU REMEMBER WAYYYY BACK WHEN EVERYONE HATED ASOKA? DAVE DID THAT ON PURPOSE SO HE WAS IN CONTROL OF WHAT PEOPLE HATED ABOUT HER. OK NOW THIS MIGHT BE A LONGSHOT THAT HOPEFULLY DOESN’T END UP LIKE LONGSHOT THE CLONE, BUT, IM HOPING THATS WHATS DAVE IS DOING WITH TBB. BEING IN CONTROL OF WHAT THE FANDOM HATES ABOUT IT AND THEN IMPROVING IT SLOWLY BIT BY BIT.

PLEASE IM DESPERATE FOR A EXPLANATION!

(also where’s my explanation about why the clones are white washed, dave? hmm? where is it dave?)

OMG LOOK.

It wouldnt excuse the whitewashing or the weak scenario, because he got us used to some good stuff now (tcw s7, Mandalorian, that kind of things)

But it would make sense - to a certain extent - to work that season as a "cliché team in a cliché scenario" and see how people react to be able for a second season (if there's a second season) to improve it

Disclaimer: I'm a white, abled person so I'm not trying to speak on behalf of poc/disabled people, but I think it's important to support them and listen to the critics they make about SW and it's content

Also this is quite long I got carried away but worth it it is!

I linked some of @rebekadjarin 's post here because I read a bit through her blog today and agreed with her posts; and I invite you to check out the "#whitewhashed tbb" if you want more extanded and developed information about that matter! (As my knowledge on the matter is still quite limited/ incomplete due to my privileges, and this post is more of a summary than a real analysis)

So here, we know that the fans are unhappy about:

- the whitewashing of the Bad Batch (especially since they proved they could animate dark skinned people/ more generally poc with the first seasons of tcw, Kanan in Rebels and the Separatist in the latest TBB episode)

It is a real problem and it shouldn't have happened in the first place. Even if they are different, the Batchers are still clones and it's really not that hard to show their enhancement while keeping Temuera's features and skin colour (I mean, look at all the artists who did and do it everyday on this app; no excuse here)

Star Wars has wasted a lot of potential on numerous occasions because they keep doing stuff like this; and it's quite ironic (and very sad) to see that racism, ableism and stereotypes are prevalent in a universe where people fight for equality and peace...

Here and here are two posts about it (if you're the author of these posts and want me to delete them from my post please tell me so; I took the liberty of adding them because I think they highlight quite well the issue and do a clear job at showing the whitewashing in SW/ around the clones)

- the way Crosshair is treated; both by the Batchers and the writers, he's manipulated by the chip yet no one is talking about rescuing him and we see nothing about the effect of his absence on the Batchers (they don't mention him, don't try to save him, and Hunter is more distraught by Omega's absence than by his own brother's)

And don't get me wrong, Omega is a kid and she's nice, of course they have to take care of her and protect her

But they also don't know her purpose; why is she here? She could be a bad omen (maybe she doesn't even know it! The Kaminoans probably didn't tell anyone about her real purpose and I stand by the idea that the infos they got about her are all wrong and purposefully misleading) and I have the dark feeling that she will be the end/ death of the Batchers by the end of the serie, even if she didn't wanted it that way

But Crosshair is never mentionned, except for when he's needed in the scenario. Which is a shame, because he's a Batcher too even if he's mind-controlled and (for now) working for the Empire. He's supposed to be a main character, and he's a key element to the plot; yet out of 10 episodes we saw him in only 3, and only the moments where he was acting bad (i'm excluding the lonely moment at the end of ep2 because it had a lot of potential about him fighting the chip but that was all we had and i'm still bitter about it lol)

Here is a post about it

- speaking of plot; I feel like it's always the same disk playing since episode 2-3: They have a mission given by Cid, they do it, things go wrong, Omega saves the day and they get the money.

Crosshair is doing bad guy stuff so no need to tall about him (haha right?)

Now. I'm a good public. I know when to activate the Dummie™ in me and enjoy a show about a found family doing crazy jobs for a criminal and raising a newly adopted daughter at the same time. It's fun, it's sweet, sometimes it get emotional and the animation is beautiful (the lights are amazing I am always in awe)

I can enjoy it and be in awe and see Echo sniffing food and Tech smiles and Wrecker playing with Omega and feel happy about it.

But I also expected more. I hadn't any clear idea because I didn't wanted to set expectations (how ironic) but I can't help but feel sad about the wasted potential around Empire! Crosshair and the rise of said Empire.

If you want to antagonize one of the main character, do it, but do it fully and do it well. Show us Crosshair getting really invested in a plan to catch the Batchers and suddenly making a scene for a tiny detail that could blow it up; show us Crosshair and Hunter fighting each other hand to hand after they disarmed each other, and Crosshair getting the upoer hand until something holds him back; just enough for Hunter to take control again

Show us a complex character who suffers but doesn't fully realise it, and show us brothers mourning yet hoping to get the family back again you know?

- the way Echo is treated by the Batchers. And as much as it saddens me, they do him dirty in the show.

Echo is a war veteran, an ex- prisoner and a disabled character. He went through a lot; first he lost the Domino squad, then he lost brothers on Kamino (including 99 who was close to his squad), then the Citadel happened and he lost both his legs, an arm, his freedom, his brothers and probably any hope to be saved.

Then they found him in that freezer, and he probably realised that, if Fives wasn't here to save him, it meant he lost him too.

Then he left Rex to go with a team of 4 because he probably didn't feel like he belonged with "regs" anymore; he chose strangers over brothers because he thought he couldn't find his place there. Which in itself is sad and problematic.

And now he's with the Batchers, and they don't seem to grasp the importance of his trauma. I mean; they always had the 4 of them and never lost a brother (apart from Cross; which is another wasted potential here because they could have exploited that trauma and made a parallel with Echo being so used to losing brothers and them experiencing it for the first time on such a personal level you know) and they do some crappy stuff to him.

Selling him as a droid? Not cool.

Brushing off his trauma for a mission and some credits? Not. Cool.

And Echo can't say anything because he chose them, and now he has nowhere to go anyway because Order 66 happened; and he probably doesn't want to be a burden to Rex, and he probably doesn't want to abandon his brothers especially now that Cross is gone and they have a child to take care of

But yeah there are a lot of things happening - or NOT happening - around Echo and his trauma and his disability that are wrong and people are right to talk about it

Here is a post I read and I agree with it

- Overall, the way the show and the characters are handled; they often feel very stereotyped/ cliché and the basic plot doesn't really help for character development or improvement

I read a post about it and it was really interesting; they linked the whitewashing of the characters with their abilities/enhencement

Tech and Crosshair are the smartest and the whitest in the group (which is bad)

Wrecker is portrayed as the Bid Dummie™ and he's the one with the "darker" skin and the features closest to Temuera/ Maōri features (also very bad)

Hunter is straight up a Rambo with a face tattoo, and Echo - and you guys know I love him - is whiter than a sheet of paper (all so bad)

Not only this, but there is no improvement in their personality or thinking

They don't seem to evolve, and just like their mission, they end up playing the same song over and over again

Hunter is the broody soldier and though people enjoy talking to him as a Dad (count me in) but he's not a good dad for Omega (he calls her soldier and is always acting awkward and uncomfortable around her)

Wrecker could be a better dad for her; but again they display him as a big dummie and give the impression he couldn't take well care of her

Tech is here to be the smart one, we only see him when they need someone to do the smart speaking and the complicated computer things

Echo is the grumpy reg, the "more droid than man" and sometimes the Mom™ but they never show him talking about the Empire or the trauma or how the I am not Freaking Out™ I did came back for this Shit™ he's just here to... Be here and be grumpy and bring the oldest clone wars fans to watch TBB

And Crosshair is almost non-existent.

