if there is a god watching over jean valjean i bet he's just super exhausted. when valjean takes javert out behind the barricade and pretends to execute him god's probably watching that like okay you could have just saved his life and let him go, you didn't have to also give him your address so he could come arrest you later. like come on dude. just don't do that part. it is a full-time job looking out for you, would it kill you to throw me a bone here? ben affleck smoking dot jpg.

willing s/o hcs ; yandere!wally

requested by ; anonymous (09/05/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; wally darling

outline ; “Yandere hcs of Wally darling with willing reader? 👉👈 gn reader preferred!”

warning(s) ; yandere character, references to kidnapping, references to drugging, violent thoughts, dark content, some fluff (very small amount at the end), reader willingly enters the relationship but isn’t aware of wally’s darker side at the time

it took wally a long time to realise why he was so dang protective of you — an embarrassingly long time now when he looks back on it

from the moment you moved into the neighbourhood he’d found himself being inexplicably drawn to you

your laugh, your smile, your eyes

he’d spend hours in home, trying desperately to recreate them — the way your eyes seem to glimmer in the sunlight, the way your lips curve perfectly when you bite back a smile, the crinkle of your eyes and the curve of your neck when you start laughing so hard you tear up

sketches, oil on canvas, watercolour, coal, chalk — but none of them worked

nothing could compare to the real thing and it drove him mad — because he didn’t know why he was so drawn to you and he didn’t know why he felt so possessive, but knowing that he couldn’t even have a recreation of you was like a knife in the wound

he’d end each night completely dishevelled: neck tie discarded, face covered in paint, shirt undone and stained, hair undone and hanging loosely over his face - knotted and messed with all of his stressing and frustration

but he never gave up, splitting his waking hours between time with you and time spent with his inferior recreations of you — his obsession growing and festering with every failure, with every second spent in your company, with every second spent awake at all

before long he found himself swallowing down insults and anger like bile whenever he saw another one of his neighbours with you — they were his friends, he’d rationalise, he shouldn’t be thinking like this of them

but still, he couldn’t help it

every time you laughed at one of barnaby’s jokes or jokingly shoved frank’s shoulder or caught eddie before he fell or tackled julie in a tight hug — he found himself fighting off a desire to do something he wasn’t made to

he wanted to scream to cry to frown but he literally couldn’t

he was trapped in a friendly smile that did little to express the unearned anguish hatred that threatened to spill over into violence every time he left home

wally had always been so happy and content as himself before you, but now he couldn’t help but wish himself to be in anyone else’s shoes

he’d happily abandon all things wally to feel your arms wrapped around him or to hear your sweet, angelic voice calling out to him with humour and praise or concern

get rid of everything he loved because he loved nothing more than you

and that was when he realised the depth of his feelings for you

that he wasn’t just being protective over a new friend, a new neighbour, that he was in love with you

and that almost made it worse

because now he had to wrestle with the concept of rejection and ruining all of the friendships he’d built during his time in the neighbourhood

he didn’t want to hurt anyone, of course not, but he was tempted to more times than he dared count

and every passing day brought him closer to giving in to his temptations and just outright kidnapping you

maybe howdy would have some stuff in stock that he could slip into your food the next time you stopped by… surely he had sleeping pills at the very least

and you already loved home — and they adores you just as much — so maybe you’d be fine with just not leaving

you’d adjust after the first few months at least — of that much he was certain

and just as he’d started to talk himself around to going through with it — just as he’d purchased all of the stuff he’d need for his plan, separately of course to not raise howdy’s suspicion — he was startled by a knock at his door

there you were, the picture of perfection that had been haunting him even in the very depths of his dreams since the moment he’d laid eyes on you, stood inches away — close enough to touch, but he didn’t — looking flustered and shy as he’d never seen before

your proposition came out uncertain and filled with backtracking and pensive apprehension as your words shook out of your trembling lips, thick with a fear of rejection

you, his muse, his darling-to-be, were asking him out on a date and you were afraid he’d reject you?

the angel he’d spent so long trying to recreate, the obsession he’d spent months trying to transfer from dangerous thoughts to palpable art

it was infeasible to him, so he spent a good while just staring at you, unable to think let alone speak

which terrified you and led to even more frenzied backtracking until he was finally able to get ahold of himself and stutter out an ‘of course’ that sounded far more confident and calm than he felt

(feeling thankful for the first time in his life for the way he was frozen in the picture of polite enjoyment — a smile he couldn’t shake nor that could stretch enough to portray his overwhelming joy)

and the two of you arranged to go on a picnic the next day, each promising to bring what you had (you, the cloth and a pair of nets; him, the food)

it would be picturesque, idyll, even

a cloudless sky with a sun that wasn’t imposing nor was it too cold (suit weather but not worth layering)

a checkered picnic blanket adorned with one of those old wicker baskets and a dozen containers of food and drink like you’d see in all of those camping adverts howdy had delivered from out of town

wide brimmed sun hats and flowers in bloom every which way, an endless floral ocean dotted with specks of blue and red and yellow that were as abundant as stars in the sky

and, of course, plenty of beautifully decorated butterflies to catch — nature’s own paintings that, though gorgeous, didn’t hold a candle to you in his mind

and that night, for the first time ever, when wally set up a canvas and tried to paint you

he could

he captured the curve of your smile and the arch of the neck

perfectly shaded the depth of your eyes and the scrunching of your nose as you grinned at him from within this snapshot

a celebration was in order, but perhaps that could wait until after your date — maybe he could combine the two somehow, he was sure you wouldn’t mind

and whilst those possessive thoughts still swirled in his head, he no longer felt as inclined to act upon them — he didn’t need to force something that was already underway

you were already his, had been for a while, and there was no need for him to worry after all

(though he did opt to keep those items he’d purchased, just in case)

he knew there was something special about you

you really were the absolute most

and he knew that your relationship would be the most beautiful thing the neighbourhood had ever seen — finally he’d get to feel the brunt of your affection, hear your laugh and be party to your fretting and concern

some dreams really do come true…

DAY 2 - EATING OUT

Parings: Ao'nung x Fem!human

Genre/Warnings: NSFW/MDNI, no use of Y/N, SMUT in the end, fingering, praising, size difference, soft-dom Ao'nung, fluff Ao'nung, oral (f receiving), slow-burn, ANGST, mention of KirixSpider. All characters are AGED-UP.

Summary: After Kiri's seizure, against all odds Jake convinces Ronal and Tonowari to agree to the temporary setup of a human camp at Awa'atlu. Ao'nung is against it, but meeting Spider's twin sister will change his mind about the aliens. Or at least about her.

Word Count: 6,6k

Masterlist - Request a fic

In the eyes of any Na'vi, human beings knew nothing but destruction. They killed, they plundered, they looted, they stole.

Ao'nung was no exception, despite never having had a chance to meet one. His opinions were based on tales — far from flattering —, testimonies from the not-too-distant past, and the tulkun carcasses moored offshore. A single precise hole pierced their palate to the brain. Too precise to be an accidental wound. Therefore, when his parents agreed for a temporary lab to be set up near Awa'atlu following Kiri's seizure, Ao'nung fiercely opposed it. Never had he leveraged his title as he did that day.

"I appreciate your stance, ma‘itan (son), but you are not yet olo'eyktan. Until then, you will do as you are told."

He might have done as he was ordered, but that did not imply that he would become familiar with the ketuwong (aliens). Or so he believed. One thing about humans still eluded him. Something that would systematically dismantle all his beliefs.

Their immense complexity. Capable of atrocious cruelties, harbored in them also an incredible goodness. A combination of oxymorons made up the intricate human nature. Malice and kindness. Destructiveness and creativity. Cowardice and tenacity. Ignorance and intelligence.

Hatred and love.

Even the lowliest creature, as that who’d usurped and appropriated his world as if they had the authority, had beauty. He saw it in how they dealt with Kiri and the kind smiles they looked at Lo’ak from afar. They seemed to empathize with his discomfort and the feeling of being different, as they were just as out of place as he was on Eywa'eveng (Pandora). Even in the sympathetic or unaffected strains with which they accepted the coldness and suspicion of the natives. Neytiri included.

When contemplating the woman, the boy frequently pondered the reason for the intense hostility; after all, her husband was formally one of them. He knew their story though, as everyone on Pandora. His father himself was a constant reminder of it by the almost inexplicable condescension he reserved for the Sullys.  The legendary Toruk Makto and Palulukan Makto. The chosen ones who led the clans to victory against the Sky People. The same ones who now walked among the reef people with their tails between their legs. Quite literally.

He experienced firsthand the feeling of being a letdown and living in the constant shadow of a flawless sibling.

Tsireya. His sweet little sister, the family's ray of sunshine, was both loved and hated by him. At times, he found comfort in the idea that, if she did not exist, perhaps their parents would be less strict with him.

Na'vi and Terrestrials weren’t so different after all. The same conflicting feelings coexisted in their hearts. The same inconsistency. Like loving an alien in an artificial body, but abhorring his origins. And now that he had a way to deal with them every day, even if from a distance, he realized more and more how much they had in common. At first glance, they might have seemed absolutely diverse. Humans were so small in comparison, so vulnerable. A simple, well-aimed kick could have shattered their fragile bones. They looked delicate, their skin velvety soft. Women at least, from what little he had deduced observing the only human girl on the island. 

Celeste Socorro.

Besides her small size and complete unsuitability to survive on the satellite, her colors were all wrong and seemed to lack uniformity with other specimens of her species. A commonality, it appeared. Their hair varied between disparate shades, their complexions tended to be warm and earthy, and there was no trace of blue excluding the irises of some of them. Celeste wasn’t one of those, though. Her eyes were black; a sun-dried bark brown color made it challenging to distinguish the pupil unless carefully scrutinized. Straw-blond strands, often gathered in a loose ponytail, ran halfway down her back. A few unruly wisps fell to the edges of her mask. Like other humans, she had a sense of modesty that he couldn’t get. Her body was almost entirely veiled by clothing, which didn’t compliment her frame.

Another reason for calling her odd was he couldn't explain why he was interested in her. He should have felt disgust, or at least indifference, but instead, none of this seemed to shake him when his eyes rested on her petite figure. Indeed, he had even found himself looking for her in the crowd. It usually took place at times of maximum distraction. When none of his duties could occupy his day and he loitered around the village. Thoughts wandered, confused until they took the form of the girl. He was frequently bombarded by reality itself. As if to shout in his face that he could not elude her.

Today was no exception. Irritated as never by Celeste's visage intruding on his mind to pay attention to where his heavy legs were taking him, her voice infiltrated his ears. Looking around, Ao'nung realized he was right near the Sullys’ marui. Inside, Kiri was styling Celeste’s hair, while the girl held in her small hands a monitor depicting a scan of Kiri's brain — something he had learned in that brief time in contact with the aliens. From the way the halfbreed rolled her eyes, she was familiar with her friend’s rather authoritative recommendations. 

He had a certain fascination with tawtute (human) contraptions, despite having a fictional feel to native eyes. They were the preserve of a technological development aimed at minimizing the fate of their physical weakness.  He somehow admired their perseverance, their intellectual flare, their nearly utopian idea of progress, but at the expense of what? They had lost any kind of attachment to their intimate and spiritual sphere, chasing answers that did nothing but create new questions and new quests. That same progress that had been born with good intentions to improve their conditions, to help, to save, had repeatedly set them against each other. Because, apparently, the instinct of prevarication and the lure of power were stronger than anything else. Devoid of unified purpose, they were nothing more than a dull shell of flesh.

An incredibly cute wrapper if they had asked his opinion about the human girl without an avatar.

“Even though I know he isn’t our father, he has his memory. He’s built on his genetic code. I can’t help but wonder if a side of him loves us. If he loved our mother.” The silence that had fallen was suffocating when she spoke again. “It seemed like it when he recognized us. The way he looked at us. He wasn’t just surprised; his eyes were the same Jake has for you. He had the eyes of a father, even if it lasted only for a moment. Spider and his mouth,” she mumbled in a bitter laugh. “That’s the only way I can keep my wits, knowing that my brother is in his hands.” 

Brother, he didn’t know she had a brother. But thinking about it, he made a brief connection to the human boy the Sully siblings often mentioned, and everything became tremendously obvious. Ao'nung wondered about the number of others who shared their situation. Terrestrial children born on Pandora. Normally, that would have made his skin crawl, but not today. Not as he eyed Celeste.

“We'll set him free," Kiri said with the sweetest of smiles adorning her face in a purple blush. Her gaze lost in emptiness as expert fingers danced over the fragile scalp of the girl sitting in front of her, intent on sorting the top section of her hair into soft braids and joining them in a single one. The remaining locks fell in graceful waves over her shoulders and around the small of her waist. Celeste snorted sourly, "When? When will your father decide to stop burying his head in the sand?" Her friend’s hands froze as she winced at the viciousness of those words, at the suffering that flowed from the rigidity of her posture. Her expression, once infused with tender hopefulness, now radiated immense sadness. Kiri knew deep in her heart that her parents would do nothing to take Spider back. Neytiri despised them as humans and Jake… Well, Jake felt pity for the Socorro twins, he saw himself in them. Having them around was like reliving the half-life he had before he became Omatikaya. A feeling for which he would give anything to never have to face it again, to bury it along with his past. Because, in a way, he felt like he had stolen the serenity he now had. From Tsu'tey. From Grace.

From Tommy.

They’d all lost their life for him to gain something instead. He’d gained a home, a mate, a family. Enough for him to no longer be invulnerable. If once he had nothing to lose, now he had everything to lose. He would do anything, make any gesture to safeguard what was his greatest strength, but above all, his greatest weakness.

Even sacrifice an innocent kid.

"Cel-" “No, don’t make up excuses for them. Don't insult me by saying they're waiting for the perfect moment to rescue him. They ain't gonna do that. As long as Quaritch doesn’t pull enough strings to force your parents out, no one will do anything.” Celeste’s eyes burned like glowing embers as she stared into Kiri’s liquid amber ones. Sorry to bring this up. I hoped our reunion would be better. The joy of seeing you again, my BFF, my sis, lingered with me. But… you bailed on us and left us to face the RDA alone.  The Omatikaya are standing up to defend the rainforest. The Timpani are their allies now, and the Tawkami are helping with the injured. All this while you were here checking out the sights, learning the way of a new clan. But, as soon as you needed us, you remembered the ones you left to die.” Kiri knew her friend was right to be resentful, to feel wronged, that her heart was bleeding in terror over her brother’s plight, but now she was being unfair. ”Did you think we asked for this? Hiding among strangers? We lost everything. Our home, our people, our status. We don’t belong anywhere, we just have ourselves.”

However distorted by the mask, Celeste’s expression was all too eloquent. She knew way too well what it felt like to be at the extremes of a stray cat. “It’s always about you, huh? But we're talking about Spider here. Quit whining about how much you miss him, moony-eyed whenever you talk about him. When Neytiri decided to leave him behind, you didn’t fight back. You didn't protest when Jake said it was too risky to go back for him.” “Why did you?” “With Neteyam holding me back! A fully grown male Na’vi clutching a small human girl as if I were a viperwolf puppy? What could I have done? Tell me.” Kiri couldn’t answer. “Exactly. Nothing. I am powerless before you.” The tawtute woman stood up toward the entrance furiously, but just as she was about to cross the threshold, she turned one last time to implant her shining, weeping eyes on her dear friend. It's scary to think what they're doing to him. They’re probably brainwashing him with nonsense. The more he stays with them, the more they drive him away from us. Spider's heart is tough, but we Sky People can be corrupted in a jiffy. Especially when they know how to get under our skin and give us a sense of belonging. When on the other side, they have our father.” “Nash and Mary are your parents. Norm, Max. We are your family!” “This is right if you leverage on logic. But let's be real, when has logic ever worked?” A heavy sigh lightened her lungs. “Sorry if I’m dumping it all on you. You have nothin’ to do with it, you have no fault except lovin’ him as much as I do.”

Maybe even more.

“It’s just—.” The tremor in her voice prevented her from finishing the sentence, but the meaning was painfully clear. Celeste was worried about Spider. She was terrified. “We lost him. Even if he manages to come back to us, he will never be what he used to be.”

Perhaps following her hadn't been the smartest choice. They hardly knew each other, and this sudden concern of his was undoubtedly misplaced. Why would she, a human, want to open up to him, of all people? The Metkayina prince, who had never had the courtesy to hide his dislike for her people. Who had never reserved a kind word for the Sullys, let alone for an abandoned little human girl like her.