Here is another post about it

What could it be then?

So either Dave is pulling a Ahsoka on us; but he'll still have a lot of things to correct and explanations to give because I can excuse a bad plot but I draw the line at blatant racism ans ableism (especially when they KNOW the fans and they KNOW what people want and they KNOW it would probably bring more people to enjoy and get invested in the show)

- If he's doing this, he will probably work with the animator to correct the whitewashing (because it really is the only really wrong thing in the animation, the rest of it is quite good to be honest like the light, framing and all)

- Understand that Tbb and Mandalorian are two different shows and cannot be treated the sale way; so he'll get back to the main plot and hopefully work on Crosshair's arc and hos his absence/ him being controlled by the chip affects him/ the Batchers/ their relation

- He'll probably work more on displaying the effect of their trauma; collective and personal, and see how it reflects on their relations (and give Echo the healing he deserves)

- By extension, give the characters more depth and complexity, dig their stereotypical surface and reveal their true nature (show me a ruthless yet easily overwhelmed Hunter; a smart but constantly anxious Tech, a very emotional Wrecker playing the big explosive dummie to protect himself, etc.)

Well, that's what I would do

Or he's just... Doing this and not planning any changes; in which case I'll probably do what I did with SPN s15: stop watching, scroll through tumblr to get some infos and gifs and tell everyone about how dirty they did the characters, and they did us.

But I really hope he's hearing us and taking our remarks into account; the show in itself had a lot of potential and I'm still hanging on the thin hope that the ending could "save it"; but I also have no expectations and am in fact waiting for a disappointing ending

On a brighter note, I'm glad the fandom exists because I see artists and writers and gif-makers and theorists and all kind of people creating and sharing their own content, headcanons, art, writing and they all feel right and better than the canon

Like yes, give me a in-character dark skinned clone who deals with his trauma and the sudden changes around him in a realistic way

Tell me about the real effects of the war on soldiers, and the truth behind the corrupted government taking over the galaxy, and the efforts everyone has to make to survive, exist and live together

If Dave and his team cannot do it, I know you guys can and that's why I'm glad to be here too; you give me hope when they fail to do so 💙

I hope I like... Answered this correctly? 😂 I got carried away but yeah, though I'm usually not vocal about it and try to enjoy it with my Dummie Energy™ I still see and read about what you all think, and usually I agree with you; the show deserved better and we deserved better

Now back to ignoring the canon and writing a fic about my very much alive and beloved Fives 🥰

#star wars #the bad batch #tbb #mesa shitposts #mesa answers #namesmox 💗#thank you for your ask!#it's a long rent #but I'm glad I did it #if you feel like I said something incorrect please do tell me #I am still learning #and I want to educate myself about these matters because it's important #echo #crosshair #tech #hunter #wrecker #omega #personal opinion

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the-voltage-diaries · 3 years

Text

Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου - Lucifer x Diavolo

AO3 Link

Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου: Greek for ‘My Polar Star’

Word Count: 1859

A/N: I don’t know what this is. All I know is that @simpingw0lfi3 refused to do it, so I did. Of course, please don’t expect this to be perfect because... it really isn’t.

Vote of thanks: @akaiiro-yume for checking and correcting all the grammatical fuck ups I did, making sure I didn’t stop writing this halfway and going through any mental breakdown I might have had instead for me. And, of course, @some-ikemen-snob for making sure this SCREAMED Lucifer energy this way and that. only for now, but ily both.

Devildom 14th February, 20XX Saturday, 7:57 PM

Dear Diary,

I suppose I've never written a journal entry such as this in the past, for I haven't found either the desire or the will to task myself with writing my thoughts down in a manner wherein I speak to an inanimate object. That said, I have been told writing is, in a manner of speaking, therapeutic, and I believe I could do with some of that right now. It would be false to assume I don’t still harbour any inhibitions towards using my time in this manner, especially when I'd much rather be by Diavolo’s side. The very same Diavolo who, as a matter of fact, happens to be the subject of this writing session today. Strangely enough, and if I recall correctly, he was also the one who introduced - which is putting it rather mildly - me to the “art” of journal entries. I admit, I haven’t given this activity the kind of gravity which was probably expected out of me, but then again, today is a little different from the rest. I'm not entirely certain as to where to begin, but I do believe I have been told in situations like these, one should do whatever... feels right.

Diavolo is... well, where do I even begin? He is the future of Devildom, as a few might call it - myself included. While he does appear to be quite the cheerful and at times careless lord, it’d be a lie to deny that he is just as wise and compassionate underneath that wave of buoyancy radiating off of him. Honest to a fault, but with his moral compass always pointing towards the best interest of those around him. I’ll admit, sometimes it proves to be rather difficult to believe that he indeed is a demon. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to compare him to the Polaris considering he does quite radiate the charisma from himself, shining admirably amidst a dark sea of onlookers. While in name he rules over all the demons in the land of Devildom, the right set of eyes won’t take too long to deduce the eloquence with which his fingers reach out to the soul of every single resident of the land, holding them together better than gravity ever bound humans to the earth.

Saying that is all there is to him would be a lie whiter than the wet snow, making its way to the tips of my fingers and sliding off gently onto this page. That, of course, doesn’t mean describing how I feel towards him is no herculean task. There are some cases when a language - no matter the plethora of vocabulary it offers - just isn’t sufficient enough, and this certainly is one of those cases. For the time being, let’s just owe my lack of articulacy to the bond of mutual respect and trust Diavolo and I share, built over centuries upon centuries, braving the ravages of time, and even perhaps the less than pleasing antics my brothers tend to pull. But while the impression the ruler of all demons and I tend to emit may seem to be distanced by a careful degree of professionalism, I don’t believe anybody knows that that might not be the case. Even Diavolo himself. Doesn’t come as a surprise, really, for they simply can’t know.

Why do I believe that to not be the case, then? Well, I would wonder why I felt so strongly about it had I not known the reason myself. The very same reason which is now a secret so surreptitious that I can’t help but consider burning this piece of paper once I finish writing to ensure it is never revealed to another set of eyes. Such dastardly is the nature of this emotion, tricking one into its delusive warmth, encompassing them with the belief that nothing truly is impossible, that what they feel might just be true and meaningful enough to be returned by the other they feel for, only to cackle with glee and turn away when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy it was believed to turn out to be. The very same emotion which in layman’s terms is apparently called... love.

I’m not entirely certain I understand the extent of its exquisite existence myself, to be truthful. All I know is no matter how intensely I try to shut the door on its escaping fumes, it turns futile the second I lay my eyes on the man in question. While the rest of the known universe sees an omnipotent leader binding everyone together, making them sing the same tune in harmony, I see what I can only consider an anchor, grounding me, making it so that I can’t ever fall into the abyss of the darkness that breathes inside of me and float away. He is the quintessence of the best of what the world has to offer, with his golden eyes sparkling like stardust, weaving their ever-lasting magic into the hearts of whoever they come across - be it human, or demon, or angel - wrapping them in their never-ending warmth, letting them sink into the depths of benevolence they promise. His hair are the cerise of a raging inferno, sheltering beneath their canopy a quick, sensible, erudite mind. His smile is but a warm culmination of everything optimistic and positive, like a flame inviting moths to it, reaching out to give their innermost yearnings a hand to grab on to and never let go. Simply divine. And this is where the paths diverge, I suppose.

They see a to-be Demon King, I see Diavolo.

But alas, love is a fickle mistress. Getting too lost in the charm of her alluring arms will only result in a doom of them wrapping around your neck, enticing, until you realise their hold is tightening. Not to hold on, but to suffocate. I might have gotten so lost in that fiery gaze that I didn’t notice it start to crawl along my skin, leaving a charred, burnt path in its wake. The very anchor which I believed to be the one to ground me and hold me close etched itself deeper into the oceanic floor of delirium, drowning me. The threads of his stardust wrapped themselves around me and clutched hard enough to strangle. Before I knew it, the symphony of something meaningful became the cacophony of a nightmare.

This red thread strung through itself earlier today the series of events I’d rather forget. I’ve known how I feel towards Diavolo for a while now, and I had been searching for an opportunity to come clean and let him know about it for the last few days. Not to say I hadn’t gotten said opportunities at all, but one could owe it to me being too prideful to admit I was finally opening up to the idea of accepting feelings and... emotions. Around that time was when Solomon let slip a few details about the significance of Valentine’s day in the human world as an annual occurrence to celebrate romantic love, friendship, and admiration, and with enough persistence, Asmodeus managed to convince Diavolo to declare the day as an official holiday. Just a few hours ago I walked along the empty hallways to Diavolo’s office, knowing him, Barbatos and I to be the only ones in the building, still choosing work over any form of inactivity. By then, I had talked myself into finally telling the most powerful of all demons about the feelings I harboured towards him. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I was indeed a tad hopeful, wishing for the feelings to be returned. Once I reached the door to his private office, my hand settled above the smooth hardwood to give it a knock. And that’s when I noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. I heard a voice inside, other than Diavolo’s, and I took the liberty to glance inside, only for my hopes to come crashing down when the realisation struck me: I shouldn’t have done that.

Inside his office, Diavolo sat in his seat with his mouth pressed against another, a hand trailing across the small face with dark green locks framing it with elegance while the other held on to the person’s waist, pulling him closer. My eyes widened when the smaller man of the two let out a muffled whimper, perched on Diavolo’s lap. Barbatos. I felt my heart squeeze out a pained croak at the sight, and even though every single nerve in my body begged me to move away and forget I ever saw anything, my legs didn’t move. They stayed glued to their spot on the floor even as I felt it crumble beneath my feet, just the way my eyes stayed on Diavolo. My lip trembled with a longing I never thought I’d experience when Barbatos intertwined his fingers with Diavolo’s, smiling into the kiss they shared, like the perfect harmony which was always meant to be. It was when Diavolo broke the kiss, eyes meeting the other’s and whispers of love and confessions floating across the room until they settled on my ears, that I finally felt the mask crack. The facade I had worked on for centuries to lay the foundation of crumbled as my fists clenched, letting myself have a moment of weakness when a lone tear of frustration, delay, anger, and self loathing dripped down my cheek. I looked up at the ceiling, a voiceless laugh tumbling across my lips at the cognisance that the Polaris I was reaching out for, shining proud in the middle of a dark, cloudless sky, was beyond my reach, and... never supposed to be mine. How far I could stretch, how willing were my fingers to make one last attempt to touch it’s light and bask in it - all of that didn’t matter anymore.

I exhaled a shaky breath, blinking once as I tucked away whatever it is I was going to tell Diavolo in some corner of my mind, crushing the key with a hard snap of my fingers. My eyes found Barbatos again, glazing over with a heartfelt wish for him to find his happiness, at least. It was with one last aching smile towards Diavolo and a euphoric laugh spilling from Barbatos’ lips that I turned on my heel, shaking my head at the fate I was handed. Needless to say, I hold no malice towards either of them - they’re both precious to me, as much as I dislike admitting it.

I believe I have shared more than what was required, and I shall burn this piece of paper lest anyone finds it. One might call it wishful thinking on my part, but I do pray that watching the last signs of anything I harbour towards the one who wasn’t meant to be mine from the start burn as the embers of the fire consume it whole makes me put a lid on my feelings once and for all, for they were never supposed matter. They weren’t supposed to exist to begin with.

After all, only a prince deserves a fairy-tale with a happy ending, and I am no prince.

Lucifer.

#Obey Me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #diavolo x lucifer #diavolo x barbatos #dialuci #obey me swd #obey me... fic?#letter?#diary?#idk what this is #a measly attempt at angst #obey me angst #dialuci angst #FIRST OM FIC JFC

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honey-dewey · 3 years

Text

Loving You is a Losing Game

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/Reader

Word Count: 2,602

Warnings: Gore, loss of limbs/appendages, medical procedures, implied experimentation, big Reader whump, Marcus is depressed, this is 99% angst, I’m sorry in advance, I promise it has a happy ending.

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Two weeks before he was going to propose to you, you disappeared from Marcus’s life. With no idea where you went or who took you from him, Marcus devotes himself to finding you, even if it costs him his life. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to keep alive in a cell, wishing you had your hero by your side. What must you lose to reunite with Marcus?

A/N: An anon asked me to write some Reader whump with Marcus after I posted my Marcus whump, and boy oh boy did I deliver! I hope this satisfies you, anon, because I’m oddly proud of it.

Every second that passed was agonizing. Marcus was pacing up and down and up and down, waiting for Miracle Guy to return from his mission. To see if they’d caught sight of you.

You’d been gone from him for six months now. You’d missed his birthday, and Missy’s, and even your own. He’d been planning to ask you on your birthday, the ring heavy in his pocket even now. But you’d been taken, kidnapped by an unnamed threat that hadn’t shown itself again. He had been inconsolable for weeks, but dragged himself to work on the hope that one day there would be news. And today was that day. Or at least, he hoped it was.

“Marcus.”

Marcus looked up. Miracle Guy stood in front of him, worried, holding a piece of paper. A photograph. He surged forward, moved by instinct and instinct alone.

“It’s all we could find,” Miracle Guy said softly, handing over the photo. “They did DNA tests. It’s theirs.”

The photograph wavered dangerously as Marcus took in the contents. Three fingers, bloodied at the ends, lay on the pavement, the blood long since dried up into the ground. They were old.

“Marcus? Are you okay?”

Marcus shook his head. They had you. They’d injured you. They had no fear of hurting you. Would they kill you?

He looked up, vision blurry with tears and anger. “They’ll pay for this.”

Marcus didn’t rest for days. He was fueled only by coffee, anger, determination, and fear. Even Missy, who had mourned your loss as much as he had, was worried for him. He was killing himself to find you.

Finally, he found a lead.

Well, technically someone else found it. A smashed VHS tape found near the fingers. It took Tech-No days to fix it properly, but when he did, no one liked what they heard.

There was no image on the tape. The camera had been angled towards the blank wall, the faded patterns of bricks grey and fuzzy. The sounds though. Oh god the sounds.

It started with suppressed sobs. Marcus clenched his fists, trying not to scream. That was you, sobbing, shuddering breaths so full of fear. Heavy footsteps entered the room, and your breathing picked up, racing quickly to full panic mode.

“No, please,” you begged, voice thin and weak. “Please!” You sounded desperate, and there were rough sounds, the sounds of skin on stone. A sliding noise, like metal on fabric, and then a sound so loud and shocking that everyone in the room jumped.

You screamed, high and bloodcurdling. Frenzy entered your voice as you shrieked and shrieked and shrieked. Marcus was frozen, the complete terror and pain you were conveying with a single noise making him incapable of movement. He vaguely registered someone throwing up behind him, but all he could focus on was your continued screaming.

Finally, the tape stopped, cutting off one of your screams. Tech-No stepped forward, a bit paler than he’d been before he showed the tape. “Given recent evidence, we can safely assume that tape was of them removing three of (Y/N)’s fingers.”