There was the risk she would misinterpret his intentions — Lo’ak had warned her about him. At worst, she would take him for a creep. But he just couldn't help himself. The way she had come out of the marui, the scowl on her face, plain to see despite the stark reflection of the sun on her mask, and her hunched shoulders. Everything about her, whether it was her warm smile as she played with Tuk, the dedication with which she analyzed every new thing that came her way. Even the misery that filled those intense dark eyes, now flickering with tears, drew him in.

Celeste sat on the seashore. The heavy combat boots, which seemed to have seen better days, had been tossed to her right side as now the waves' soothing motion caressed her feet. Her toes fiddled with the sand while her gaze wandered to the horizon. The gentle breeze from the ocean tousled her half-leaved braids, dragging with it the distant calls of animals.

Ao’nung stood dumbfounded behind a palm tree, trying to gather the courage to approach her. What could he have said to her? It’s not like he could just show up and sit next to her, engaging in who knows what sort of conversation. Up to that point, they had hardly spoken to each other, leaving out forms of convenience. The guy wasn’t Lo’ak or Neteyam. He wasn’t someone familiar enough to even just sit beside her in silence, for his presence would be comforting to her. Nor did he own that innate coolness and likability Rotxo had. Maybe it would be the girl herself who would come to him.

“Don't bother taunting me now that there's no audience. I'm not in the mood for your immaturity.”

Well, roughly. At least it could be considered an icebreaker.

“I don’t plan on messing with you.” "Stalking must be a habit of yours, then.” That had taken him by surprise. He was convinced she hadn't noticed, but the girl had read right through him. She was more receptive and aware of her surroundings than he imagined. And to say that Ao'nung had even been careful to cover his tracks. “I remind you I grew up in the middle of the forest. It’s called mere survival,” she stated as if she had read his mind. “You’re just an open book,” confusion painted on his face (he didn’t know what a book was), “You’re very expressive, it’s easy to catch what you’re thinking.”  “Is that so?” commented in a whisper as he took a seat to her left. “It explains a lot of things.” “If you’re not here to torment me, what brings you here?”. “We started off on the wrong foot.” “That’s an understatement.” “I expected Lo’ak to tell you about how I behaved when they arrived. About the incident at Three Brother Rocks.” “Another euphemism. Anyway, I didn’t need to be updated on the hard time he had here with all of you. I was prepared for what was going to happen. I don’t blame you, you know? Probably if the roles were reversed, we humans would have done the same thing. It’s only natural to fear the difference, especially when they have done little to show their good side. But if you’re trying to apologize, it’s not me you have to ask.” “If it’s all right with you, I would simply like to sit here. We don’t have to talk.” She sketched a smile. “Something tells me that even if I told you I’d rather be alone, you’d still stay.” Ao’nung seemed to weigh his next words, although an eloquent smirk was making its way onto his lips already. “This is still my island. No one can tell me to leave.” “The island of your clan.” “Indeed.” “The Metkayina have so many islands, I’m sure the next chief can go wherever he wishes.” “I suppose so, but this future chief wishes to be here,” he deftly twisted her words, a hint of sarcasm dirtying his voice. “Of all the territories of my people, this beach is my favorite. It’s secluded, hardly anyone ever comes here. It’s not a suitable spot for fishing, perfect if you’re looking for solitude and a place to empty your mind.” “It’s your safe haven, then. My bad if I took it from you, I didn’t mean to.” She made to leave, but Ao’nung stopped her. The grip on her hand was incredibly light, cautious, almost caring. “I don’t mind sharing it with you.”

“Despite growing up among you, I am always surprised how different the concept of personal space is between humans and Na’vi.” “Are we intrusive?” he chuckled. “You touch quite a bit! Especially the hair,” she gave him an elusive smile. “To braid each other’s hair is a way of strengthening bonds. We take care of one other.” “On Earth, we call it grooming. it’s a socialization technique.” “What I said.” Celeste was careful to add that specialists used this term to describe behaviors observed in the animal kingdom. Although they also fall under it, people dislike to be compared to animals, and the Na’vi were no exception.

Styling her hair had become a routine since they had established that uncanny friendship. If it could be called that. Celeste wouldn’t have been sure where to place it, really. So many were the unspoken things between them. Talks that couldn’t be addressed without prodding the touchy attitude of one or the other. She felt a strange sensation in her stomach from the occasional intense glances. As if her insides were all of a sudden twisting around, tearing her breath away.

Although they had not put up posters, it was pretty obvious that Celeste was getting close to someone local. People began asking questions. 

As if catching them together frequently wasn’t already a blatant response.

So many minor details that make up a bigger picture. Starting with the very braids and nacre pearls that adorned the girl’s hair, in a style that differed altogether from Omatikaya customs. And ending with the perpetual jubilation that seemed to have taken the place of severity over Ao’nung’s face. This one aspect clearly demonstrated that something was happening between them.  The attitudinal shift was way too remarkable. He was no longer so grumpy or difficult to deal with. He now seemed to have grown accustomed to the human presence in the village, even paying daily visits to the lab, driven by curiosity and eagerness to learn. His interactions with Sky People were nearly quotidian, so much so that he had adopted some English terms into his linguistic repertoire. A language he was picking up incredibly fast and had become common ground with the Sully siblings. They had yet to reach a point where they could call each other friends, but it was a step in the right direction. Who knew it would take the influence of a tawtute girl for them to establish a truce.

In any case, this had not been enough for Neteyam and Lo’ak to stop keeping an eye on her, still weirded out by that unexpected connection with such an asshole — somebody who seemed to show his genuine side only to her. They didn’t trust him fully, although he had shown he respected her and was the sole one able to bring a sincere smile back to her beautiful face.

They were her brothers after all. Their duty was to protect her.

As the man traced an intricate weave of braids starting at the crown of her head and extending a little further back anchored by bright blue beads from Nom’s Delight, Celeste didn’t miss the opportunity to tease him. “You’re better than I thought at this,” she said, observing the effort he was putting into it through a hand mirror. “When you have a sister, you are forced to learn.” “You’re the one who makes her look so fabulous with those hairstyles. I thought was your mother doing.” “She would like to, but she’s got no time. So...” “You act like it bugs you, but deep down you love doing it for her.” No response other than a resounding snort and an eye roll that did not escape the mirror. “it’s nice. It’s your way of showing her your love.” “I guess we all end up succumbing to our sisters in one way or another.” She chuckled, “I assume so.” A sudden veil of sadness darkened her eyes, although the shadow of an affectionate smile lingered on her rosy lips.

“And... how are things? Got used to the reef yet? You have met no one like us before.” The sudden change of subject served as a clear distraction from thinking about Spider. But, however poorly, it succeeded as an attempt, Celeste was still grateful to him. “To be honest, I saw pictures of you. I already had an idea of what you looked like. Yet seeing you in person is a whole other thing.” She was staring at him. “May I?” she asked, extending her hand toward the stake on his arm. Celeste was surprised at the hard but flexible texture. She had imagined it cartilaginous, but there was clearly a muscular structure underneath the fin-like membrane. She traced the entire outline of the excrescence. From the elbow to the wrist and then along the back of the hand where the pinky finger started, which appeared far more robust than the Na’vi of the forests. Like the rest of their frame. Taking advantage of her own petite figure, the girl wedged herself under his arm so she could analyze his back muscles. Defined and prominent, they followed the line of a chunkier ribcage.  If the Omatikaya sternum had always seemed pronounced, the Metkayina’s was bulky.

Ao’nung trembled under the imperceptible touch of her fingers as they came down to graze the base of his solid tail, and he blushed. A violet-pinkish tint colored his nose and cheekbones, making the azure of his eyes even more vivid. He had to hold his breath as he turned just enough to hide his face.  In vain. “I’m sorry. I went too far. It’s a susceptible spot, isn’t it?” "It's all good," he shrugged and shook his head. "Hey, fun fact, humans used to have tails," she said with a chuckle and a hint of guilt. As if it were an attempt to make it up to him. “Well, it wasn’t really a “tail” per se. It was more of an appendage. 25 million years ago, this mutation happened. It left only a handful of caudal vertebrae to form the coccyx.” Ao’nung stared at her raptly. Although he didn’t understand a significant part of what she said (too many specific English terms were mixed in with the Na’vi), it fascinated him to hear her talk about such distant and complicated topics. “Believe it or not, we have a small tail when we're embryos that eventually merges with our spine.” “I can’t picture you with a tail.” ”Me neither. A human with a tail,” she laughed. “I’ve heard of rare cases of babies being born with a tiny stump, but it is removed.” The boy scratched his throat, another slight blush clouding his cheeks. “Which one do you like best?” “Hmm?” The way she tilted her head doubtfully was tremendously adorable. “Which kind of tail do you prefer? Ours or the forest people’s?” The girl took her chin between her teeny tiny fingers. “Actually, never crossed my mind. I didn’t really consider how it looks, just how well it adapts to the environment. You Na’vi are built differently than us humans, with a physical differentiation that we do not have. Nor do other species that lived on Earth, as far as I know, with rare exceptions.”

Like dogs, she restrained herself from saying that. Celeste supposed he wouldn’t like being compared to a pet, in scientific terms or not. "But if I had to pick, I guess yours is more unique. To the forest natives I am used to, though, so…” The answer he received did not meet his expectations, yet it sufficed for Ao'nung's pride. In its own way, it was equivalent to being told he was better looking than Lo’ak or Neteyam. Or whatever other male there was in the Omatikaya clan.

“Want to check out anything else? Dunno, the stripes or the nictitating membrane. But I gotta submerge my head for that one or it won’t come out.” He said the last sentence in a pensive tone. “There is one thing I would like to look at. That's not really a physical trait, it's more of a cultural thing.” “What is it?” “Your tattoo.”  Not waiting for an answer, she took his arm between both hands, running her gaze over the elaborate tribal pattern that dyed much of his arm black. From the wrist to the deltoid, and a small portion of the trapezius and pectoral. Segments, waves, and stick figures that showed achievement, status, and social position. Each addition was a rite of passage, a goal attained, and his role in the clan. The art of tattooing was a widespread practice. All tattoos were considered a gift from both Eywa and the clan. They were unique and told the story of the individual’s life. In particular, arm tattoos represented the more exposed protective shield of the seawall, meant to protect the Metkayina from dangerous wildlife lurking within their oceans. Thus a hunter, a warrior, somebody strong who could provide for the clan. "This one's more pigmented," Celeste noted. “It’s recent. It symbolizes the secure embrace of the central island. Someday, I'm gonna be the olo'eyktan. I'll be responsible for looking after my people, both inside and out, keeping them safe and leading them.” Absentmindedly, she traced the outlines of the design imprinted at hip level and outlining the pelvis, causing him a shiver that she pretended to ignore.

“You know, how I learned about Metkayina is kinda funny.” The sentence sounded totally random, but it still aroused his interest. The Socorro twins weren’t the sole human children born on Pandora; others had preceded them during the first colonization attempt. They were the fruit of unlikely loves and irrepressible passions that took place on sleepless nights at headquarters. Where the risk of accidental death and the fear that they had not really lived took over, silencing all appropriate doubts. All those children were grown up enough to survive cryo, unlike Spider and Celeste. But although they had left Pandora, a trace of them remained.; a legacy from when the base still communicated regularly with planet Earth. Cartoons. Of them all, the little girl’s favorite was the Little Mermaid. A veritable obsession, Spider and Lo’ak would complain, earning a tugged smile from Neteyam and a frown from the child herself, for, from that moment on, legends about mermaids became her main interest.

“It is uncertain they exist, but here on Pandora there is a sea folk who are close to them.”

"As foolish as it may sounds, when I was growing up I wanted to find one.” Ao'nung let out an amused snort. “Silly, isn't it? They are an Earth legend, it's impossible to find them here on Pandora. Yet, the thing I wanted most in the world was to see one. Even if only from a distance. When Jake would take us to play near the coast, I would always stare out to sea, hoping to catch a glint of the sun bouncing off the scales. After all, what could have been more extraordinary than a fish-tailed human who could breathe underwater. It gave me an inexplicable sense of freedom, hope. I guess I wanted to be one of them to escape the reality of being born in the most inhospitable place possible for my species. A child who belonged to nothing and no one, confined behind a mask. You know, it was right around that time that I first heard about you. From Norm." "Norm?" "The scientist I came here with." The boy's lips drew a silent O. "Norm showed me documents about you, explaining your communion with the sea. How your bodies had adapted to swimming and apnea.”

"Like mermaids!" She commented ecstatically, with childlike wonder in her big brown eyes. Norm laughed, "Something like that.”

"I think you are the closest thing to a siren. Or a sea monster." He attempted with a sly expression to which the man replied with a smile and a quick shake of his head."From the way you describe them, there are female specimens." "On no, there are also tritons, their male counterparts. They just aren't mentioned often in fairy tales. In the past on Earth, role diversification was very pronounced between men and women. The latter were discriminated against to the point that they weren’t allowed so many things, including traveling by sea. Women aboard ships were said to bring bad luck." Ao'nung's disgusted expression said a lot about his opinion on the subject, Humans really are that stupid. Yet, he didn’t utter a word, preferring to keep listening. "Since legend has it that the people of the sea feed on human flesh-and the only seafaring people at that time were men-they were described as women of rare beauty and a bewitching voice. By singing they hypnotized sailors who, dragged underwater, drowned."

"You tawtute have interesting stories," he said dangerously close to her face in a melodious voice. "Sorry to disappoint you, but my legs do not turn into fishtails in the water, and my voice has no such power," he smiled cunningly, and Celeste was tempted to deny that last statement. "I do confirm, though, that I have a taste for human flesh. I could eat you in one mouthful."

Her heart lost a beat. The allussiveness at the bottom of his eyes made them a very dark shade, of the usual vibrant blue there was hardly a trace left. Ao'nung wanted her. Here and now. On that same beach that 

had been more often than she could count witness to their growing closeness. More than she wanted to admit. She would be lying if she claimed not to have noticed how the Na'vi looked at her, with a fondeness she was not used to. How his hands rested that extra moment on her. Perfect reflections of the behavior she also displayed toward him, unable to restrain herself. That candor was disarming though, totally unsuspected.

They weren’t just friends, that was evident by now.

But as she searched for something to say that was not unintelligible babble, he did something even more surprising. Gently he pulled Celeste onto his lap, with one hand encircling her back, and the other tilting her neck back just enough to bring her face close to his. And slowly, without ever looking away, he rested his forehead against the glass of the mask. He closed his eyes, inhaled and finally placed his lips against the surface. Parochial in the face, at first the girl did not know what to do, yet a little encouragement — Ao'nung's fingers pressing a little more on the nape of her neck — was enough to induce her to approach the glass. It was weird to describe what she felt. Despite the barrier, on the other side she felt the pressure of Ao'nung's kiss, his lips molding against the smooth surface.

Their first kiss. Just as strange as them.