Whoever had thrown up heaved again, the sick splattering sounds tame in comparison to what everyone else had just heard.

Marcus was the first to speak. “We’re finding them. Right now.”

———

You had lost all sense of day and night, and your only indicator of time was when your single meal arrived. A metal tray shoved under a flap in the thick metal door. Your food was typically meager and rotten, but you ate like a man starved. Mostly because in the beginning you had been.

As you crawled towards the tray, the chains binding your thick leather collar to the wall clinking, you tried your best to keep the weight off your left hand. Two weeks ago, the cruel men who’d kidnapped you had cut three of your fingers off and left you with nothing to fix the bleeding stumps. You’d eventually resorted to ripping up a pant leg to bind your hand and staunch the bleeding.

Today’s meal was a few bites of stale bread and a quarter serving of stone cold soup. You kept pace in eating, knowing that scarfing it all down would result in vomiting. And in the first months, it had. Your cell still stank from how much you’d thrown up in there, but it was buried among the other smells. Not that you could even smell it now.

You drank half the water they gave you, and used the other half to wash out your hand. It was the first major injury they’d given you, and you’d tried to take care of you. Despite your tending and the daily washings out, the hand was swollen and red, the site of the injury a sick sort of yellow with spots that were actually turning brown. It was burning hot to the touch and oozed something that reeked, even in the disgusting cell. You’d be lucky if you’d be able to keep the hand. Hell, you’d be lucky to keep the whole arm at this point.

“I’ll be lucky if I don’t die here,” you said bitterly to yourself, ripping another long strip of fabric off your discarded pants with your teeth and slowly wrapping up your hand, biting back tears. The only fingers left were your index and thumb, and they didn’t look good.

When your body succumbed to exhaustion, you curled up on the threadbare mattress and used the single moth bitten blanket to preserve body heat. Sleep was easy and dreamless now, and you often woke at the smallest of sounds. Like the man walking past your cell every so often, maybe every half hour? You wished you had a watch. You wished you had many things. Shivering beneath your blanket, you curled closer into the corner and wished for Marcus.

Marcus was not there when your eyes opened. You woke up to the harsh scrape of the door opening and two men grabbing you to drag you out. You kicked and screamed, but it did nothing. The men were stronger than you, and in your starved state, you were too weak to do much more than flail.

A rough scrap of fabric was tied around your face, killing your vision. A second one followed quickly, sitting uncomfortably between your lips and silencing your voice. Your feet didn’t want to carry you, so the men did it for you, carting around your dead weight as if it were nothing.

Just as suddenly as they’d lifted you, the men put you down, and you whined as harsh lights filled your eyes when the blindfold was removed. You were at the start of a long white hallway, branches of the hall snaking out and around. Had they put you in a maze?

A harsh jolt around your ankle sent you shrieking, kicking your feet to attempt to dislodge the heavy ankle bracelet you wore. It didn’t move, and a sharper stab raced up your leg as you danced around like you were possessed.

Finally, you started to run, racing down pristine white corridors and working yourself dizzy. You unwrapped your hand, hoping the dripping blood and pus would help guide you, like a gory version of Theseus’s yarn. But all it did was confuse you until every hallway was filled with smeared bodily fluids and you had no way to turn.

You had no idea how long you were in the maze. Hours? Days? Time was irrelevant here. Whenever you tried to stop, to rest or to find reprieve from the stabbing pain in your feet, the ankle bracelet would shock you harder and harder until you moved again. The blinding lights never dimmed, and finally, finally, your body gave out.

The anklet shocked you once, twice, three times and then yet again for good measure. All you did was twitch, lying exhausted on the floor, the world underneath you spinning like an out of control carousel. “Marcus,” you croaked, your dying voice a harsh scrape in your throat. You hadn’t had water in hours, was it hours? Spots swam through your vision as two people in white coats came to collect you, putting your limp body on a stretcher and wheeling you away. You were tossed into a cell, this one whiter and lighter than your last one. You had no time to investigate the new room as one person, the woman, poured water down your throat while the other shackled you to the wall again. The woman checked your vitals and wrote down some numbers while the man used white bandages and soft gauze pads to cover the ruin of your left hand. You weren’t coherent enough to tell if he’d put any disinfectant on the wound, but you could guess that he didn’t. No one here was that kind to you.

“Rest,” the woman said, putting a hand on your head in what you assumed was her idea of comfort. “We’ll try it again later.”

You couldn’t even argue as your body shut down, plunging you into the darkness of your dreamless sleep.

When you woke, it was not to the scientists or the bad men. It was to faint gunfire and a large figure bursting into your new cell. You scrambled upright, immediately tossing your hands up to protect your face, knees hugged to your chest to make yourself small and heavy. But no blows came, no rough hands touched your skin. Only soft shuffled footsteps and labored breathing. Braving a peak, you saw a man silhouetted by light, the familiar outline of katanas over the person’s shoulders breaking your heart.

“Marcus,” you said weakly, uncurling. As your eyes adjusted and the door slowly began to close, you were able to take Marcus in fully. He looked a wreck, exhaustion written all over his face and a broken expression twisting his usually kind features. He fell to his knees, and you crawled forward to meet him, throwing yourself into his arms and letting yourself be wracked by sobs for the first time in months. Your malnourished and anemic body shook violently, but you had never felt more steady, cradled in Marcus’s embrace.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Marcus breathed, voice unsure and wavering.

You shook your head. You had no words, no ability to speak right now. Instead, you just pressed yourself tighter to him, tears ruining his shirt. You could barely register Marcus cutting through your collar and discarding it on the floor.

Marcus stood, cradling your broken body to his chest. He carried you out, past other heroes who all fell silent at your current condition. Marcus lay you down on a stretcher once you were outside and rode with you to the hospital, holding your unruined hand the entire time. You focused only on his grip, grounding yourself to it. You would be okay as long as Marcus Moreno was holding your hand.

The next few days were very fuzzy. You were in and out of an operating room, usually asleep and always drugged. After so long in pain, the gentle numbness of not being hurt was worrying. You had been right, half of your left arm had been too badly damaged to salvage. Below your left elbow now lay nothing, no hand to hold and no fingers to squeeze. Marcus held your right hand instead, pressing kisses into your palm and slowly running his thumb over your knuckles while he read.

Aside from the arm, your injuries had been few and far between. A couple scrapes that needed disinfectant, a broken rib that had healed incorrectly and needed surgery, and the rubbed raw skin of your neck that had been healed. You’d slowly begun to gain weight again, no longer skin and bones. Your hair, which had been greasy and matted, had been shorn off and was now regrowing. Your body had finally begun to rework its circadian rhythm, your sleeps lining up with the rise and fall of the sun.

Marcus took a breath beside you, his thumb absently circling over your index knuckle as he read. He’d been touching you in some way ever since you’d been found. Gentle hands touching yours while he watched TV, shoulders pressed together when he told you about Missy, the softest of kisses against your temples when your head hurt. You smiled, turning to Marcus and blinking slowly. He’d been working for weeks to restore your smile, and now you had it back, albeit shaky and nervous.

“What’s that look for?” Marcus asked, turning to you, one corner of his mouth rising slightly in amusement.

Your grin only grew. “You,” you said. “I love you.”

Marcus leaned forward, turning so he was fully facing you. “The day you were taken,” he said softly, taking your right hand in both of his. “I was so scared. It was two weeks before your birthday, remember? And I had been bursting with joy, because we were going to spend the evening together, just you and me.”

“Marcus,” you interrupted quietly. “What are you saying?”