She sensed him smiling against her lips as he returned the kiss. He sank his face into her neck and, for a long moment, the two just breathed, reveling in each other's warmth. After the gentle start, her fingers slid over his ankle and up his calf, then over the knee that brushed against his pelvis. Certain that no one would find them there, what was left of Celeste's clothes scattered across the sand. Believe it or not, Ao’nung was the sweetest man in the world in bed, cuddling her by whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Their bodies rocked together as they listened to the creaking of palm trees and the rustle of the sea sliding against the shoreline. And she melted in his strong arms, malleable as clay. There was something indescribable in the mischief that shone through his eyes, soon replaced by impatience as he laid her on the ground. Celeste shivered as he positioned himself between her legs. The coils of her stomach tensed as he brought her shins to the sides of his head and anchored himself to her thighs. It was very tender and affectionate the way he caressed her, "Don't hide from me." Slowly she opened her legs, allowing a glimpse of the folds, wet and glistening. She yearned so much for him to touch her, but even without speaking Ao'nung had already noticed, staring at her through impossibly black eyelashes. He slipped two fingers into his mouth, smeared them with saliva, and brought them back down to slide over her clitoris. Without warning he peeled back the fabric and pushed them inside, swirling them upward, and she gasped. He removed his fingers only to put them back in her mouth and swirled his tongue around to taste some of her flavors. He kept his eyes on her as he emitted a little mumbling around his phalanges, his 

smile was salacious, "Tasty." She was about to say his name when he lifted that last flap of fiber between them and purred. A small smile pressed against his knee pleased by such surrender. He kissed him softly, languidly, but when he dragged. his lips over her inner thigh, his voice was dangerously excited, "You don't know how long I've been waiting for this." She was breathing heavily, absolutely humiliated to be there, with her legs spread apart and her vulva squished in the face of the raven-haired man who seemed so eager to have that perfect face splattered with her. On the beach to boot. Ao'nung leaned forward, arms firmly hooked at her knees to block her movements, "Let me know when you're about to come," for a handful of fleeting seconds she let her heavenly smile return. He watched her features, savoring every single expression as she turned into a disaster of sobs and gasps, "I want to eat you.” Jaws teasing the elastic skin, tongue titillating her clitoris, phalanges rhythmically violating her, reveling in the way her heels tapped on his massive shoulders, how her back arched in unnatural poses. As his fingers churned in circular motions to stimulate that much sought-after spongy pad, she felt mounting inside her the nagging sensation of having to go to the bathroom, just at that crucial moment. She tightened her pelvic muscles. "A-ao'nung... s-stop… I have to p—" "It's squirt," quivered the man's voice, one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other, staring at her so haughtily, so victoriously, "Relax, let go," he hissed.

"N-no, please, I'm not comfortable." "Making people uncomfortable is what I do best." He wanted a show. That sentence seemed to cast a spell on her, because with another hit, she felt something thicken in her pit, she clung to the boy's hair, "I can't hold it anymore!" The man lifted his fingers and, before she could lament the loss, replaced them with the tip of his tongue. His wet fingertips held her widened opening, diving between her thighs to devour her in a way that made her gasp and tug at her dark locks, "God, Nung... I'm going to...," escaped her by closing her knees around his head. Ao'nung growled upon hearing that new nickname as he lapped at every crevice between her walls. The tip of his nose brushed against her spongy nub continually, but only when he moaned did he decide to gather it between his lips, sucking it greedily; the same with which he moistened them when the spray hit him. The final stimulation he needed to climax. "At last," he exclaimed panting as he ravenously cleansed her. She felt the viscosity of her own arousal sticking in her inner-thigh where Ao'nung's moist cheeks brushed against her. She was stunned, breathless and exhausted as he rolled onto his back and laid Celeste on his chest. A proud smile colored his face. He stroked her chin, relieved to look him straight in the eye, those sharp, criminal eyes, and haphazardly dusted the grains of sand from her hair and later from her body.

Blissing in the warmth of the sun, the tenderness of his embrace, and the comfort of his heart, Celeste snuggled against his chest, closed her eyelids, and dozed off. A soft smile adorned her lips.

In Ao'nung's arms, she was finally home.

For the tattoo description I took inspiration from this AMAZING picture, created by the indescribably talented @cinetrix

Special thanks to @pandoraslxna for the prompt!

The world, so full of pain and anger and virulent, bleeding hatred, all at once faded to nothing. In his bones and the chambers of his heart, for the first time in decades, did not pulse with agony, with the constant sear of self hatred. He felt…peace…acceptance, and maybe above all a relief so tantamount and all consuming if his lungs could draw breath after death they might have gasped from it.

Anakin Skywalker opened his eyes and saw something he never believed he would ever again.

Obi-Wan smiled at him, in the flesh, young and healthy and whole, younger than Anakin remembered even from adulthood, boyish even.

“Hello,” Obi-Wan said softy, with such tenderness Anakin could only choke on a wounded noise in answer.

“Master,” he whispered.

Obi-Wan took a step towards him and paused, kindness and ineffable love written into the planes of his face, the creases of his eyes and the curve of his mouth. “You’re here at last—Anakin—my Anakin.”

He sobbed and fell into Obi-Wan’s arms though he knew he did not deserve it, his touch or the love on his face. “Master,” he wept again, pressing his face to the crook of his neck and digging two flesh hands into his shoulder blades. “Oh stars I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh gods—force master I’m sorry.”

Obi-Wan shushed him and smoothed gentle fingers through his curls. “You came back to me, Anakin you came back it’s alright, hush now it will be alright.”

“How can you even look at me?” He gasped, open mouthed and desperate for air past his choking, wracking grief. “How can you stand to be in the same plane of existence after what I have done?”

Obi-Wan pulled Anakin’s face from his throat and forced him to look him in the eyes. Tears blurred his vision and bled their mourning trails down his cheeks as he took in kind blue eyes.

“I never stopped loving you.”

The burn of his dying wounds and the desperation for breath ached less than the agony he bloomed with at those words. “Don’t say that,” he begged, falling to his knees at his master’s feet. “Please don’t say that. I cannot go on knowing that.”

Obi-Wan bent to his own knees before him and cupped Anakin’s cheeks between inexplicable warm palms. “I will say it, and you will hear it. I tried so desperately hard to hate you as you hated me but I could not, my Padawan—my Anakin. My love for you is as boundless and encompassing as the force, and one lifetime could not deter that.”

“You should hate me,” Anakin wailed, even as he clasped his own hands over Obi-Wan’s fingers against his cheeks. “You should despise me! I killed them all—killed you!”

Obi-Wan pressed his forehead to his and Anakin sobbed at the feel of warm breath against his cheek. “My darling you came back in the end, just as I always hoped you would. You chose the light.”

Anakin shook his head and spun in the orbit of his own disbelieving agony. “I can’t—I can’t—master—“

“Anakin Skywalker,” Obi-Wan said, brushing tears away with his thumb, “I forgive you.”

“Oh gods,” he wailed, falling back into his master’s arms.

“I demanded from the very binding tethers of the force to give you back to me,” Obi-Wan murmured into his hair. “I would spend eternity loving you for the lifetime you could not.”

“I do love you,” Anakin choked out, “I love you—I—master I’m so sorry—I love you—l—“

Obi-Wan wound fingers through his curls and tugged Anakin’s tear streaked face to his, slanting their salt slicked lips in a kiss. “Darling I know,” he gasped into Anakin’s mouth, “you came back to me, I know.”

'til the words dry out

ffxivwrite2022 #08: tepid marked by an absence of enthusiasm or conviction.

lunya with mentions of the mom squad, endwalker (garlemald arc). 878wc. ⮞ sometimes they make a rule that you can't join the ilsabard contingent unless you're able to set aside any hatred for the garleans. sometimes you're a warrior of light and they have to take you anyway.

The ceruleum heater wasn't heating up this Twelve-forsaken shack as fast as it should have.

Garlean ingenuity, my ass, Lunya thought scathingly as she clicked her tongue at the device puttering away in the corner before turning away, a summon murmured like summer beneath her breath. Fuku materialized at her side in a rush of gentle heat and vermilion fur, fireless flames coiling up against the ceiling of the makeshift medbay as the kamuy established her domain—though it would be visible to none but her, the seven point star that now ensconced the camp would see that no one froze tonight. Lunya pulled off one lace-fringed glove with her teeth to scratch under Fuku's chin, watching the occupants of the cots lined up before them slowly cease their shivering, their breaths less visible in the thin light that broke through the endless snowfall outside.

Waking to an inexplicably-on-fire dog setting the building on fire on top of a savage Eorzean using her twisted magicks within two yalms distance would probably scare the life out of even the most progressive members of the Populares, but they were welcome to flee into the squall in their smallclothes if it pleased them.

…It would have been easier—better for her patients—if she had simply called Seven. He could fix the stupid heater just by looking at it, giving anyone who happened to wake up in her care one less thing to be terrified about. Fuku may be subtly warming the whole perimeter of Camp Broken Glass now, but summoning her was an entirely selfish move on Lunya's own part.

All because her patients were imperials.

You need to get over yourself, she told herself, heart wounded more by the fact that she had to than how little force she felt behind it, which only served to remind her that she was out of place in the contingent. Fuku nuzzled her head to Lunya's own before buckling in for a long shift curled at her feet. They're just as much victims as you are.

It was so fucking hard to remember.

Watching the Admiral pave the way for Limsa Lominsa's reconciliation with the tribes of Vylbrand had been a complicated thing on its own. Another to know no such thing would ever come for the forgotten children of the south isles, long scattered to wind and to sea, who had suffered from the violence of Lominsan pirates just as the Sahagin and Kobolds did. Still, she had found respect for Merlwyb there; her family had judged her and found her earnest, the hand she extended for change genuine. Limsa Lominsa was on a good path.

But the Garleans had done no such thing. These people had so willingly, so happily taken the homes and histories of a thousand thousands and tried to justify it because they had been victims first. They wanted what was theirs back and they couldn't be happy with just that, so they inflicted their own suffering on countless people beneath them. And when their victims came and offered them a hand out of the ruin of their greed, they spat on them, unable to deal with compassion they had never once offered themselves.

This Empire is all they know. You can't blame them for that.

(If she ever had the misfortune to run into Emet-Selch again in this lifetime, she would very much like to put him in a box and shake him.)

Hopefully the others would be back soon. She could tend to a handful of unconscious Garleans perfectly fine—anyone with sense knew she was one of the most dangerous things within a ten malm radius of the camp—but she didn't feel… safe? Like herself? When it was just her and her thoughts. Raha would want her to come to him but he was sleeping off a long shift of curing the Tempered and she had no intention of waking him, and Einar and Majj were out on patrol. A'dewah was in the next room over but she couldn't imagine how he was grappling with playing nursemaid to the Empire that made him their weapon. If Reese or Rjoli were nearby, at least, she could relax. If Zaya or Hanami were here…

Well. Zaya was a thunderstorm barely contained in a jar on a day they were happy. Hanami wore her anger like bared teeth, bleeding from the gum. But they were stronger together. Safer. And she had let them go into the snow without her, citing some need to tend to the injured as if she actually had that sort of compassion to spare when she really just didn't want to risk facing anyone conscious enough to give her a reason to lash out.

Hold your tongue. Hold on a little longer. You haven't healed to hurt since you were twelve, nineteen—don't do this again. Think of them—they're your strength. Don't undo their efforts. Think of Cid, and Lucia, and Maxima. Think of the children. The dissenters of peace are always louder than those working towards it.

Lunya inhaled deeply, crouching down to run a hand through Fuku's fiery fur. She could do this.

…If any stinking Garlean yelled at her dog, however, she'd raise hell from here all the way over to the First and back.

Fear, Nightmare and Mask for anyone in the Darktide crew

You said anyone so I WheelOfNamed it.

fear: What is your OC's greatest fear? What do they do when confronted with it? Are they open with their fear, or do they hide it away?

Harald always assumed that being caught as a Psyker would be his greatest fear and of course it is one of them. He doesn't want to end up being a cog in the merciless machine called The Imperium let alone end up on the Black Ships or other.

But his true greatest fear is losing people he cares about. His whole life has been about that. Loosing his mother who sacrificed her own life to protect him due to his mistake. Loosing his biological father who wants him dead for being his bastard son and a Psyker. Loosing his surrogate father who he had to leave to protect him. Loosing his first romantic relationship (and by extension his first friend group) to prejudice and hatred of Psykers. All meaningful connections he ever made ended up taken away or broken. After he lost his surrogate father he was already in a state of closing himself off to other people. When he found his first love and friends, it was like the first ray of light after and endless night. He thought he could finally open up again and then it all fell apart in an instant. It made him skittish and overly careful. He only hid away with minimal or superficial contact. Once he ended up on the Mourningstar he believed himself dead anyway so he would let out his smug cocky persona, to some extent covering up how scared he truely was. He had no intention of making close friends, let alone lovers. But for the first time he comes across people like him. And even more, he ends opening up to someone he thought to be the last to get along with, finding deep love and affection. And with each day he embraces being close with others he fears that he might lose it all again. The keen eye may read it from his actions. A hug that draws out longer, words towards a future away of the warband, worried expressions. He would never voice it tho, too afraid to manifest and worried it will be his weakness and hurt him again.

nightmare: What does your OC have nightmares about? How do they deal with their nightmares? Do they tell people, or keep it to themself?

Benn remembers his dreams very rarely if at all. He thinks he doesn't dream. Should he have nightmares it would be about being overwhelmed by enemy forces or being to weak to walk or fight. Sth inexplicable that slows him down or makes him tired or a fatal wound. He already rarely deals with dreams let alone nightmares but if he had to it'd be by forgetting. He would also keep the nigthmares to himself since he'd be ashamed about what he saw. You'd maybe notice that sth is wrong if he just sits there looking like he's seriously thinking after waking up.

mask: Does your OC wear a mask, literally or figuratively? What goes on beneath it? Is there anyone in their life who gets to see who they are under the mask?

Of the entire Squad Moggy is perhaps the most open personality besides Benn. She's very true with her emotions and thoughts and even in the instances where she tries to hide sth, the mask would break very soon. When she wakes of her nightmares everyone will know sooner or later. When she wants to appeal to the other Zealots, she'd manage until she disagrees with their viewpoints. There is only one exception. Perhaps not a mask but just sth hidden deep within. Only when she believes she is in mortal danger like during the tragedy of her past when she survived the wars in the lower hives. Those are the moments where there will be no nonsense, no joy, no smile, no jokes not even emotion like it would usually be in the most dire situations. She would put on a necessary cover of strength to survive, which would be taken off as soon as she would find herself safe again.

azure-steel​:

So… Sephiroth had been there all along… Had seen it all with his own vile eyes. How could he be so cold about it…?

Yet the revelation that Zack had actually tried to escape, had tried to save him… more than once… There was no joy to be had in that knowledge, no relief in knowing that someone actually cared. Only to open a hollow cavern in the cavity of his chest; a septic wound, wide, gaping and so inexplicably raw.

Cloud finds himself reliving it all again - the sight of those many eyes on the outside looking in, lungs filled with fluid, the hot itch of skin enough to crave the sweet release of tearing the very flesh from his bones.

Lips tremble in response to that seething emotion roiling inside of him, and his eyes, burning as they begin to drown in the blurring dazzle of the pyre before him, the heat suddenly so overwhelming he was certain he could feel the blisters bubbling beneath the skin of each cheek.

       And they rose ever higher, consuming everything.            The smoke rising to block out the sky, choking the air out of his lungs.                  Nothing remaining save for ash and bones.

A shaken exhale as he attempts to clamber out of that memory, to force it back into the archives of his brain from whence it came with everything he had. There was nothing to describe the anger rising into his gullet like bile; an old familiar feeling, so easy to allow it to devour him whole. Were it not for that one pressing question prickling at the very tip of his tongue. Though there was no true tell to decipher exactly who or what that rage - white hot, boiling - was aimed at.

– A question hissed viciously from between clenched jaws as the mussel shell still trapped between gloved fingers begins to crack beneath the strain of Cloud’s new found monstrous grip.

“What else did you see?” It was not an answer he particularly wanted to hear, but one that he felt he needed to know. It was his right to know!

Strife does not turn to engage the man next to him, those poisonous jade hues still boring into the side of his head. Though he does offer the slight lilt of his head, even if his bright eyes lay pinned to the damp stone of the cave floor.

“You will tell me.”

Though immersed in his own reminiscence of those days, so distant and blurred together like a sludge of pain and misery, Sephiroth was acutely aware of the presence beside him, and the psychologic torment that he was going through.

He wouldn’t attribute it to any special connection between them; rather, it was likely because of how sensible he’d become to any movement and sound coming from the other, so used as he’d been to his catatonic state and searching for those small glimpses of responsiveness. Somehow, he sensed the faintest things now. The irregularity of his breath, or the way his body shook and twitched.

Funny how discerning had become for this one individual specifically, after a whole life of filtering everybody out of his attention like the sound of cicadas in the summer. And still, he was content to not address Cloud, letting him ride out this waking nightmare on his own.

Until the crack of that shell in the blond’s hands pulled the silver-haired out of his absent trance, and Sephiroth found himself listening to words so framed with anger and venom, he could scarcely believe they had come from the selfsame boy who had been shaking and whimpering over his sorry self for good part of the past three days.

Giving him orders, even. How audacious.

Dark vertical slits travelled to the side and there they found him. The young man who had cut through him that day… the same man who had cursed him from below, shouting his hatred and rage.

                            “Give them back to me, you bastard!!”

There he was, sitting next to him, staring into the fire. Not out of cowardice, but simply because no eye contact was necessary. Who else would he be speaking to?