“Hush dear, indulge me,” Marcus insisted, moving one hand to trace his knuckles across the curve of your cheekbone. “That night, on your birthday, I was going to ask you something. Something that would’ve changed our lives forever. I’d spent months planning, making sure the night would be perfect, and then the universe stole you from me.”

You sighed, wishing you could cup Marcus’s face in your hands. Instead, you settled on resting your only hand on his right shoulder. He put his hand against yours, the warmth seeping into your skin. “Now,” he continued. “I wish I could ask you as easily as I had wanted to. This has all brought to light how precious you are to me. How much you make me happy. Darling, my light and my love, I want to be beside you forever, and I want you at my side. We will stumble, that I’m sure of, and there will be days where we will hate the very ground the other walks upon. But I’m willing to risk the fleeting bad for the abundant good.” He reached into his pocket and produced a slender ring made of twisted silver and shining gemstones. “Will you marry me?”

You had no words. Looking at Marcus, who was so sincerely pouring his heart out, you felt some kind of shame that you had no response except shock. Not shock that he was proposing, because you two had briefly talked about marriage. No, you were shocked at his emotion. His heart wrenching tone. The look of worry on his face as you sat there, silent.

It took a minute, but you finally managed to compose yourself long enough for a very strangled sounding “Yes.”

Marcus’s face brightened as you nodded, both of you tearing up. “Here,” he said, sliding the ring onto your ring finger. “It’s beautiful.”

You smiled, pulling Marcus close and hugging him as tight as you possibly could. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Marcus breathed, embracing you as firmly as you had him. “I’m so glad I get to say that to you again.”

The pair of you spent the rest of the day pressed against each other, Marcus getting into your bed with you as you drifted in and out of sleep. While he watched some horribly violent fantasy TV show, you dozed against his shoulder, the gentle hug of the ring on your finger a constant reminder that no matter what threats came your way, you would always have Marcus.

#we can be heroes #marcus moreno #marcus moreno x reader #marcus moreno x you #Pedro Pascal #My writing

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thewhitejournal · 3 years

Text

forgiveness .

(not my gif, credits to the owner)

Spencer Reid x Female!Reader Oneshot

requested by @lovely-lady-lumps : Could I request a Spencer Reid x reader? Spencer gives her the silent treatment and she gets sad and starts crying bc she thinks he wants HER to stop talking bc she talks too much? Sorry this one's kind of angsty.

I hope you like this request! I don’t usually write angst, so I wasn’t sure where to go with it. I hope what I came up with is to your liking. Sorry it took me so long. Enjoy all!

content warnings: angst, cursing, mentions of intravenous drug use

It had been what felt like years since Spencer Reid said anything to you other than sarcastic and hurtful remarks or talking about the case when you were paired up. You weren’t sure what was wrong with him, and all you wanted was to help him feel better, but he wasn’t letting that happen. His demeanor has changed drastically in the past couple of weeks. When you confided in JJ, hoping maybe she would have some answers, he got upset over that, too. He tried to tell you that it wasn’t anyone’s business, including yours. That’s not the case, however; the team needs to work together as a family and help each other if they want to stay focused on their very important jobs. So, in your opinion, whatever was upsetting the doctor was everyone’s business, including yours.

When you first met Dr. Spencer Reid, you were only a student, attending a seminar that he and one of your favorite authors David Rossi was putting on. You aspired to work cases as you’d read in Rossi’s books, and that’s where you ended up; a new agent trainee for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. You couldn’t have been happier to be working alongside not only your role model and idol but with the rest of the team, who you quickly warmed up to. The team was welcoming and supportive and kind. That included Spencer, but he treated you differently.

You weren’t a top-notch, veteran profiler like Hotch or Rossi, but it didn’t take one to notice the way Reid tumbled over his words when he spoke to you, avoiding eye contact and generally being shyer than usual. At first, you thought it was because he didn’t like you. You soon learned though that it was entirely the opposite; he was head over heels for you. The feeling was mutual. Not only was his brain attractive, but the way he acted with you made you feel at home; now it felt like Spencer had changed the locks and left you out in the dark.

The rest of the team had gone to the crime scene or the morgue, leaving you and Reid alone at the precinct. Hotch instructed that the two of you complete a geographical profile of the dumpsites, so you followed orders. The papers on the table were strewn everywhere, what with him throwing them about when he was finished with whatever information the piece of paper may have given him.

Something needed to be said; it wasn’t always that you had a moment alone with him, not to mention the seclusion from the rest of the police. The doors to the conference room were shut in an attempt to give the two of you peace to do your work, but it felt like you’d been locked up with an angry lion instead.

You exhaled heavily, your breath a little shaky. He didn’t even blink.

“You’ve changed, Spencer.”

Silence.

“But it’s somehow my fault, right? That’s why you’re giving me the cold shoulder and nobody else?”

No response, none verbal anyway. His eyebrows knitted together and you saw his knuckles turn whiter against the black ink pen he was scribbling with.

“Why can’t you just look at me?” Your tone grew angrier and more insistent. The black ink on the paper was bleeding through it; his pen quit moving, creating a dark circle on the page.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.” His voice was low and gravelly; you almost didn’t recognize it. The pen returned to its dance in his hand. You scoffed.

“Then when is a good time for you? Because I sure as hell haven’t seen one.” The pain in your voice was apparent to you, you just hoped it was to him, too. Angry tears were bubbling up inside you; your throat felt like it was on fire.

“Goddamnit, (Y/N)! All you ever do anymore is pester me about how I’m doing, how many times do I have to tell you I’m fine? You’re not my damn therapist so quit acting like it. It’s getting old.” As the sentence went on, his voice grew louder. The pen had made its way across the room, and his hands were in his hair, head on the table. The tears made their inevitable appearance now, spilling down your cheeks rapidly and dotting the notebook in front of you. The blue lines on the pages smeared as you tried to wipe them off.

“What the hell happened to you, Spence?” Your voice broke, how could it not? He picked his head up from the table and looked into your eyes. Tears were coming from his, too. His lip involuntarily quivered; he bit down on it to make it stop.

He broke eye contact with you, but only to unbutton his sleeve and roll it up to his elbow. His eyes were glued to the skin there. Your eyes followed his. They landed on the track marks; the unaccounted for bottle of Dilaudid he was tortured with had found use in Spencer Reid.

“Spencer...why didn’t you tell me?” You got up from your seat, propping yourself on the edge of the table in front of him. His sleeve was being rolled back down and buttoned, eyes not meeting yours again. The new tears making stains on his cheeks told you enough, though.

“I-I didn’t want you to worry…” His soft tone returned to his voice, his eyes fixated on his hands in his lap.

“I just want to see you happy.” Your voice lowered, hand reaching out to rest on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch away as you expected. Instead, he stood and hugged you tightly.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N). You never talk too much and I should’ve let you in. You deserve so much better than the way I’ve been treating you. Please forgive me.” His chin rested on your shoulder, still in each other’s arms. You pulled back, looking into his eyes. He wiped a tear off your cheek, and you did the same to him, both of you smiling now.

“That’s not true. You’re everything I’ve wanted and more.” It came out as a whisper from your lips, Spencer leaning into you and you instinctively leaned into him, too. His lips softly kissed yours, something long-awaited from the both of you.

“You’re forgiven, pretty boy.”

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yukiwrites · 3 years

Text

Kiran, Categorizing

Thank you for the support and patience as always, @xpegasusuniverse! This was so funny to write, I hope you like it!

Summary: Bored during a meeting, Kiran started to sort some of the heroes in a way that he had only done back in his own world, in social media... Now, Sharena, Alfonse and Anna seemed interested in the magical world of the... himbos.