It seemed that Cloud to be reminded where their dynamic stood.

“…I will?”

His words were cold and empty of any trace of sympathy. Sephiroth was not an open book persay, and certainly didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. But he was not fond of secrets, either. Rarely had he ever kept answers from someone; and the few times he had, it was when he deemed that the truth should be learned by his inquisitor rather than given. Some answers could only be truly understood when reality stood bare before your very eyes, after all.

Such was not quite the case here; he may have very well given Cloud what he wanted. But with the way he’d been asked, doing so now would give the blond the oh, so wrong idea that he was in the position to control him.

Sephiroth was done letting anyone give him orders.

Nimble fingers flicked the piece of shell he’d held onto between the burning flames before them, before his hand rose, calmly, to rest onto Cloud’s shoulder.

It rested there for a moment, before the swordman applied sudden force onto his grip to pull and lower the former infantryman down onto the ground that was between them. The blond came down to hit his head onto Sephiroth’s thigh, the rest impacting with the wooden floor beneath, probably to the dismay of his most recent wounds. Sephiroth had still a mind to treat them, but first he would make his point.

Bringing his face above the other male, he let their gazes connect, while long silver locks hung around Cloud’s face, casting shadows in the shape of prison bars over his skin against the orange light of the fire.

“I do not owe you anything.” Sephiroth said slowly, letting each word sink into that blue glare meeting his own; pale jades narrowed under the natural frown of his brows. “I do not like to repeat myself, and this time will be my last. If you need something, be it help, or answers, you will need to ask. So, be a good boy.”

Heya! So, assuming you finished Kanetsun's route (I will insist on him being a tsundere until the English translation tells me otherwise) what are your thoughts on Kicho? From what I saw he plays a pretty big role in Kanetsun's route, and reading the spoilers has me tickled my curiosity in him all the more. 👀👀👀

Haha, insist away, though he's certainly not like our existing tsuntsuns of Ieyasu and Yukimura. I'd venture he's mostly a kuudere, myself... except when he's not. 😈

Frankly I don't have a lot of thoughts about Kicho...outside of 'ooh he IS pretty' I don't care for his character all that much. That said, there were a few moments in this route that caught my attention although I am not sure if they've been touched on elsewhere or in other routes because I tend to hit Ikesen spottily, so, take them for what they are and forgive me if this is all old news.

As always, SPOILERS AHOY below the cut!!

We get a lot of the standard Kicho stuff at the start of the route - he's simply using Yoshiaki for his own means, etc etc.

The first thing that caught me was the references to someone Kicho has either lost or is trying to protect. When MC stops the fight between him and Kanetsugu in spectacular, self-sacrifical fashion, she falls unconscious and our heavily wounded Kanetsugu passes out as well shortly after - but not before doing his best to literally become a human shield for her, covering his body with his own.

Kicho sees all this, and scoffs at the idea of sacrificing your life for someone else - and he accuses MC and Kanetsugu and some mysterious 'her' of being idiots for doing so.

It's enough to have Ranmaru picking up on it as well, the comment clearly standing out to him too.

But in the end, in some inexplicable act of mercy, he sheathes his sword and leaves Kanetsugu and MC alive despite his seeming disdain.

Who is this mystery woman?

I personally picked the dramatic end my first runthrough, and I haven't finished my 2nd yet. In it, Kicho is making an attempt on Yoshiaki's life so that he can show that the lowliest of people can kill a shogun, and thereby kick people's preconceived notions of 'class' and 'different values of life' out from under them, hoping that they will rise up in revolt. As Kanetsugu is trying to protect Yoshiaki (because they theorize that his death will be the turning point that erases MC and Sasuke from existence) he lays a trap and catches Kicho in it, albeit temporarily.

During this confrontation, Kicho goes on some more about how people can only value their lives when they realize how easily they can be taken away, how they need the constant threat of bloodshed to remind them of this. Kanetsugu in the end calmly just asks him - who is it you want to save?

This seems to throw Kicho for a moment, and Kanetsugu goes on to clearly touch a nerve when he asks who could really be happy with a world where everyone is equally in peril? He says that Kicho's eyes look like those of a little street kid hurling stones - and in them, he sees hatred and fear of the world. That even though Kicho seems to seek a world of war, he actually loathes it.

His words definitely seem to touch get under Kincho's skin, though Kicho remains defiant and unyielding in his intended course. Kanetsugu also surprises him by asking why Kicho spared their lives, but he never does get an answer to this - they're distracted by the appearance of the wormhole and in the end Kicho escapes with a challenge thrown down to Kanetsugu: to see which of them succeeds first - he in achieving his world of turmoil, or Kanetsugu seeking his world of justice and peace. He'll kill the shogun, then the emperor, and become the nightmare of the world.

(An aside, this is the exact same spiel and motivation that Akihito/Sutoku gives in Ikemen Genjiden - how he'll become the bogeyman and unite the people against a common enemy of fear C'MON CYBIRD GET A NEW ANGLE. Also I'm sorry Kicho this is probably where my apathy comes from, because Akihito does this with ever so much more flair LOL)

And at the end, just before he rides off, Kanetsugu tries to tell him that he's fighting the wrong fight for the wrong side - if he really feels people are suffering he should fight for everyone who wants the warring to stop. Kicho makes the admission that what lies at the end of one's desires is not always necessarily an ideal world, clearly implying that perhaps what he feels he MUST do isn't necessarily what he wants either.

SO there you have it - whether any of that is new information to you or not I can't say, but I hope you found something of interest in there! And whether there is anything else revealed in his other end remains to be seen...but I am happy to report back when I finally get to that too. <3

I have this idea like, two days ago, and now it's here.

Context.

From @breathlessmorro beautiful SCP (Ninjago) Au.

--

After Nine Days After Suffocation

--

The first day after suffocation.

Morro was waiting, he didn't know what he was waiting... Oh, Kai. He still felt awful after that.. suffocation.. that he was forced to do to Nya. He didn't want that, but it happens. It was awful, he didn't think he was ever going to do that to anyone he cared about ever..

Half the day had passed and no sign from Kai. Morro's wind had become choppy, as had his form of air. An equally agitated smile had appeared on his face, a hurt one.

"It's okay. It's with Nya. It's okay.. H-he needs space. To calm down. Yes.. A day or two is fine. Mhm. I can resist.."

The day after suffocation.

Morro felt suffocated, smiling in pain. He flew slowly from one corner to the other, looking at the bars with sadness every time, after at his hands. Transparent.. wounded.. Criminal.

"..With these hands that possess power I made her unconscious.. I hurt her.." His voice broke at the end. "I'm really a monster."

The third day after suffocation.

"I'm sure he'll come tomorrow, I'm sure of that!" He was lying to himself. He knew deep inside, but he still hoped... a lot.

He could feel the soul that was still in him alive, breaking in two. It was painful how the person he cared about so much, loved him with all his heart, trusted him... to hate him, not to talk to him, not to want to look at him at all. It hurt terribly. He could feel a terrible pain in his heart, causing him to fall into a dark corner of the cell and lie there for the rest of the day.

The fourth day after suffocation.

He had not appeared.

Morro listened in horror to the silence around him, from the same place where he had fallen the day before.

'I lost him... he hates me..'

The wind had become cold, sharp, beginning to hurt him, making visible signs on the human side of him that could be seen a little in its incomplete form of wind.

'I deserve it... fully.'

He closed his eyes, letting the depressing, brutal wind in him to hurt him.

The fifth day after suffocation.

A sphere created of sadness, despair, hatred of oneself and other thoughts and feelings that Morro could not decipher, is created overnight in that cell filled with pain.

The wind became uncontrollable and brutal minute by minute. No one touched him or approached at all. They did not know what was happening to him if he had succeeded, but they were interested in his evolution, in the evolution of his inexplicable pain for them.

Surprisingly, Kai hadn't found out about this. He hadn't heard anything about it. If he had, he would have been with him already.

The sixth day after suffocation.

"It's ok.. it's ok! I knew this relationship will not stay.. It's OK!! It's ok..! It's ok..!"

If you went inside, you could feel yourself running out of oxygen. He was cold, sharp, brutal, full of sadness and other negative emotions in him. You could tell that his condition was slowly getting worse. A broken heart is the deadliest, it can kill you easily, slowly... but lethally.

The seventh day after suffocation.

The wind stopped a little. The sphere slowly evaporates overnight. Morro now possessed wounds on his skin, and others would soon accompany them.

The eighth day after suffocation.

The wind subsided, leaving a windless owner with no strength or hope in him. He stared blankly into the outside of the cell.

"Heh.." A small shattered smile appeared on his lips. "He hates me.. hehe.. he..."

However, some of him zealously refused. In his mind.. come as if by a miracle the desire to go to him the next day, at least to see him..

The ninth day after suffocation.

Morro had had enough, having the courage to escape containment. There had been gusts of wind. The gusts were sluggish. They were not fast and agile as usual, they were wounded and easy to catch.

Crossing the hallways to Nya's cell, there.. he had seen Kai with his sister. Morro felt himself suffocate again with fear, but he was also calm that Nya was better.

He approached her, slowly playing powerlessly with her hair.

Kai felt something strange suddenly enter the atmosphere of the cell. He look around for that. Nothing. When he returned, he could see how his sister's hair was lightly beaten by the wind.

He sighed.

He realized who was, it wasn't that hard. He was trying to remember/count how many days he hadn't spoken and seen Morro. Nine days.. nine days. There were many. What if Morro hadn't appeared now? Would he have continued to avoid him?

He sighed again.

"Morro, I know you're here. Come out. You don't have to hide." He said calmly.

The Soul of the Wind perishes for short seconds. It didn't matter how calm or gentle Kai's voice was, how he was.. he was scared. He become visible.

Kai looked at him for a while. Something was... off. But he didn't know what. He couldn't see what was it.

"Morro, I.. I'm sorry I didn't stop by your cell. I wanted to calm down.. I knew that my sister's suffocation was not intentional, it was forced.. but I felt like I was getting mad there."

'Because of me... It's my fault!'

"Angry that you were forced to do this and because Nya was in pain, not at you." He finishes, now looking at Morro's own scared and guilty eyes. "No... don't tell me you thought- Morro.. Oh no, no, no! I'm not angry at you, hey."

Morro could no longer control his emotions. No longer hearing the voice of his love, he wanted to cry there, to run, to disappear from the face of the earth. That's not because of his destabilized emotions.

The wounds were visible. Kai hadn't noticed them, he was too worried about Morro's emotional state. But Nya.. YES. She put her hand to her mouth in shock, she couldn't believe what she saw.

"Morro," Kai continued.. until he looked closely at Morro's appearance. "What.. what happened to you..?! Why- " He had taken his hands, still looking at the wounds. "You would... no.. you wouldn't do that. You wouldn't do that. Right? Morro, right? Right?!"

Morro looked down, nodding. Kai felt that he had made a huge mistake to stay away from his love for so long, especially after what happened...

"Nya.. can I.."

"Of course. Go." Nya understood what he wanted to say, and she agreed. He also wanted Morro to be emotionally well.

"Thanks."

He took his boyfriend from one place to another. Kai sat down, and Morro sat down next to him. He would usually put his head on the fiery shoulder and hold his hand. But now Morro was afraid to do it. What if it hurt him too? He would not forgive himself till his death.

Kai took Morro's hand in his, squeezing it slowly. "Hey, I love you. I'm not leaving you, I'm here.. with you."

Morro stared at him, feeling that pain in his heart again. He leaned over Kai, slowly tucking his head under his neck. The gusts of wind were just as weak.. but gentle.

"Everything's fine.. okay?"

Morro approves with a kiss, after.. they start to enjoy each other..

After Nine Days After Suffocation.

Broken Pieces (young!James Potter x Reader)

hi! so this is for @pad-foots 500k celebration writing challenge, congratulations @pad-foots! *cheering noises* the reader being slytherin is important to the storyline otherwise it would have been non house specific. and um yeah it’s james potter x reader and hella angsty. with the prompt 10/12 “who the hell hurt you?” ahh i barely got this out on time! omg that was so terrifying to write! i hope everyone likes it!

warning: abusive family, bullying, self dislike?, swearing, SADNESS, 

The Noble House of Monroe will not be shamed. The Noble House of Monroe will not be shamed. 

Y/N traced the scars on the back of her palm methodically in a soothing motion before sighing and getting up from her spot at the base of the wall in the courtyard. It was almost dark and she would for being out late if she didn’t get back soon. She hurried down the stair toward the dungeons, glancing back and forth as she went. If she was caught and points were deducted it would only give her cousins another reason to torment her. A while back, maybe about a year or so before, her mother had convinced her cousins to get me in trouble in Ancient Runes, the professor was a friend of mother’s, so that I could write lines for a week. The Noble House of Monroe will not be shamed. It had taken weeks for the cuts of the words in her hands to heal and months to scar.  She hated that she wasn’t good enough. It was long known within her family that her father was a ‘blood traitor’. They said it made her just as worthless. They said she was weak for loving her father, though he didn’t want her. They said she was dirty for helping muggleborn and half-blood's alike. She had sullied her place in the family. She was no better then her father, a worthless blood traitor. When she first came to Hogwarts, she felt free. Free of the ideas and rules that had bound her for so long. She had spent her first months at Hogwarts helping up the boys and girls who were being picked on, hoping to gain some friends. She soon found that the world was just a cruel as her family. They hated her because of her last name, and her house, and her family. It was 3rd year and she still hadn't made any friends. She stuck to her ideal saying it was the right thing to do, but she wondered every so often if it was worth the world of pain it brought with it. She kept a void mask on, no reaction, no emotions. No emotion when her cousins shoved her in the corridors, no emotion when her mothers hand would come down, leaving more then just physical wounds. No emotion when people would jeer at her and tug at her tie. But underneath she was crying, sobbing, breaking. Her being was just composed of cracked glass that she was so desperately trying to hold together. But at some point, she was bound to shatter. 

The door to Y/N’s dorm slammed behind her and she collapsed on to her bed. Immediately she felt something burn her face and arms. She leapt up and found her arms and cheek red with burns and the bed smoking. She just sighed and picked up the sheets and gave them a sniff. The draught of the living dead. But just enough to burn. She didn’t even get mad, she knew who did this. She was too tired, to drained to be mad. She was only a shell of the happy, kind, girl she had once been. The water washed over her burns, soothing the angry red that just couldn’t seem to faze her. Throwing on an old pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt she headed out of the dorm, eyes shining and threatening to break. It was only the sanctuary of the 2nd floor girls bathroom that she broke. Crumbling, shattering, a million pieces scattered. Sobs racked through her whole body, shaking and trembling. She caught her face in the mirror and she didn’t recognize the girl that stared back. She unleashed a scream so raw that even the sun seemed to cry. Worthless. Failure. Better off dead. Disgrace.  All she could do was cry as she shattered. And she wondered if she would ever be put back together. 

James Potter should not have been out this late. Sirius and him barely fit under the cloak together anymore. But this was essential if the prank was to go smoothly. “Pads, I swear if you don’t shut up I’ll tell Remus you’re in love with him!” He whispered. He had to repress a laugh as Sirius choked on his breath.

“You would not. And I don’t. Love him. Nope.” Sirius said, defensively. James just rolled his eyes and continued walking. Sirius opened his mouth to say more when something flew past them. 

“Pads...?” 

“Yeah?”

“Should we...?” James didn’t have to finish his sentence before Sirius started guiding them down the hall where the figure had gone. They walked in silence until they approached a girls bathroom with light streaming out from under the door. Sirius nodded at James and James reached out a hand to push the door open. James peered through the slightly open door to find, a girl? A girl was sitting on the floor, head in her hands. He could practically feel her sobs as she rocked on the floor. Her hands were red, like they’d been burned, and her hair tumbled down from its bun to frame her face. She shook and trembled until her head snapped up and James jumped. She looked in the mirror and James didn’t think he’d ever seen that much pain in a person before. Her eyes were swollen and tears ran down her face. She looked so sad and small. Her hands shook as she ran them down her face. Before he could react, she let out a scream. James’s eyes filled with tears and he felt his heart drop right through his feet. The scream was so full of pain and hatred, anger and sadness that he nearly fell over. She had collapsed again and just cried. Each cry was a knife to the chest as the sobs tore threw her. He went to walk in, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. Sirius was motioning him out and he widened his eyes trying to tell him that he had to go in. He had to help!  But Sirius was firm and dragged him away, prank long forgotten. When the reached the common room, Sirius sat down in an armchair across from James as he wore a hole in the carpet by pacing. 

“James,” Sirius said quietly, “sit down for a second.”

“Sit down! SIT DOWN!” James roared and then remembering that it was late, he lowered his voice, “Did you see her?! We should’ve helped her! I could’ve helped her!” James’s voice broke at the end and he looked away. 

“James, if you went barging in, do you think she would've appreciated that?” James sighed but Sirius kept going, “She needed a moment, and besides, I know her. I know her.” He trailed off at the end, his face contorted with guilt. 

“You know her?” James’s voice was soft, “Who?” He felt himself stumble back into the couch. 

“Y/N Monroe,” Sirius closed his eyes, memories washing over him, “I grew up with her. Our families were close. Her dad didn’t believe in any of the pureblood supremacy bullshit and left as soon as he found out that that’s what the family believed. She was like him. She always had a good moral compass.” A smile passed over his face fondly, “She liked to play quidditch with me...”

“Pads?” Sirius had never heard this tone in James’s voice before. Not when speaking about Evans, not when talking Rem down after a full moon, never. “What happened? Why don’t you talk anymore?”

“She was sorted into Slytherin” was the only response Sirius could provide. Silence overtook the pair, guilt hitting Sirius in waves. He had abandoned her and look what that had done. 

James was the one who broke the silence, “I’m going to be her friend.”

James was true to his word. The very next day he sat next to her and just talked. Surprisingly, she was really funny and easy to talk to. They would talk about quidditch, he would tell her about all his pranks, she would tell him about the books she read. When he invited her to sit with the marauders at the Gryffindor table, she was scared. She knew James and Sirius were friends but she was terrified about seeing him again. James assured her that he wanted to make it up to her. After a few days of begging on James’s part, she agreed. That day, Sirius had apologized and they rekindled the ashes of their old friendship. She had officially made friends in the most unexpected of people. Since becoming friends with James this fall, the year had gone from worst to best in a matter of weeks. She started spending most of her day with the Marauders and often found herself in their dorm more then her own. Her heart was suddenly light all the time and she never was without a smile. It was like a dream, she had friends she had James, and she was happy.

James was happy too. Y/N was like nothing he had ever expected. She could simply just listen to him and understand. She was funny and just so good. It was inexplicable. She was like a gentle breeze on a hot summer day. When she smiled at him, his heart grew about a million sizes bigger. When he first made her laugh, he almost passed out. It was so precious, that laugh, and he made it a goal to hear it everyday. It was like she was feeding life into him with each smile, each soft tease, each laugh. His mind would often wander back to the time in the bathroom, her tears running down her face, her body shaking with sobs. But he had to remind himself that those tears had become smiles and that her body shook with laughter rather than sobs. Everything felt better with her around. The sun, a little brighter. His flying, a little faster.  It was like she was feeding life into him with each smile, each soft tease, each laugh.  He was hopelessly in love with her. 

“You’re just jealous that Slytherin has a better keeper then Gryffindor!” Y/N laughed. The marauders sat in their dorm, Y/N tucked between James’s lanky legs. 

“Am not! He’s a horrible keeper! And ugly!” James retorted, shoving her back off his chest so she could look at him. 

“Didn’t Sirius say he was cute the other day?” 

Remus and Sirius both answered at the same time

“Sirius-”

“I DID NOT!”

“You did, but you also mentioned how he looked like a certain someone...” Y/N trailed off, smirk growing. She never missed an opportunity to make fun of Sirius and Remus after she caught them snogging last month. The two blushed and suddenly the board game was very interesting. James looked around in confusion before stretching back and lying down. Y/N glanced down and went to get up, wanted to leave James in piece for a nap. As her knees left the bedframe, a hand wrapped around her wrist and she flinched but managed to bite back her scream. James cocked an eyebrow at her, questioning. 

“You ok, love?” he asked quietly enough that she knew it was just for her.

“Yeah, just startled me is all” She managed as she struggled to calm her racing heart. Y/N cursed herself internally, usually she was fine with physical contact. In fact, she found it quite comforting. But when she wasn’t ready, all she could see was her mother’s hands and her father’s fists. 

“M’ tired love, wanna nap?” James yawned and Y/N realized with a start that he meant with him. She felt heat race to her cheeks and she gave a small nod. He opened his arms and Y/N climbed in and tucked her head into his neck. He gave a soft exhale and tightened his arms around her. His breath ruffled her hair and tickled her neck. His calming presence washed over her in waves with each inhale and exhale. She let her eyes close and for once she wasn’t scared of the things that haunted her dreams. Here, she felt safe. Safe. She hadn’t felt that way in a long time. 

Y/N should’ve known that a feeling a safety would only last so long. As she walked out of James’s dorm that night, she could feel a pair of eyes watching her. Their presence tingled on her back and her head. She slowly slipped her hand inside her robe and tightened her grip on her wand. She was nearly to the dungeons when she heard it. “Y/N/N!” a voice trilled. Y/N’s stomach dropped. She knew that voice.  Her cousins had found out about her recent bond with James and the Gryffindor's. She should’ve known that they would come sooner or later. Just another reason she was a failure. 

Y/N took a deep breath in and called back “Yes, Owen?”

Owen gave a malicious chuckle, “I have a present for you!” and with that he stepped out into the light. But it wasn’t just him. Y/N felt her whole body freeze. Her mother. Tall, commanding, cruel. And standing right in front of her. “She knows her potions, right, Y/N?” It took a moment for the meaning to hit Y/N and when it did she nearly fell over. Her mother had been behind the potion on her mattress. Why had she thought any different? She was taken back to the girl she was all those nights ago, breaking down in the girls bathroom. Broken, hurt and tired. 

“Y-you did that?” Y/N’s voice was barely audible in the large hallway, the space between her and her mother eating away at the sound. 

“Well, darling, I had to show you that we will not be shamed by you, didn’t I?” Her mother’s voice was cold and calculating, the honey she tried to inflict felt more like the lick of a whip, lashing out in every syllable. “Obviously, that didn’t work, as dear Owen says,” She stopped to give her nephew a fond look, “told me that you’d made some friends” Y/N’s mother spat the word with such disgust and her nose wrinkled as if the mere idea was repulsive. “You’ve been associating with blood traitors and mudbloods”

Y/N was cowering, each word her mother said seemed to sink her farther into the floor. 

“Maybe it’s time you really let the lesson... sink in.” Her mother crowed. Her mother advanced until she was looking down at Y/N. Her claw-like hands drew Y/N’s chin up to look at her. A palm struck her cheek.

“Worthless” The next 20 minutes were a blur of flying hands and purple bruises. Each hit broke down the glass she had finally put back together. She shut her eyes against the pain but she could still here. “Stupid”

Disgrace

Not good enough

Loser

Fat

She tried to stay strong, she really did, but tears fell in hot waterfalls down her face. Then it was over. “You are nothing.” was the last thing she heard before they were gone. She was left alone to pick up the broken pieces. Again. She slowly dragged her bruised and battered body up toward the same girls bathroom. The irony did strike her as she pulled herself in front of the mirror. The girl who stared back was purple and blue. Inside and out. The marks her mother and cousin had left would join the scars on her hands from the potion. They would join her memorabilia of pain. Of hatred. She wasn’t good enough. Worthless. Failure. GO DIE. NOTHING. The thoughts just kept getting louder and louder. Her hands were in her hair, tugging at the ends, pulling and pulling and pulling. James. Y/N wasn’t even aware of herself as she walked the halls, bloodied and limping. Her face reflected no pain, only defeat. It was only outside James’s door did she stop. Why would he want you? You, you who is nothing. You who is a broken thing. A basket case. He will never love someone who isn’t even whole anymore. Her glassy eyes pooled with tears which spilled. Her body gave out, collapsed on the floor. Go to sleep. Just die here. Her mind whirled with taunts. She just wished it would go away. She wished she could go away.

“Y/N?” James. His voice sounded so, so broken. Shattered. “Y/N, love, what’s going on?” She just shook her head. James fell to his knees next to her. His breath caught as he saw her face. “Y/N!” Tears burned the backs of his eyes, and then he felt the anger. Who? Who would’ve thought that they could hurt her? “Please-” he shut his eyes as the whisper curled out of his mouth.

“James...” her voice cracked, all happiness vanished, he was left to hear the same raw unadulterated pain from that night in the bathroom. He wrapped her up in his arms and pulled her inside the dorm room, pressing light kisses to her hair. Sirius and Remus jumped up, eyes wide, shocked. James just jerked his head to the door. They exchanged a look. James and her needed this moment. With that, they filed out silently, defeated eyes heavy on Y/N’s figure.

“Y/N, please. What happened to you baby?” It registered in neither of their minds that he had called her baby. The worry in his voice was slowly drowning her. Why did he care so much?

“I- James- I can’t” Fresh tears streamed threw James’s shirt. James pulled away, his large hand coming up to cup Y/N’s delicate cheek. His finger feathered over the bruises lightly. 

“Y/N.” his voice was firm but his hand was still just as gentle, soothing her face with each stroke, “Who the hell hurt you?” His burning eyes spilled over and he turned his head away. 

“No. Stop pretending you care! I’M NOTHING!” Y/N’s sadness had gave way to anger and she was yelling, tears still flowing. She wouldn’t stop. “I’m a basket case! Why would you love someone who doesn’t even love themselves?” James’s eyes widened. She thought he didn’t love her. Instinct took over and he reached his other hand to grasp Y/N’s wrist which was pulling at her hair and kissed her. Y/N stiffened but as James’s lips move against hers she let go. Her arms twined around his neck, digging her fingers into his hair. James was so overwhelmed with love for her that he had to pull away. Y/N was looking at him in shock. Her eyes full blown wide and mouth still open in surprise. 

“I love you. You are something. You mean everything to me. You are my life. My soul and my body. I love you even when you don’t love yourself and I will keep loving you until you do. I love you.” Y/N choked on a sob, “I first wanted to be your friend because I saw you crying, breaking down in a bathroom. I felt so helpless, so lost but when I had you near me, I was complete. You are the other part of my soul. I love you. And I always have.” James cupped her face and pressed his lips to hers again. “Tell me baby, I’m here” She just looked at him and he felt her pain, her happiness, her love. 

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips “I love you. I’ve wanted to say it for so long. I love you.” She pulled away and let a sob run through her, “And you love me.” James nodded, a sad smile gracing his strong features. 

And so she told him, told him everything. From the potion on the bed to the summers before to tonight. He didn’t interrupt, just let her talk. He gasped at parts, cried at parts and when it got hard to tell the story, he would rub this thumb over her hand and let her take a break. Y/N was exhausted by then end but she had never felt lighter. Someone knew. And someone loved her for it. James tucked them into bed, bringing her into his warmth. As the light faded from the lamp and Y/N let sleep take her away, James pressed his face against her neck and whispered his love and his apologies and his hopes. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again, my love. Never.” 

Edit: just gave this a name, i totally forgot the first time :)

Beautiful

The women’s screams of pain and anguish echoed throughout the throne room of the Emperor’s Fortress.

Lord Scourge, the Emperor’s Wrath, merely watched impassively, his stoic expression and posture giving nothing away.

Behind him, standing tall on his raised podium, stood his Master. The Sith Emperor.  

His most hated enemy.

The Emperor’s Force Lightning continued to pour from his fingers, all directed at the source of the screams.

In front of Scourge, writhing in torment on the floor, was a young human female.  Her name was Kayeh Antilles.

This woman was a Jedi Knight, already a legendary warrior throughout the galaxy despite her relative youth. She had foiled the Emperor’s plans for Darth Angral to devastate Tython and the Republic using the Desolator super-weapon. (He understood that the Jedi had decreed her ‘the Hero of Tython’ to honor her victory.) She had foiled Scourge’s own efforts on Quesh to execute Sajar, the former Dark Council member who had betrayed the Empire and the Sith by joining the hated Jedi Order. Over the course of the last several months, she had likewise crippled or hampered the Empire’s efforts on nearly a dozen other worlds, all to impressive effect for a single Jedi.  

Scourge did not care about any of that, however.

For Scourge, this woman – this Jedi – represented something else entirely: The culmination of a prophecy the Force had bestowed upon him three hundred years before.

Antilles continued to scream, lying mere feet from him.

Her raven-black hair, previously bound back tightly in a bun, had long since come loose, thick strands flying around her shoulders as her body continued to spasm under the horrific assault.

Her lightsaber had been taken and turned over to the Overseers. She had been stripped of her armor and robes and was left clad only in her short tunic vest and trousers. Scourge further knew that she had been sedated even before she had even been taken from her bacta tank. Her arms and wrists were shackled securely behind her, the Force-cuffs cutting off the young Jedi from the Force. (Theoretically. Scourge observed, noting her remarkable resistance thus far.) Four Imperial Guards had dragged her into the throne room, unceremoniously shoving her down to her knees at the foot of the steps leading up to the Emperor’s throne.

Had she been anyone else, Scourge, thinking on a professional level, might have considered the combination of all these measures to have been somewhat excessive.

But even as weakened, disoriented and bound as she was when she’d been brought into the chamber, Antilles had immediately started struggling to get to her feet. But then Vitiate’s Force lightning began raining down upon her, driving her to her knees and then to the floor. Scourge doubted she was even aware of where she was; only of the pain being inflicted upon her. The Emperor’s ritual for binding someone to his will did not require them to be completely lucid.

It only required them to be conscious when they finally broke.  

In the weeks since the doomed assault on the Fortress, the other Jedi – Leeha Narezz and Warren Sedoru – had each broken after a single session with the Emperor, giving in to their hatred and turning into loyal servants of his will. Even Master Tol Braga, the strike team’s leader and a member of the Order’s illustrious Council, had found his will crumbled by the end of his second. Each of them had, by now, passed a multitude of tests to demonstrate their devotion to the Emperor and to the Dark Side.    

Antilles was now on her sixth session.

Scourge privately wondered if even Revan had lasted so long. The iconic Jedi had seen both sides of the Force and had been the most knowledgeable Force-practitioner Scourge had ever known, next to the Emperor himself.

Yet even Revan – and his partner Malak – had eventually broken all the same, becoming Sith Lords themselves and servants to the Emperor’s will. All well before even Scourge’s time.

Antilles… lacked Revan’s knowledge of the Force, but perhaps – perhaps! – rivalled or even surpassed him in her untapped potential power in the Force. She seemed a devout follower of the light, but Scourge had felt the touch of darkness in her spirit all the same, back when he’d encountered her on Quesh.

The girl – Antilles’ apprentice, the former Child of the Emperor who had inexplicably broken free of his control – had been imprisoned down in the Fortress’ hanger along with the other members of Antilles’ crew. For the moment, they had not been interrogated or otherwise harmed. Scourge suspected that Vitiate was keeping them undamaged for some special purpose after he finally bent Antilles to his will.

Perhaps I can use them for my own purposes. Scourge mused, silently. When the time comes.

Whatever information Antilles’ followers may have had about the Republic or the Jedi was irrelevant to the Emperor; let the Dark Council and the military concern themselves with the progress of the war. The true servants – the Hand, the Children and Scourge himself, the Wrath – were all focused solely on the Emperor’s grander plans.

Plans that Scourge secretly intended to see foiled no matter what the cost.

The Jedi’s back arched as she continued to twist and turn in suffering. Scourge had interrogated and tortured hundreds of individuals over the course of his career, dating back even to well before he’d been named the Emperor’s Wrath. Inevitably, even the strongest and bravest individuals would inevitably beg for their lives, or at the very least plead for a quick death to end their suffering. The mind and body simply were not designed to withstand the prolonged suffering a skilled torturer could inflict.

Kayeh Antilles’ screams were incoherent. There were no words. Each time the lightning had struck her, she’d attempted to stifle a scream only to be quickly overcome. Through it all, she’d never once begged. She’d never said anything discernable at all.

The storm of lightning ceased as Vitiate paused for a moment, a natural step in the process. Scourge knew full well that it was best to give a subject a brief respite, so they did not become desensitized to what was being done to them.

He watched as the brutalized Jedi seemed to suppress a sob, then slowly, gingerly rolled up onto her knees before the throne.