Commission info HERE and HERE!

__________________________

Kiran’s workload after he was summoned to Askr kept increasing exponentially as the war against various kingdoms dragged on. There were many Heroes to keep track of and many different powers coming to play, so he always had to be careful when suggesting a team or a strategy.

Of course, he couldn’t deny that sometimes he made team compositions mostly based on personal preference or how the heroes would interact with one another rather than how well they complemented each other’s strengths, but he never sent those out to dangerous missions, so he liked to keep that to himself.

Take the meeting going on at that moment, for example; he was shuffling through a list of buff-looking heroes to form a team to explore whatever had been going on inside the Illusory Dungeon. No one knew for certain when phantoms of heroes and compelling songs would start appearing and playing there, but whenever lights shone inside it, Kiran formed one of those teams based on his own preferences just to hear the reports once they came back.

Well, the meeting wasn’t solely for this situation as Anna, Alfonse and Sharena were sitting on the round table around Kiran while talking strategies about the many other skirmishes happening in the country. There were some heroes who still had to go to the Training Tower, so the smallest pile of papers by Kiran’s left was a list of those; there were also heroes raring to go explore the Aether Islands, so the second smallest pile was full of requests from them; there had also been reports about suspicious movements in the woods nearby, so some nimble heroes were needed…

There was a lot to do, so Kiran was taking his time to at least form a team he found funny instead of drowning in the weight of his responsibilities like it usually happened to Alfonse. Kiran looked up from the paper in front of him to the sick-looking prince, raising an eyebrow at how intently he stared at a report.

“Alfonse, maybe you should take a break. You’re looking whiter than your own clothes.” Kiran’s hoarse voice from talking all morning made the prince blink and shake his head.

“I couldn’t possibly take a break at an important time such as this-”

“C’mon, Alfonse, Kiran’s right.” Sharena patted her brother’s shoulder, her face still full of energy as though she wasn’t tired at all from sitting at that table for hours. “Let’s go stretch our legs! I’ll come with you.”

Once again Alfonse shook his head. “No. As I said, I can’t cut the meeting short just for this.” He shifted his tired gaze from his pouty sister to the Summoner, “were you almost finished with the team for the Illusory Dungeon, Kiran?”

“Hm? Ah, yeah. I wanted a team of himbos, so I figured Raphael, Arden, Draug and maybe Shiro…? I was torn between him and Chrom, but perhaps Chrom isn’t really one…” Kiran mumbled the later half of the sentence, frowning slightly at the personal files of Chrom and Shiro as though he could find the answer there if only he stared long enough.

Anna raised her finger to ask, but then gave up on it, shaking her head. Sharena didn’t, though.

“Eh? What’s a ‘himbo’, Kiran? Is it something you use to sort the heroes? Or does it have to do with how strong they are?” The princess’ eyes shone, while her brother beside her looked confused yet intrigued.

Snorting, Kiran had to avert his eyes for a moment, wondering how he could have said that out loud. An internet lingo he had used back when he still had social media (though still pretty accurate to categorize people) now came up in this kind of situation. Kiran cleared his throat, fighting back a smirk.

“Well, yeah, it can be considered something to sort them based on how strong they look. A man is only a himbo if he has three characteristics: He has to be buff, kind, -- to everyone, though especially to women -- and stupid. If he’s missing even one of these, he can’t be considered a himbo.”

“Wha-” Anna frowned, placing one hand over her mouth to hide a snort.

Alfonse and Sharena, however, were appalled.

“S-stupid? That’s kind of mean to say about the heroes, though?” Sharena deflated like a sad balloon, sitting back after getting up in excitement about a new word.

“Truly, I- I never expected you to talk about them like this, Kiran.” Alfonse looked more offended than anything, as though all of the built-up trust they had shared had shattered.

Kiran pressed his lips into a thin line, almost unable to stop himself from laughing out loud. “No, I mean it in the best way possible. Look here,” he picked up Raphael’s file, which had a picture of him smiling wide and warmly, “this is the peak example of a himbo. He’s not book-smart nor does he have street-smarts, but his heart? It's as wide as the ocean. He’s kind, but without any ulterior motive, and he’s really, really big and buff.”

Sharena’s jaw dropped in shock, processing the information as Alfonse twitched his eyebrows. “But why refer to him as ‘stupid’...? That’s rather insulting.”

Kiran shrugged. “Well, it’s just the fastest way to call someone who doesn’t have much -- if any -- smarts in them, isn’t it? Look at this one here.” He pulled a file from a nearby pile, lifting it for them to see. “Tibarn here, he’s buff and kind, but he has smarts. You can see many thoughts going inside his head,” different from the zero braincells Raphael seems to have, Kiran thought to himself as he swallowed a snort. “So he’s not a himbo, but a hunk.”

“Alright, I’ll bite, “Anna managed to say after properly managing not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. “So a himbo has those three characteristics, a hunk is a muscular and kind man. So what of the other combination? If they’re kind and… lacking in smarts?” She asked, barely containing a smirk from sprouting, which mirrored Kiran’s.

“Well, that’s just a decent man, I suppose.” He coughed out, trying to mask a snort as Anna threw her head back in laughter, unable to hold it back anymore.

“Pfft-aahaha! This is new!” She laughed loudly, taking shaky breaths to stop herself from crying as she dried her eyes with one hand. “So, since when have you been ranking the heroes like this?”

Catching her laughter, Kiran shook in amusement for a bit before glancing at the confused royals. “Since before I was summoned here, I suppose. It’s a ‘sorting technique’ used back in my world.”

Sharena’s eyes sparkled once again. “Well, if we can not say that they’re stupid, then I think it’s a good sorting! They have a big heart and big bodies, right? It doesn’t matter that they don’t understand the world around them, just that they’re ready to accept everything at face value!” The princess looked up as though she had made the discovery of the century, while Alfonse beside her crossed his arms to think.

If it was something from another world, Kiran’s world especifically, it was worth giving it a try, was it not? Perhaps if they applied themselves, they’d be able to sort the heroes more efficiently and cut back the time for these meetings so they could focus their energy elsewhere…

“As I was saying, I was in doubt about Chrom because, look: he’s buff enough, though not as big as, say, Draug; he scores high in kindness; but he has SOME smarts… Although he’s impulsive, it’s not like his brain is empty like- ahem, it’s not like his heart is as big as Raphael’s or Shiro’s.”

Not hearing the insulting part about the heroes’ smarts, Sharena nodded in compliance, thinking deeply. “Hmmm, I don’t think I can help in this right away. Can you give us more examples?”

“Sure, look here,” Kiran turned the pile by his left to Sharena. “Hinata, he’s a jock. He’s buff enough, but he’s not really kind and he’s kinda brusque, right?” Kiran held back the ‘he lacks brain cells’ part, saying it only with his eyes to Anna, the only one who truly understood him in all of this. “On the other hand, Stahl… is just a decent guy. He’s kind and although he has some smarts, he’s not buff, so he doesn’t fall into this category.”

“Hmmm, so do you think Owain could be one? He’s stup- ah, lacks smarts enough and he’s a good guy. But he- ah, yeah… perhaps not.” Anna started, but then stopped herself after comparing Raphael’s muscles to Owain’s. “Isn’t this kind of sorting way too specific? I don’t think many heroes fall under the ‘himbo’ category.”

Kiran nodded solemnly, as though they were talking about some important strategy. “Indeed. It’s very hard to find a true himbo, as they’re extremely rare. Hence why I was having trouble with the Illusory Dungeon team.”