For a moment, he was certain that this would be the moment where she finally broke and submitted to the Emperor. Where she would pledge herself to his will, and join her fellow Jedi in becoming his servant, his weapon… his slave.

Impossibly, he watched her right knee come up, as her foot planted and started to push off the floor.

She was trying to stand up.

Alone. Weaponless. Bound. Drugged. Tortured. Injured. Exhausted beyond reason. Surrounded by the most powerful being in the galaxy, his personal executioner, four of his Imperial Guards, and a whole station full of his servants… and she was attempting to stand.

To defy him.

Scourge watched transfixed. Her hair was in her eyes as her head tilted upward towards the throne. Had Scourge not been standing almost directly in front of her, he might have missed the look in her eyes. He doubted if even Vitiate himself noticed. Her deep green eyes weren’t full of defeat, or anger or even pain.

Just defiance. Defiance at this being who had imprisoned her. Defiance at this creature who had caused her such pain.

It was the most beautiful sight Scourge had witnessed in three hundred years.

There was fire and steel in this young Jedi. A resolve that refused to give in, even in the face of absolute power. Combined with her skills as a warrior and her immense potential with the Force, she was a remarkable specimen. The Emperor’s Wrath felt stirrings deep within him, the shadows of emotions not experienced for centuries…

The moment of awe came to an abrupt end as heard a sound much like a snarl from behind him.

The explosion of lightning was more focused this time, almost a solid blast of power as the Emperor focused his rage. It struck Kayeh Antilles square in the chest, knocking her clean off her feet and driving her back several meters in a blast of Force.

It was over as quickly as it began.  

The stream of lightning ceased, as Antilles lay in a heap on the ground, unconscious.

But not defeated.

There would be no submission this day.

Scourge felt a surge of cold rage bubbling up behind him. He hadn’t felt this much anger and hatred coming from the Emperor since the confrontation with Revan and Meetra Surik on Dromund Kaas three hundred years before.  

Though no words were spoken, the four Imperial Guards converged on the fallen Jedi following the Emperor’s unspoken will. The quartet would drag her back to the bacta tanks for as long as her body needed to recover. The injuries she had endured this day, like those she had suffered when she’d been captured and during her first five ‘sessions’, would not result in permanent scars or other physical damage: The bacta would see to that. The scars to her spirit would be another matter, but such wounds were typical when driving someone to the Dark Side.  

Her defiance in the face of the Emperor would mean nothing in the end, of course. She would eventually break in time. Everyone did.

But Scourge now felt a renewed sense of confidence. She would fall, but she would eventually free herself, as Revan had done. And in that moment, he would be ready to ensure her success.

Perhaps – if he were very fortunate – he would bare witness to the beauty of her defiance once again.

He almost – almost! – grinned in anticipation. [Tagging people who liked my teasers - Thank you! @a-muirehen , @cinlat , @introversiontherapy, @tishinada , @sleepswithvillains , @theravenassassin95 , @blueburds , @actualanxiousswampwitch​ ]

Character Journal Entry

{EASTER SUNDAY, 2021T}

The journey does not end here.

=-=-=-=-=-=

[It had been a long time since he had properly written. A very, very long time. So much had happened. It wasn’t just A long story—it was SEVERAL long stories.

But he had to at least try. Had to put in the effort, during this lull, this brief respite.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

It is something I have had to remind myself, now. More often than before.

=-=-=-=-=-=

[He had one particular person in mind as he reflected. If only he had proper time for a letter….

Maybe he could draft one as he wrote down his thoughts.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

How easily a man’s fortunes may change! It was not too long ago that I looked out to a new sunrise, a life of my own choosing.

My friends and I were well. Our families were well. Our lives were secure, and our allies were prospering. The common man could travel freely, secure in the knowledge that he need only concern himself with the {[business/matter/reason]} that drives his journey—others maintained security within the towns and across the countryside, and would maintain order and enforce justice should lawlessness prey upon him.

Everything was so secure, in fact, that I no longer held it a concern. Yes, even then, the tension was growing—and the Prideful summer season of the Colosso was a month of (what felt like torturous, at the time, before we learned what it was like when it’s even worse) hatred and disdain, and unpleasant as usual—but I was certain that with the sunrise, peace could be made possible by reaching out in joyful prosperity to the common human nature that is within all people.

It was not so long ago that all was right in our worlds, and we eagerly climbed out of the dust of mere survival and into the sunlight of true Living.

Not so long ago, indeed, that all was well for us in the world.

We had all we could ask for; health, family, friends, purpose, security, justice, fair recompense, resources, joy, peace, and—for the first time in an incredibly long time, on my part—

Hope.

It seemed, in those golden days, that against all odds—against all I’d been told, all that I’ve suffered, all that holds contempt for me, despite all my previous perpetual misfortunes, the repeated betrayals, the years of futile struggling!—against all odds, at last, all was well and we could all begin to know a life of true Joy in a happy and prosperous peace.

The years of darkness were finally behind us, and in that hour—brief as it was, and all too quickly and most painfully stolen—it was all worth it.

It had all been worth it.

To experience such true peace, surrounded by blessing, unburdened by darkness—

Oh, it was so, so worth it!

=-=-=-=-=-=

[…And then it was gone.

His heart ached as he sat in silence and sorrow, thinking back on how it started to fall apart, piece by piece.

Worse, and worse,

and worse

and worse

and worse

and worse

and worse and worse and worse and WORSE until at last, it had stuck so incredibly deep that it could only distinctly get worse if the walls continued to close in and suffocate him entirely.

It was so profoundly and inexplicably terrible that it sounded like a wild story written by an inexperienced Writer, too intent on giving suffering to the main characters that they failed to appreciate how it muddied the main plot and was too arbitrary to be realistic.

If he weren’t currently LIVING through this Purgatorial suffering, he wouldn’t believe it were even possible to be “realistic” for things to go so suddenly, so terribly, and so thoroughly wrong.

Each day was a year, now. His wretched and arduous labor was compounded by the yawning abyss that was the hopelessness of seeing no end in sight to such misery.

How quaint of poetic irony to strike him in such a way, that he was truly blind of the world as much as he was (and in fact, because he was) blind of true Hope.

Oh, he knew what it “looked” like, well enough. He knew he had once held such confidence and serenity, and that it had been worth it, to press on until his burdens were lifted. Abstractly, he did believe—within a given set of necessary requirements for it to be possible—that it could happen again.

He knew it existed. Logic dictated it was still true.

But he could no longer feel it. 

Not in its true state.

=-=-=-=-=-=

What is a man’s life, to toil away, and have tyrants destroy all he worked for? How easy it is to be so burdened by suffering under hateful tyrants that such a mindset drains the will to live.

Even I ask myself this, in my own iteration.

For mine is a terrible fate, a burden one would not wish on any man. And indeed, my whole life has been filled with sorrow and pain. All my joy has been fleeting in comparison. And it seems to me now, in this hour, as our enemies close in on us once more… that what little good I have managed to do will be meaningless. Soon to be forgotten, even sooner to be lied about, and already been robbed of any credit for what people DO acknowledge as positive.

But there was something that a good friend said, shortly before I lost

=-=-=-=-=-=

[He stopped there, feeling the terrible weight on his chest—from all the tension, all the strain— making it hard to breathe.

And he clenched his jaw, trying to fight off the inclination to be overcome by the raw pain that still ran deep.

For this was the message he was getting at, after all, wasn’t it?

And yet a single tear still managed to escape and mar his face, betraying the lonely sorrow that persisted despite an adult appreciation of reality and a mature acceptance of the inevitability.

Taking a moment to close his eyes and let it pass, he took in a deep breath and let out a sigh before he continued.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

It is not Man’s fate to have to rely on the whims of the world to determine whether or not existence will have meaning.

The journey does not end with losing everything over time, until at last, even the connection to this world is permanently severed.

It does not end in sorrow, in loss, in suffering, in misery, having long forgotten even starlight in the grim darkness of years without a sunrise.

=-=-=-=-=-=

[And his heart was less burdened now, reminding himself of this fact.]

=-=-=-=-=-=

Did not our ancestors toil away in thankless drudgery, generation after generation, subject to the greed of entitled ignorance, before we ever came to know those moments of prosperity and peace?

If we endure, if we stay true, then if nothing else, those who come after shall benefit from the good we have done and the foundations we placed—even if it had been torn asunder again and again, still, able to pick up the pieces—and build the world we wish to see.

And so we must remain strong, we must continue, for it is a certainty that there is good in all people, and it is never too late for the true repentance of past evils to contribute to a genuine reconciliation and peace.

For how many could honestly say that there is naught in their life that they regretted so deeply, so truly, that they were moved to become a better person? When we learn from our mistakes and desire to do better—to do good—then we do indeed turn aside from the darkness and work to build a better future.

How, then, can we say so readily that it is impossible for others to do the same? Are we not all equal?

We are not identical, but that is not necessary to be equal in dignity.

Therefore, let us resist the despair that “they” will never change, and are dead set on hatred and misery.

It is writ upon every heart this indelible truth: just as we know our hopes, dreams, dramas, sorrows, anguish, labors, friendships, enmities, joys, and rewards of time and effort…

…so does every human soul. I refuse to accept the notion that judgment must be made upon entire groups for the sins of individuals. And it is unfounded, cruel, unjust, and bafflingly pointless to treat people poorly for the sins—real or imagined or generalized—of their ancestors, let alone the ancestors of people who are judged to be similar in appearance.

So too do I reject the notion that it is impossible for things to change.

Everything is impossible if no one puts forth the effort to make any given “impossibility” a reality. 

Such true Joy and Hope as I had known was indeed a prosperity such as been admired in ancient ballad and inherited dream.

If I had known it then, against all odds, having healed from the wounds and sickliness of years of suffering—

If I did indeed live long enough to Live, however briefly, then might it not be possible again?

The journey does not end here, my friends.

This is not the end.

Darkness does not have the final say—nor is anyone barred from true change, such as drives one to grow strong, work hard, and do good in this world.

For it is not indeed about whether we knew luxury, in the end of this life. Nay, rather, what lingers, what is carried over, is this—

We live to build the world around us. Each labor we undertake that adheres to the paths of virtue provides the resources used to build a better world. As we continue down this road along the shoreline, yearning for those who have already taken the road to dawn, we know this—

The good others have done for us has brightened our lives and brought us higher out of the darkness and into the sunlight, and has had meaning.

So, too, do our good deeds impact others.

The journey does not end here, my friends…

This is where it BEGINS.

—Felix

IC            IS            VOICE            BODY            MEMORY            PLOTTING

★ I.D

FULL NAME: Jael Roy Singerman BIRTH: March 19th, 39 y.o. SEX & GENDER: Male SPECIE: Human..? ETHNICITY: Caucasian (?) LANGUAGE: English and French OCCUPATION: Counter terrorist defender RELIGION: Atheist SEXUALITY: Heteroflexible ★ ANATOMY 

HAIR:  Very short, tangled mix of charcoal and black with a front bang EYES: Chocolate brown FACE: A jagged jaw with large, half crazed looking eyes, Jael’s previously, one might say, stereotypically beauteous features are now wasted by dark, deep scars and wrinkles COMPLEXION: Warm olive SCAR: Multiple deep scars run over Jael’s body. Although numerous, they do not cover the majority of it, only at key points from what seems like slashes and gun wounds TATTOOS: One… HEIGHT: 195 cm BUILD: Lean rectangle shaped, toned by regular training VOICE: Rough and warm ★ PERSONA LIKES: Camaraderie, sex, beer DISLIKES: Weak-willed people, party poopers, social politics MBTI: ESFP “The Entertainer” ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral POLITICAL STANCE: Middle Liberal EDUCATION LEVEL: Military college DRUGS: ??? PHOBIAS: ??? DISORDER: None diagnosed ★ “ARGO FUCK YOURSELF.” Jael was born on a dairy farm in the middle of Canada, on a road right between the city and the countryside, surrounded by six other siblings and two hardboiled parents. Being the kid in the middle, Jael never especially put much thought in his position compared to his brother and sister. Actually, he never put much thought into anything, and just went on with life as it went, following what everyone told him was normal. An average kid, Jael was popular with his peers as he had the look of, well, the average “not bad looking at all” north american kid, had an early growth spurt and was doing pretty well at sports. Quickly, however, Jael found himself hanging out with friends who didn’t think too much like himself, falling in group into every fad as they grew up. At home, no dark tale of abuse with his family, no real life-scarring drama. Just the technical, material support and teachings of parents. With nearly no warmth nor bonding, which only made Jael bond with his gang full of mischief. Drugs, smoking, sex, they all shared everything, with depending degrees. And the boy’s lifestyle was soon far from what his family expected it to be. He still finished his chores at the farm, but his increasingly sloppy ways, too eager to finish to go elsewhere, brought some judging comments. Still, family is family, and Jael would say he was plenty content with it. While he wasted his time away during his secondary school years, Jael was barely able to graduate; his part-time work in a fast food chain was, to him, even bigger of a highlight than the time he’d spend in class. In the end, Jael only needed the simple suggestion of his father to enroll in the military. And although one could tell this would be the opposite of how he currently lived, his simple mind were satisfied of the pros, and so easily the sheep decided to step into this path. ★ “HISTORY STARTS OUT AS FARCE AND ENDS UP AS TRAGEDY.” At first given dubious looks by his entourage, Jael actually didn’t have much difficulty letting go of his bad consumption, as he found that those time killers were only replaced by others. In the beginning hard on his body, training became like second nature, waking up so tired and lazy, but immediately finding an inexplicable relief in releasing tension out of his system, and be able to go farther and farther, a newly degree of competitiveness rising into Jael. Was it this to be alive? Colour sparked in his previously apathetic eyes, energy ran through his frame. Even in his harshest moments he’d have something, someone, although emotionally clumsy, to have his back. Thing is, he’d never realise he was alive. Because he was only living through it. And soon enough, Jael felt like he just blinked as everything went so fast. He was given whatever medals, standing on whatever private stage and, at some point, he was instated in special ops. Surrounded by people who spoke big words, wore big suits and had big names. He listened and memorised the field, followed orders, took a deep breath and banked his paycheck. As he closes his eyes now, it starts to fade. Where which event had been. Which people were there. Jael looks at his friends, who remember exactly everything despite the years. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. Then, one mission felt dubious. Everyone could feel it in their spine. “higher ups asked for this” sounds like such a cliche, but when it is told to you by someone you trust, someone you spent years and years with, someone who saved your life more than you can count, when it is also your job, your friends need you and you’ve only known this since forever. There was nowhere else to go, no space to fight against what those small guys in their small suits told. And it went wrong, so wrong. It’d leave him disfigured forever. ★ “THIS IS THE BEST BAD IDEA WE HAVE SIR…” You’re being shown people going under, switching identities, running away like only something from another world, until you realise it is happening to you too. At first, you think you can survive for your comrades, until things turn out for the better. Then, one by one, gone. All gone. Hunted down? No. MUCH WORST. Gone in a way buried at the back of the mind, hidden in the dark; the thought of it enough to make him sob, shiver. And there was only one left; the most idiotic of them. The one who probably didn’t deserve to survive. Jael wasn’t the brightest bulb, and before he knew it he was in jail, under his fake name, waiting for his face, under his hair, beard and scars, to be recognised. But it never did. And he never understood how he managed to survive. Just going with the flow, fucking with every crack in the system he could see, because that is only what he did. And he did like he always did; he adapted to his environment. Build partnerships, found a group to hang around with. What changed? There were no rules anymore. It didn’t exist; the lingering familiarity of earlier years stroke his scalp. Only now he was much bigger, stronger… As his cellmate, Jael met a man, a man who was the exact type he despised. The same type of man who put him in this situation, and destroyed everything his heart held and could hold dear. The reason for the disappearance of his brothers in arm, the unknown state of his family; men who used others they deemed expandable to do their dirty work. A man seeing himself so high above the others, acting as he didn’t understand his situation at all. The white collar didn’t have to brag, it always showed in his eyes; how he saw those around him as ants and tools to be used. Jael would be unable to take it anymore at some point, and maybe, for the first time in his life, his eyes showed a another kind of spark. Was it rage? Passion? Anger? He didn’t know, he could only hear the pounding in his chest, grabbing this guy by his obnoxiously silky hair and bashing his head against the table, wasting away precious powder. Unlike what he felt in the past, this one never seemed to satiate. He had done nothing wrong; yet life decided to betray him. Jael was never much of a man of vengeance, although he believed in justice. However, in this moment, he could only cry out what he had lost and take it out on the person he suddenly decided to hold responsible. A smaller body than his could do nothing against his training, and the laugh and cheer of his mates only made the blood in his veins boil stronger. The hatred shoved up his guts at every striking snarks, and his victim’s razor sharp look while being held down, not wavering, only encouraged him further to relieve his needs of violence. Dump all dopamine in that motherfucker’s ass as a sign of dominance. Nevertheless, at some point, never did Jael knew this kind of release would happen more than once, with less eyes and noise. In bathed breath and confusion. In the midst of nothing being right, any progress being reset over and over in some pool of nonsense, there was only this. The sweet, sweet (or was it, really? No. It wasn’t, but he believed so.) sensation of biting and nailing against his body, hands wrapped against another’s throat like relieving some good memories of mission fatalities. Have his usual focus on the present enhanced by a thousand, and his desires suppressing any part of this pawn he didn’t want to look at, only the ones he could take a single drop of pleasure from; those white collar, soft and pale hands, those silky long hair, sultry shaped eyes and thoroughly moisturised skin. And, although he somehow dismissed it as a game, Jael felt a sense of satisfying ownership take over him while his shivs would run over the other, being his territory just like everything in this cell. It’d become some sort of a habit, yet not so often as to not arise suspicions; if anything others believed they were mostly at each others’ throats, with the guards not against that bastard being roughed up.. and they were right, because this wasn’t some cute lovemaking; a good half of it was attempted murder. Another crowd was even worst; they believed them to be rivals, friends in disguise. A crazed, vicious schedule settled in while Jael’s head slowly, but surely, forgot. Forgot everything. Outside this place. Like at the farm, where all day would be the same, and he’d stop counting the day and feel the seasons. His body had always been a tool to a mean, and his character darkened in pure survival and simple, basic needs. His mind cracked atop his personal dummy, violence taping as to not let it break. What shook him ever so slightly, was how his cellmate changed. Jael frowned while observing. It was so subtle, yet gradual. Even his dumb mind could pick up if the person he saw extensively everyday was shifting. The speech would switch, and they’d end up exchanging nearly amusing banter while he strangled the man until he passed out, spurting jokes while blood smeared alongside his arms and thighs. Jael’d never tell whatever he thought of his dear cellmate. It grew into something. Something he felt like had no word, no description. And before long he dared do something he didn’t do for real in so long; share. Share not facts which would only raise some points with inmates, but simple yet meaningful ones that reached the edges of his heart. Like generic childhood memories, hobbies, “i met a guy like that once”… There was nothing good about that relationship. Nothing he could ever share because no normal person could understand. It felt as close as it could be with a comrade… but in a twisted, perverse, way. Still, it was the one thing that seemed, at the very least, real. Where Jael could find an identity, and not only be driven by pure instinct, not acting like a simple sheep. The thing was, not once did he ever wonder what his cellmate was thinking, feeling. From the two of them, he was the most selfish now. Just acting impulsively, with no second thought on the consequences of his actions. He was never able to evolve more from there, because finally karma stroke. Whatever had been done in the shadows, it was performed nearly, he could say, admirably. Everything well put in place, inmates stealthily moving towards the exit as other stayed. The sense of eariness drowning in the air while he was sweeping the floor. Crashed furniture and thrown buckets of water, only had the time to fight off one person that a shiv was already piercing through Jael’s flesh, pain stunning his body long enough for another to go through his stomach. He was swept off his feet, back hitting the wet and soapy concrete floor, stained by his own blood. That is when John Smith was officially dead.

BLOGTOBER 10/17/2020: SPOOKIES

What do we watch, when we watch movies? This question was sparked by my SOV experience with the very different, and differently interesting BLOODY MUSCLE BODYBUILDER FROM HELL and HORROR HOUSE ON HIGHWAY 5. Within the Shot On Video category, one can find inventive homemade features that are driven entirely by blood, sweat, and the creators' feeling of personal satisfaction. The results are sometimes fascinating, in their total alienation from the conventions and techniques of mainstream filmmaking, and after all, one rarely sees anything whose primary motivation is passion, here in the late stages of capitalism. But, all this talk about what goes on behind the camera points to a discrepancy in how we consume different kinds of production. The typical mode of consumption is internal to the movie: What happens in it? Do you relate to the characters? Are you able to suspend your disbelief, to experience the story on a vicarious level? One hardly needs to come up with examples of films that invite this style of viewing. Alternatively, we can experience the movie as a record of a time and place in which real people defied conventions and sometimes broke laws in order to produce a work of art. SOV production is usually viewed through this lens, where the primary interest is not the illusory content, but the filmmakers' sheer determination to create. We find some overlap in movies like EVIL DEAD, which simultaneously presents a terrifying narrative, and evidence of what a truly driven team can create without the aid of a studio, or any real money to speak of. See also, Larry Cohen's New York City-based horror films, in which a compelling drama with great acting can exist side by side with phony but beautiful effects, and exciting stories of stolen footage that would be dangerous or impossible to attempt today. I'm thinking about these different modes of consumption now because I just watched SPOOKIES, a legitimately cursed-seeming film whose harrowing production history has superseded whatever people think about what it shows on the screen. The lovingly composed blu-ray from Vinegar Syndrome includes a feature-length documentary that attempts to explain the making of the film--which is accompanied by its own feature length commentary track by documentarists Michael Gingold and Glen Baisley. The very existence of this artifact suggests a lot about the nature of this movie, in and of itself. The truth behind its existence is as funny as it is tragic.

I'm not going to do a whole breakdown of the tortured origins of SPOOKIES, which is much better told by the aforementioned documentary. To summarize: Once upon a time in the mid 1980s, filmmakers Brendan Faulkner, Thomas Doran and Frank Farel conspired to make a fun, flamboyant rubber monsterpiece called TWISTED SOULS. It was wild, ridiculous, and transparently fake-looking, but it was loved by its hard-working creators; as a viewer, that soulful sense of joy can rescue many a "bad" movie from its various foibles. Then, inevitably, sleazoid producer Michael Lee stepped in--a man who thought you could cut random frames out of the middle of scenes to improve a movie's pace--and ruined it with extreme prejudice. Carefully crafted special effects sequences were cut, relatively functional scenes were re-edited into oblivion, and the seeds of hatred were sown between the filmmakers and the producer. Ultimately, everyone who once cared for TWISTED SOULS was forced to abandon ship, and first time director Eugenie Joseph stepped in to help mutilate the picture beyond all recognition. Thus SPOOKIES was born, a mangled, unloved mutation that would curse many of its original parents to unemployability. For the audience, it is intriguingly insane, often insulting, and hard to tear your eyes off of--but in spite of whatever actually wound up on the screen, it's impossible to forget its horrifying origin story as it unspools.

As far as what's on the screen goes: A group of "friends", including a middle-aged businessman and his wife, a vinyl-clad punk rock bully and his moll, two new wave-y in-betweeners, and...a guy with a hand puppet are somehow all leaving the same party, and all ready to break into a vacant funeral home for their afterparty. Well, this happens after a 13 year old runaway inexplicably wanders in to a "birthday party" in there, that looks like it was thrown for him by Pennywise, and he has the nerve to act surprised when he is attacked by a severed head and a piratey-looking cat-man who straight up purrs and meows throughout the picture. Anyway, separately of that, which is unrelated to anything, the island of misfit friends finds a nearly unrecognizable "ouija board" in the old dark house. Actually this thing is kind of fun-looking, having been made by one of the fun-havers on the production before the day that fun died, and I wonder if anyone has considered trying to make a real board game out of it...but I digress. Naturally, the board unleashes evil forces, including a zombie uprising in the cemetery outside, a plague of Ghoulie-like ankle-biters, an evil asian spider-lady (accompanied by kyoto flutes), muck-men that fart prodigiously until they melt in a puddle of wine (?), and uh...I know I'm forgetting stuff. One of the reasons I'm forgetting is because of this whole side story about a tuxedo-wearing vampire in the basement (or somewhere?) who has entrapped a beautiful young bride by cursing her with immortality. That part is a little confusing, not only because it doesn't intersect with the rest of the movie, but because sometimes it seems contemporary--as the bride struggles to survive the zombie plague--and sometimes it seems like a flashback, as our heroes find what looks like the mummified corpse of the dracula guy, complete with his signet ring. So, I don't know what to tell you really. Those are just some of the things that happen in the movie.

Some people like this a lot, and have supported its ascendance to cult status, which is a huge relief when you know what everyone went through to make this movie, only to have it ripped away from them and used against them. I found SPOOKIES a little hard to take, for all the reasons that the cast and crew express in the documentary. It holds a certain amount of visual fascination, whatever you think of it; something of its original creativity remains evident in the movie's colorful, exaggerated look, and its steady parade of unconvincing but inventive creature effects. But then, you have to deal with the farting muck-men. What was once a scene of terror starring REGULAR muck-men, that sounded incredibly laborious to pull off, became a scene of confusing "comedy" when producer Michael Lee insisted that the creatures be accompanied by a barrage of scatalogical noises. Apparently this was Lee's dream come true, as a guy who insisted everyone pull his finger all the time, and who once tried to call the movie "BOWEL ERUPTOR". But, of all the deformations SPOOKIES endured, the fart sounds dealt a mortal injury to the filmmakers' feelings, and even without knowing that, it's hard to enjoy yourself while that's happening.

Actually, all the farts forced me to ask myself: Is this...a comedy? Like for real, as its main thing? As the movie slogged on, I had to decide that it wasn't, but I was distracted by the notion for around 40 minutes. I was only released from this nagging suspicion when the bride makes her long marathon run through throngs of slavering zombies who swarm her, grope her, and tear off her clothes, before she narrowly escapes to an even worse fate. The lengthy scene is strangely gripping, and sleazy for a movie that sometimes feels like low rent children's entertainment. Part of the sequence’s success lies in its simplicity; it is unburdened by the convoluted complications of the rest of the movie, whose esoteric parts never fall together, so it seems to take on a sustained, intensifying focus. The action itself is unnerving, as the delicate and frankly gorgeous Maria Pechuka is molested and stripped nearly-bare by her undead bachelors, running from one drooling mob to another as the horde nearly engulfs her time and again. Actually, it feels a lot like a certain genre of SOV production in which, for the right price, any old creepy nerd can pay a small crew-for-hire to tape a version of his private fantasy, whether it's women being consumed by slime, or women being consumed by quicksand, or...generally, women being consumed by something. I wish I could describe this form of production in more specific or official terms, because I genuinely think it's wonderful that people do this. Anyway, Pechuka's interminable zombie run feels a little like that, and a little like a grim italian gutmuncher, and a little like an actual nightmare. Perhaps it only stands out against its dubious surroundings, but I kind of love it--and I'm happy to love it, because apparently the late Ms. Pechuka truly loved making SPOOKIES, and wanted other people to love it, too.

Which brings me to the uncomfortable place where I land with this movie. On the one hand...I think it's bad. It's so incoherent, and so insists on its impoverished form of comedy, that it's hard to be as charmed by it as I am by plenty of FX-heavy, no-budget oddities. Perhaps the lingering odor of misery drowns out the sweet joy that the crew once felt in the early days of creation--which is still evident, somehow, in its zany special effects, created by the likes of Gabe Bartalos and other folks whose work you definitely already know and love. But I feel ambivalent, about all of this. On the one hand, I can be a snob, and shit on people for failing to make a movie that meets conventional standards of success. On the other hand, I can be a DIFFERENT kind of snob--a more voyeuristic or even sadistic one--and celebrate the painful failures that produced a movie that is most interesting for its tormented history and its amusing ineptitude. I'm not really sure where I would prefer to settle with SPOOKIES, and movies like it. (As if anything is really "like" SPOOKIES) With all that said, I was left with one soothing thought by castmember Anthony Valbiro in the documentary. At some point, he tells us how ROSEMARY'S BABY is his personal cinematic comfort food; he can put it on at night, after an exhausting day, and drift to sleep, enveloped in its warm, glowing aura. He then says that he hopes there are people out there for whom his movie serves that same purpose, that some of us can have our "milk and cookies moment" with SPOOKIES. Honestly, I choke up just thinking about that.

Murder at Cripple Creek

A NOS4A2 Review By: Allyssa J. Watkins

A boomtown swimming with ghosts Dead eyes can't hide Their hedonist living Drinking, debauchery and sinning Scarlet ladies having babies But a whorehouse is not a home Trading flesh for coin Tempting patrons, at the sacrifice of your boy Little Charlie grew up in the hellish dark The sins of the mother Scarring the son's heart Murder brewing in this simmering fleshpot Oh Hateful Harlot, Mother Manx Is is to your neglect and bitter thanks Your baby boy, molested, and you can't protect Your little dreamer from the wicked world you wrought for him Blood on a beautiful boy's hands But the only thing murdered here Is his innocence. Sending his rapist and that lustful bitch Back to hell Charlie, Charlie you're not a villain You had to save yourself.......

Is...... anyone alive out there? It's been days, and I'm still sobbing, my heart desolated by the roiling emotional turmoil, my ignited rage murderous. I don't know about you guys, but...... I'm an absolute wreck. WHY are you DOING this to me, NOS4A2!?!? After the brilliant turn of last week, the sleek sophistication, and glamourous entrapment, "Cripple Creek," was a backhand strike, a blatant violation that I never saw coming, and I spent the entire episode, quivering, sobbing, pleading desperately behind my hands plastered over my face, watching between my fingers, helpless to stop the punishing abuse My Charlie suffers in two different timelines, his bruises of an abused childhood mingling with the fresh wounds of now, as he is tortured, beaten and berated by Bing Partridge!!!

I hated this episode. I HATED it. There, I said it. But I think you're supposed to, I think that was the sole purpose of this traumatizing ordeal. However, as far as Bing (GO TO HELL YOU FILTHY BASTARD) is concerned, the writer's motivation seems drastically convoluted. If this was supposed to be Bing's Big Epiphany, his "redemption," (Ughhh seriously?) This episode fails miserably in accomplishing that. And if this episode was meant to do, what I had predicted back in Season One, cement him as the actual villain of NOS4A2, making him the more immoral evil, be his rise in notoriety, his coming of age as it were, into the monster he was always going to be, giving Charlie and Vic someone to unite their hatred against, it fails to do that too. The biggest misstep of the series, after so elegant a triumph, I'm going to drown my sorrows in ice cream, and try to forget that any of it ever happened. Close your eyes, and think of Christmasland........

I audibly groaned when we opened onto Bing at the Lake House. After so much needless repetition in an otherwise FLAWLESS episode, I REALLY did not want to relive Bing's point of view of the siege, unless it was him getting shot by white knight Chris McQueen over, and over, and over........ Thankfully, the rewind didn't last too long, but I was having NONE of his, "Are you there, God, it's me, Bing Partridge," moment!!! On his knees in the graveyard, (Why...... why are we in a graveyard?) Bing appeals to the heavens, proclaiming his own innocence, asking God to show him what he should do next. I snickered coldly, the whole thing melodramatic, and absurd, as he cries, "I've been so good!!!" Secretly, I was fantasizing about Buffy SLAYING his creepster ass in the graveyard, beating him bloody, before staking him in the heart with a witty saying like, "It's been a gas, Bing, but I get the last laugh!!!" Alas, alack, no such luck. His appeal to the heavens was answered not in divine intervention, but with bird droppings splattering in his mouth, which of course, translated in Bing-A-Ling Logic to, "Kill the FIRST person that tries to help you, bury him in the freshly dug grave, and take his keys!!!" It's PRAYING Bing, you dolt, not preying!!!

While the side quest FINALLY explains how Bing was able to catch up to Charlie and Wayne, after previously believed to be on foot, not to mention shot, which would have been IMPOSSIBLE, supernatural car not withstanding, it's altogether unnecessary. It was the less than scenic route to get to last week's blood-curdling cliff hanger, and I really think we could have done without all the maudlin hullaballoo, and picked right up from there. Also, it creeped me out BIG TIME hearing Bing Partridge say, "Hidey holes," because that's what I called them last week, when Charlie was adorably telling Wayne about his hiding places. "Look at you with your hidey holes, Babe!!!" Needless to say, Bing has ruined that phrase for me FOREVER!!!