“I see… It sounds really important.” Sharena nodded, basically accepting that this was something that went way over her head and tried to catch up in her own way. Alfonse still had mixed feelings about it, but the more seriously Kiran and Anna talked about it, the more he felt like he was in the wrong for finding something iffy about the sorting method in the first place.

“For example, Linus… if only he was a bit kinder, he would be another prime example of a himbo.” Kiran said over Sharena’s mumbling, sighing wistfully. “Lex would also be a good one, but he’s too smart to be a himbo.”

“Oh, I know! What about Keaton? He seems perfect!” Sharena raised her voice as her eyes glanced at one of the lists around Kiran.

The Summoner and Anna exchanged glances. “Not enough muscle.”

“Ah…” Sharena sat back with a pout. “This is really hard…”

“Yeah…” Kiran scratched his temple in thought.

In the following silence, only Alfonse’s voice could be heard after a few minutes. “... Isn’t Lord Hector one, though? From those examples…”

Kiran widened his eyes, jumping out of his seat with a bang. “That’s it! Alfonse, you’re a genius!” He praised, quickly shifting through the files to find Hector’s. “Do you have any more suggestions?”

Taken aback by the sudden cheer, Alfonse gulped. “Um, I thought about Helbindi, especially according to what Princess Yglr told us about him…”

“Hmm… A rare tsundere himbo, huh… perhaps?” Kiran took one hand to his chin in thought, mumbling something under his breath. “Alfonse, you’re on the right track! C’mon, keep the ideas coming!”

“Brother, you’re no fun, you picked it up so quickly! Tell me more!” Sharena protested, manhandling Alfonse into fessing up how he understood Kiran’s vague explanations so well.

Anna snorted under both hands as her shoulders shook from suppressed laughter, wondering how the hell they had ended up talking about that in the middle of a meeting.

Regardless, the topic was too much fun to be ditched now that the four of them were eagerly exchanging suggestions and adding more himbos to the pile, so no one noticed that the important meeting they were having was now a himbo-selection tournament.

Perhaps after night fell, they would come back to their senses, but for now, the Commander, the two royals and the Summoner threw heated debate against one another regarding the amount of intelligence this or that hero possessed.

#fire emblem heroes #feh #anna fire emblem #alfonse fire emblem #sharena fire emblem #my writings #yuki's commissions #kiran fire emblem

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mavda · 3 years

Text

Beast Tamers

Ch.1 | Ch.2 | Ch.3 | Ch.4(1) | Ch.4(2) | Ch.5(1) | Ch.5(2) | Ch.5(3) | Ch.5(4) | Ch.6(1) | Ch.6(2) | Ch.6(3) | Ch.7(1) | Ch.7(2) | Ch.7(3) | Ch.7(4) | Ch.7(5) | Ch.8(1) | Ch.8(2) | Ch.8(3) | Ch.9(1) | Ch.9(2) | Ch.9(3) | Ch.9(4) |

Ch.10: The Two-Tails (1)

It is early morning and Naruto stares at Hinata's face. Her chest goes up and down and her hair is sprawled over their bed -where his hand plays with it slowly so as not to wake her-. He brushes the hair out of her eyes, and he can’t help but notice the contrast between his tanned skin against the pearl white of hers, even whiter under the moonlight.

He had not been able to go back to the meeting. After a while -when he had composed himself somewhat- he went back and asked to be excused. Nobody said anything and he holed himself in his room.

It was also not the first time this had happened. But now when he sat in his room, looking at the wall as the hours went by, Hinata sat next to him, dragged her hand over his back, brought him food and let him rest his head on her shoulder and lap as she soothed him.

He felt better and worse all at the same time.

She rustles in her sleep and Naruto startles, turns into a statue as she settles again. She didn't move as much in her sleep before, but now with the baby it takes her a while to fall asleep, and then she moves and turns, her legs curling up and then straightening all night long.

Naruto adjusts the bedclothes around herself and lets his hand rest on her belly. Her perfect round belly.

She had once touched herself after he came inside and brought his seed over her stomach by chance. And now Naruto has found a new favorite place in which to finish.

Outside is dark and he can't bring himself to wake Hinata only because he's horny, so he takes care of his erection himself.

Muffled moans as he stares at her body and images of himself touching and licking and sucking. His breathing grows labored and he comes into his hand. A sticky mess he cleans quickly.

He sits there, spent and with his robe half opened. With his pregnant wife next to him, and the words from yesterday come back with a vengeance.

He washes himself, puts on clothes and kisses Hinata's temple with reverence.

He doesn't know how he can ask for forgiveness.

⁂⁂⁂

Jiraiya is going over some documents when Naruto knocks.

"I was waiting for you."

He motions for Naruto to come inside and then sprawls a bunch of pages in front of him.

"Would you believe me if I told you I found Toad Sages deep into the forest this one time?"

Naruto glances over the documents while a chuckle leaves his mouth, "Please, I've seen weirder."

"It took me almost a whole year to master the whole sage mode, you know, but I was able to-"

"Sage mode? Tacky."

"Because the Toad Sages called it that way, thank you, I'll be sure to let them know you find their naming sense lame."

Naruto goes over the documents and crosses his arms as he reads. Jiraiya is glad to see him back to normal.

"Anyway, I made sure to write down the main points, you see?" He motions towards the paper Naruto is holding, "You should be able to start seeing results after 5 months or so-"

"Two," Naruto interrupts and Jiraiya only snorts as an answer.

"Two it is, then. Go over the whole process and then we can get started at once."

The sound of papers being moved fills the room and Jiraiya goes back to his own documents. An assortment of reports he got from Shikamaru regarding the movements of the Beast Tamers, other prominent clans and whatever information they could gather about the Uchiha.

The Uchiha are nonexistent though, and it makes him anxious.

Jiraiya turns after he stops hearing sound. Naruto is staring at a paper on the floor, but he's not reading any of it. Jiraiya can guess what's going on inside his mind, but he has never felt qualified to help his godson navigate through these obstacles.

"Do you think I should go through with it?"

Jiraiya takes his time turning around. He leaves his pen on his table, accommodates the papers spread across in front of him. And lets his shoulders fall when he is looking at Naruto's blonde head, as he keeps staring at the papers. He knows why Naruto asks him.

Minato would say yes.

Mito would say yes.

Because they care more about Naruto than the clan.

Out of love. Out of guilt. It doesn't matter. Naruto thinks they are blinded, so he asks the man who has been able to keep him on track and grounded on reality throughout his life.

"I think you were- are in a tough spot, kid."

Naruto scoffs, because that is an understatement.

"I also think I would have taken the same choice if I were you.”

Naruto lets out a shaky breath. It doesn’t mean much, but knowing that someone would have taken his same decision is enough to make him feel slightly better. Slightly.

Because the pain of knowing what this means for everyone around him is-

“But you know what you can focus on, instead of going around in your mind wondering if what you did was the correct thing to do?”

Naruto knows. Remembers. Time after time, fall after fall. The same words.

“On the things I can do for myself,” he utters.

Jiraiya slaps his shoulder as he tries to cheer him up. He does. Or at least Naruto lets him think he did. “Let’s go train your body now, shall we?”

Naruto follows behind him, reciting the words inside his head. This is a real thing he can do to stay longer. This is something he can do without putting everyone else at risk.

This is something that will help him stay longer.

They reach one of the training grounds that Naruto likes to use. Far and secluded from the compound, where he can unleash part of his power without worrying excessively over its consequences. But now there are no flashy movements, no chakra powered moves that make holes in the ground or can tear trees in half.

Naruto sits in a patch of grass, places his hands on his thighs, and breathes in and out while being conscientious of his body. His blood flow, his breathing, the way his muscles tense and relax. The cold makes him shiver at first, but after a while his mind is so focused on the task at hand that he can barely hear what Jiraiya is saying.

“Thin out your chakra,” Jiraiya instructs, “you are supposed to become as non invasive as a rock to the chakra flow around you.”

All the years Naruto has been meditating make it easier for him to enter this trance. He usually uses this technique to correct his own flow -disrupted by the Beast's chakra- before he starts his day and before going to sleep in hopes of minimizing the damage.

Spreading his chakra comes easy, too, something he did as a child out of curiosity, then something he was trained to do in case of an attack, then as a means to further control his output, and now as a means to quench his anxiousness regarding Hinata's well-being.

"Remember to have enough to control the Beast's chakra, though." Adds Jiraiya, and Naruto wants to laugh.

As if that wasn't drilled into his very bones.

His chakra flows and he covers the inner compound without trouble, he keeps on reaching and goes halfway through the outer compound before Jiraiya stops him.

"You have to feed on the energy around you, you're just reaching out for reaching out. Focus."

There are no changes on Naruto. From the outside he remains still, impassive. But Jiraiya can feel his energy going around, he has attuned himself to catching the chakra flow around him as a fighting skill, but now thanks to the Toad Sages he can catch changes around him with more precision. Naruto is doing better than any other chakra wielding person. Better than Jiraiya did himself when he was being trained, too.

It’s a curious thing. Jiraiya can’t know for sure if the Beast’s vessels are stronger because they have to deal with their Beasts, or if it’s only because they are strong that they can deal with such an enormous chakra.

Naruto is a monster in his own right. Kushina was a prodigy, too. Sometimes he likes to let his mind wander and think about what it would have been if the Nine-Tails, no- if the Beasts were left alone like before the Beast Tamers came into the picture.

They were fighting their wars just fine.

But he guesses that someone wanted more, as always.

He wonders if Naruto likes to daydream about what-it-could-have-been like him, too. But that’s not a fair question to place upon him, so he has never shared it with him. Nor with Minato. Nor with Mito.

He has seen first hand what failure after failure does to a person.

He himself wanders the world in search of help he never finds. Takes off into places unknown in hopes of finding something, anything. This time for sure. This time for sure.

Naruto had been as full of hope as his father once. Blue eyes open wide when he came back, hands reaching for his scrolls while laughing. Jiraiya tried to lift the mood with a joke here and there, but then… time after time, the barest of progress and Naruto began to mimic him.

Minato would shake his head at their antics, and Jiraiya would indulge Naruto without missing a beat, but it was obvious, so obvious that he was as disappointed as his father.

Jiraiya rests his hand on Naruto’s shoulder. “Focus.”

Naruto is doing everything he’s supposed to do, but it is difficult enough to thin out your chakra and try to lose yourself with your surroundings without the need to stay very much conscious of your own body. Lest you bring destruction to everything around you.

“You gave yourself two months, kid, don’t rush it.”

Naruto tries to stay in control, but his chest is beginning to feel like it's shrinking, so he lets go. It’s just the first day.

The first day of many.

“It took me five months to start seeing any type of results, you know? Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Naruto stares at his hands, at their slight tremble.

“I wasn’t rushing,” he whispers. He feels Jiraiya’s stare on the back of his head, so he plasters a smile on his face and raises his head. “Let’s try again, then.”

⁂⁂⁂

Naruto is on his way to meet Shikamaru when Neji comes to him.

“Hinata?”

Neji shakes his head no before he’s close enough to be heard without raising his voice. “No, my lord, Lady Hinata is fine, she’s with Sai. It’s Lord Shikamaru.”

“I’m on my way to see him…”

“Yes, but he’s not there, he is in a meeting with the Inuzuka’s leader.”

“Tsume?” Naruto’s legs start moving and Neji follows.

“Yes, we have received a message and Lord Shikamaru has gone to check on security-”

“Again?”

Naruto hurries now. “What was it about?”

“I- Maybe we should wait-”

“No. Tell me now, what was it about?”

“The Two-Tails is asking for a meeting.”

Naruto is frowning the moment he enters the meeting room.

“My lord!” Tsume starts, her hair wild and her eyes filled with worry.

Shikamaru locks eyes with Naruto for a second before coming back to the plans on the desk.

“Grandma Mito?”

“Kiba went to get her,” Tsume informs. She shakes her head before anyone else can add on the conversation. “I don’t like this, my lord.”

And judging by Shikamaru’s deep frown, Naruto surmises neither does he. “Do we have a date?”

“January.”

Naruto stops for a second, “Oh, that’s… not that urgent.”

“A month and a half is a good amount of time to prepare, yes,” concedes Shikamaru, “but-”

“I do not approve,” says Tsume. “Putting all of the Beast Tamers that are left in one place after… after what happened?”

“Where’s Shino?”

“Hana went to look for him,” Tsume shares. Her eyes don’t leave Naruto’s face and he feels the pressure.

“What’s the purpose of this?”

“Prepare countermeasures,” Shikamaru air-quotes. As for excuses, it is one, but it is so vague, it can only be seen as-

“That we have already put in place,” Tsume snarls. “This is just a plot from the Two-Tails to fuck around with our lord. Now our clan has the upper hand, we are literally keeping things together by being decent human beings and keeping low while the whole world is running around like wild beasts. I can smell this from kilometers away! They want to take a chance and do something underhanded, I assure you, do not waste your time, my lord.”

“The Four-Tails is going,” Shikamaru says.

“A ploy,” Tsume crosses her arms, disgust on her face, “now they’re using a dead man to keep the ball rolling?”

“Allegedly,” Shikamaru sighs. Tsume glares at him, but Shikamaru only shrugs, “allegedly dead, he may well be alive and kicking, we have no way of knowing.”

“Our lord doesn’t go and what can they do,” Tsume presses, “we have our lord and Lord Gaara, whatever they can do-”

“But they can do damage,” Naruto is close to the table now, he puts down the message Shikamaru received and he knows Tsume is right. This looks nothing short of a trap.

This looks like nothing but a trap.

“We can’t just deny a call from a Beast Tamer without good reason,” Shikamaru taps his fingers on the table, “now even less, with the Beast Tamer truce we have going on and all.”

“You don’t need a reason to say no.” Tsume sighs to the ceiling, hating the direction this is going.

“You could…” Shikamaru looks at Naruto. They could use Lady Hinata’s pregnancy as an excuse, but then everyone would know about her condition and-

“No,” Naruto shuts him down, his head shakes side to side. “Hinata’s pregnancy stays a secret.”

Tsume frowns. She can see where the lord is going with this. Can taste it. Ever the one to put himself in danger to take the brunt of it all.

“This could be an opportunity,” Naruto starts. Shikamaru looks at him and the cogs move inside their brains.

A fight away from here. A fight where Naruto could potentially unleash his power without worrying about the repercussions.

A trap, sure.

But a trap they know is one.

Shino arrives a while later and without the knowledge of anyone else, they hatch a plan.

#naruto #naruhina #Naruto Uzumaki #Hinata Hyuga #uzumaki naruto #hyuga hinata #fanfiction #fanfic #beast tamers #ch.10 #part 1 #We have entered a new chapter!! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧#The Two-Tails is calling for a meeting!! Off we gooo!#(But first our scheduled fluff with Naruto and pregnant Hinata DON'T WORRY I GOT YOU)#We still have time before they have to leave #The Two-Tails was nice enough for that (●ˇ∀ˇ●)#Take care and see you next week!!

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