"Charlie, Charlie, telling lies, soon he will be crying cries......" A chilling foreboding that was like ice in my veins........ I was definitely crying cries...... I literally WEPT with this horrid little rhyme, and even still I was so naïve, unprepared, for the gut-churning horror that waited in the shadows of a broken little boy's murdered childhood, and the degradation of the beautiful soul that survived it. It's one of the most grueling, and disturbing things, I've ever watched, and like my Darling Boy, strapped to the chair, enduring forced interrogation by gassing, brutal beatings by Bing's homicidal, ham-fisted punches, and some....... deeply unsettling sexual innuendo, I felt like I was the one getting tortured.........

I did utterly enjoy Charlie's feigned relief, as he uses that silver tongue, in valiant effort, to slip his way out of this sickening predicament. "Bing, My Dear Fellow, thank the stars! I thought you had been done in by those wretched McQueens!!" Charlie gasps, thankfully, knowing full well he'd left Bing behind to die, and for good reason. Any other time, this would have worked, Charlie would have used his coaxing charm, and Bing's oafish gullibility, twisted them into a breathtaking manipulation, weaving the lie that he had no choice but to leave him behind, and Bing would have eaten it out of the palm of his hand, because he wants that badly for it to be true. But Bing watched it happen, his face falling, as Charlie sped off without him, and he's DONE playing. Charlie's pleas fall on deaf ears, as Bing drugs him for answers, revealing the fatalities of every single one of Charlie's former accomplices, and with the finality of one apocalyptic truth....... Bing descends into a frenzied, foaming madness.

"Cripple Creek," is the double edged sword that none of us were meant to survive. Switching between the stabbing scenes of Charlie's withering assault, his lifeline to The Wraith, cruelly severed, and the slicing violation of his childhood self, his innocence massacred before our very eyes, our bleeding hearts never stood a chance. I always knew that Charlie's childhood was going to be horrid, downright Dickensian, devoid of magic and light, unloved by his drunk, whore mother, but I had no idea the HELL this beautiful boy endured at so tender an age, forever scarred, betrayed by the one person he trusted, respected, desperately in need of a father figure, only to be exploited in the most heinous way. It's a MIRACLE My Precious Love can even function as an adult, much less still manage to find wonder and beauty in the world, clinging, clawing to hold onto his ember, his remnant of pure light that persevered in a life of darkness.

The inexplicable joy at seeing a young Charlie Manx, aged 11 or 12, tapdancing on stage, along with the giddy marvel that this young actor looks just like our leading man in miniature, is short-lived, as a stranger takes an uncomfortable interest in him....... I don't know how, maybe it was the intent way he watched him dance, or the way he touched his shoulder a little too long, but I knew........ I KNEW this man was going to sexually abuse Charles, I felt it gnawing in my stomach, instantly unnerved, and I hoped with all my heart, my first instinct was wrong....... I'm devastated to say........ it was not.

Not only does this manipulative pedophile Son of a BITCH molest my baby, he first uses him to persuade other boys to flock to his house, knowing full well how much the young ones look up to Charlie, as their leader. He wins Charlie's favour and trust by befriending him, and giving our little darling the one thing he wants more than anything else. Escape. Escape from the vulgar, gratuitously sexual environment, that no young boy should have to endure, a chance to make money, have an honest, respectable living. A chance to have a father figure, a man to look up to, learn from, and take him under his wing. The shop owner offers all of that, with a crooked smile, the charade falling dangerously away, as he knocks back a shot glass, eying our boy, and then says in the cruelest, most chilling voice. "You've earned yourself some fun........"

Thankfully, NOS4A2 was not overly graphic in this lewd portrayal, but the innuendo was enough to make me ugly cry, and seethe, as this sweet child is violated by someone he admires so much, realizing in horror, that he led all of his friends to be mishandled in this same disgusting manner, like lambs to the slaughter. But our brave little Manx was NOT going to let this sin go unpunished, and I clapped, cheering him on, as he uses his sled, now tainted by its means of acquisition, to kill the shopkeeper, dark fire flashing in his eyes, blood splattering on the shot glass, and I've never been so happy, or nervously relieved to see someone die.

His mother comes to him, and instead of crying, and taking her boy in her arms, stroking his dark curls, soothing his fear, and assuaging his guilt, she just scoffs at his accusation, the picture of apathy, and places the blame back on him. "You knew too, Charlie!!!" You WHORE-ABLE Mother!!! Your son was just sexually ASSAULTED, and YOU DARE make it his own fault, like he'd turned a blind eye, and therefore deserved to get raped!?!? Charlie might not have killed her, if she'd actually had a maternal bone in her body, if she'd done SOMETHING, shown any sign of regret or compassion, but she doesn't, and I feel nothing but proud as he finishes her off too. Her death was surprising, given the admonishing way Charlie talks about his mother, creating the impression that she'd been a bane on his existence his entire life, and yes, as a writer, I wanted to see more of a direct conflict between them to make that defining moment that much more satisfying, but as a viewer, I was just grateful she was dead, and Charlie was free. The only murder perpetrated, the only death I mourned at Cripple Creek, was that of Charlie's innocence, his childhood slaughtered.

Meanwhile, Bing continues to torture Charlie in the present day, my chest shuddering with every thrown punch, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. What was the deafening truth spoken that sends Bing Partridge into a flailing rage, you ask?

"Christmasland is for children. We are special...... That's why we can't go......."

Charlie was never going to take Bing to Christmasland. All that this poor dope had lived for, dreamed of, for eight years, amidst his conning his way into dentists' offices, and offing mothers, and it was always a lie. I had suspected it the entire time, especially after the mention of a, "special feast," but what SHOCKED me the most, was the unimaginable heartbreak of Charlie's own deepest secret coming to light, and as Bing draws it forth, it's like drawing blood. In spite of being the architect of his lifelong dream, and greatest solace from a life full of abject misery, Charlie doesn't think he deserves Christmasland, because he sees himself as ruined........

I broke down sobbing, that pain, that anguish, that he's so long carried with him, ripping through me, and I'm tearing up even as I write this, remembering....... Charlie denying himself his own dream, seeing himself as a ruined article that might profane its pure vision, is a tragedy that I can't come back from. It's a sorrowful, aching confession, and yet somehow it explains so much, and in this, his greatest pain, his darkest secret, I felt intimately closer to him. At last........ we see why Charlie never stays long in his Christmas kingdom, why he's so focused on the next child, and the next, sacrificing time with his own daughter, because they deserve Christmasland, and he doesn't. Always the courier, never the partaker. Christmasland is for children, and Charlie Manx never got the chance to be one.

The searing pains of his past still guide so much of who he is today, placing a strict emphasis on propriety in every aspect of his person, in manner, speech, and dress, because he was robbed of his dignity as a child. I also, FINALLY, after two seasons, understand why he turns the children into vampires, a contradiction to his love of them, that has remained frustratingly elusive to my grasp. Charlie's childhood was taken from him, brought to a vulnerable, violent end, and by turning the Lost Children, theirs becomes eternal. They never have to grow up, and lose that purity, that innocence. I also realized, that by giving them their bite back, they are able to defend themselves, meaning no one can ever hurt them again.......

There was so much awful going on, so much inflicted misery, and disorienting chaos, that I was sure I'd heard wrong when Bing decides on an even more dehumanizing method of torture. Did Bing just...... call Charlie a BITCH!? I shook my head, but there it was again, and at this point I'd HAD it. Somebody give me a GUN, I will WASTE this SICK BASTARD myself!!! The skeevy sexual threat against Charlie felt like overkill to me, utterly ridiculous, a cheap shot at adding dramatic effect, especially in the face of his childhood shame. Bing has exhibited absolutely no inclination of...... swinging that way, as it were, before, and yeah they kind of threw in last minute that he'd done this to Mike's father, offscreen, but I don't know WHY he would do that, especially given his particular affinity for Mike. Charlie, himself, pointed out that there was no indication in the Graveyard of What Might Be that Mike needed saving, or that his father deserved punishing. It's awkward, and disturbing, and there seemed to me no method in this madness.

"If I'm a monster....... who deserves to die....... You deserve so much worse." BAM. Hell yeah, Babe!!! Thank GOD, Charlie's quick enough to convince Bing that he too is a monster, and we are spared any further asinine innuendo. Bing, after these series of unfortunate events, beating, berating, and threatening Charlie with rape, suddenly, deus ex machina-esque has a change of heart, and an epiphany that comes a LOT TOO LATE!!! We're both monsters, we BOTH deserve to die....... What we're doing is WRONG. Was I happy when Bing urged Wayne to go, and tell a police officer that his mom is Vic McQueen? Yes. Do I believe he did it out of the goodness of his heart, and has finally seen the light? Freaking HELL NO!!! Bing, after losing Christmasland, has nothing left to live for, and this is his way of giving up. If I can't go to Christmasland, Wayne can't go...... and he decides a bizarre murder/suicide in The Wraith is his final act of redemption.

Before they even showed the car crusher, I was already sobbing profusely, losing my freaking mind, because I had figured out exactly where Bing had taken Charlie.

"There's going to be two less monsters in the world........"

Meaning to crush them both, and kill the Wraith irrevocably, Bing puts on his mask, and presses the button. At first Wayne laughs, and thinks it's a game, his inner vampire child coming out, but when it hits him that Charlie's in actual danger, he realizes he has a choice to make....... Save Charlie Manx, or let him die, and go home safe to his Mom and Lou.

"No, My Boy, this isn't a game, it's time to play, Save Father Christmas!!!"

Charlie calls out frantically, coaxingly to his young charge, and I loved that so much, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. Yes, Wayne, PRETTY PLEASE save Father Christmas!!! A lot of people despised him for what happened next, screaming at Wayne for his choice, even calling him a stupid kid, but I, myself, felt even more love in my heart for that already dearly cherished little lad, as he smiles, and slams down on the button, halting the crusher, and saving Charlie from imminent death.

It's a profound moment, the abductee choosing to save his kidnapper's life, and many cried out strongly against it, but you have to understand....... Charlie Manx has become so much more to Wayne than the scary face in his mother's paintings. Here is a man that has shown genuine interest in his life, his hopes, his dreams, who has treated him gently, fussed over him, concerned, and who has come to love him like a father. Couple that with The Wraith's effects on Wayne, slowly tying the two of them together, it makes perfect sense to me, how this unexpected bond has formed. Yes, had Vic been there, herself, he would have chosen her over Charlie in a second, but when faced with the reality of letting Charlie die, our tender-hearted Bats just couldn't do it.

"Do think of me at Christmastime, won't you?"

CHARLIE. LIKE. A. BOSS!!!! The single greatest moment, and brightest scene in an hour of plunging darkness, is definitely Charlie, snapping back into his delectably dark, unrivaled perfection (although, I must say I still found him incredibly dashing in his distinguished grays) charging Bing Partridge, murder striking in his wild, smouldering eyes, stabbing him, with a reveling whisper, twisting the knife, with this most PERFECT line, that gave me wonderous, reverberating chills!!! I also LOVED how Charlie glowers in his lumpy face and says, "You were never special." DAMN that's HOT!!! My only grievance with an otherwise ENTHRALLING moment, was that inexplicably, yet again, CHARLIE DIDN'T KILL BING!!! Charlie has KILLED for so much less, and while he did offer a vague explanation about prison being so much worse for Bing than hell, it felt like hell frozen over that Charlie would ever let Bing live. I know this is the writers wanting to keep Bing around to creep another day, but MY GOD, hang that Partridge from a pear tree, and HAVE DONE already!!!!!

This was an especially dark episode, but there were flashes of some really beautiful, albeit fleeting moments, first with Wayne and Craig, and then with Millie and Cassie, though the reoccurring theme, the common thread, did seem to be Innocence Lost. I was startled with the The Wraith's sneaky trick of causing a child to forget their parents the longer they are in the car, and BLESS YOU, Craig for helping your son remember his mother, and fight the transformation!!! He tells Wayne that Vic's favourite movie was Jaws, and Wayne tells him that her favourite holiday is the 4th of July. (Which is really cool, because it's my favourite too!!!) This slows the Wraith's effects on Wayne, and becomes a very special moment between father and son, as they fight to keep Vic's memory alive.

"How do you know my mom?"

"She was my best friend."

More overwhelmed sobs, because apparently I haven't cried enough this episode!!! Craig decides not to tell Wayne that he's his father, but our little Bats is ingeniously clever, and I think he's going to figure it out before long!!! Another mini heart attack comes with a second lost tooth. The suspense of Wayne's slow turning, mirroring the tender emotion in this scene was fantastic.

Millie and her mother have a similar moment, and I thought that was BRILLIANT of her to introduce Vampire Millie to her former human self. The two play with dolls, and human Millie talks about how she can't wait to go on a date, and have adventures when she grows up! It's such an endearing scene, and also incredibly sad, as the pale, gaunt shell of Vampire Millie envies her bright, and bubbly human counterpart, seeing the hope and innocence that she's so long been bereft of. "She's me...... Who I'm supposed to be." Cassie explains that her father's sad fantasy is depriving Millie of the gift of growing up, and explains that there's nothing Charlie Manx fears more than a woman with her own mind, and that's the LAST thing he wants his beloved daughter to become. A woman that would eventually leave him. More tears. Poor Millie. Poor Charlie!! Can I just give everybody a hug!?

"Cripple Creek," lingers like BAD Dream, and all I want to do right now, is curl up with Charlie Manx, hold him in my arms, stroke his cheek, soothe him with the tenderest hands, and softest words, tell him he's beautiful, and that he deserves Christmasland, and the world, that he's not ruined, but PURE!!! This was my least favourite episode in the entire series, and just like, "The Gas Mask Man," will be skipped indefinitely in the re-watch, but like I said, it endeared Charlie even more to my heart, and I feel fiercely protective over him, over that goodness that still glows in his dark eyes, despite lifetimes of feeling unloved, and in ever-present pain. All I ever wanted in Season One, was a glimpse into the past that crafted my mysterious and refined vampire chauffeur, and this entire experience, My Darlings, is an exercise in, "Be Careful What You Wish For..........."

epiphany (Melissa McCall/Chris Argent)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DUnDkI7l9LQ

Gerard shook his head at Chris’s aim. “Again.”

Chris raised the gun, trying to stop his hands from shaking. The semi-automatic weapon felt too heavy in his hands. He was barely 16. He didn’t want to be able to take a life.

The next shot hit the target dead-center. Gerard smiled. Chris smiled back, feeling bile rise in his throat. The smile didn’t meet his eyes.

------------

Chris adjusted Allison’s grip on her bow ever so slightly. “It’s important that you focus on your target. You’re distracted, and it’s messing with your aim.”

Allison nodded, wincing when the string of the bow cut into her fingers. She had forgotten her leather gloves in her locker. 

Chris handed his daughter his own gloves from the pocket of his jacket.

Allison smiled. “Thanks, dad.” His gloves were loose around her hands, and her brow furrowed a little in pain when she loaded her bow again. She was only 13, but Chris wanted to be the one to teach her. Before Gerard could.

“Just power through it.”

Keep your helmet, keep your life, son.

Just a flesh wound. Here’s your rifle.

Chris stood in the stark white halls of Beacon Hills Hospital, on the phone. “Hey, Allison, it’s me. I need you to come to the hospital.” 

His daughter hung up almost immediately, but as she did, he heard the door lock. She would be there soon. Chris peered through the window to where his wife’s body lay. For the millionth time, he cursed Gerard and his stupid anti-werewolf decrees. 

Allison ran into him, skidding a little on the shiny tile. “Where’s Mom?”

Chris shook his head, holding his daughter tightly. “She’s gone.”

Allison screamed, cursed, begged, sobbed. He couldn’t listen to it anymore. He just gripped her tighter. 

She looked up at him with teary eyes. “How?” Her voice broke over the word.

“She was bitten,” he whispered into her ear. “And it was the full moon last night. And-” 

Chris had intended to tell Allison about Gerard’s rules, about his blind hatred, but she cut him off. “I’ll kill him. The Hale. I’ll kill the whole damn pack.” And this time, her voice didn’t break. It was steely and sure and Chris was scared. Not of Allison, he could never be scared of her, but of what she might do for the sake of Gerard’s rules. And what it would do to her.

Crawling up the beaches now.

“Sir, I think he’s bleeding out.”

And some things you just can't speak about.

When Chris drove up to the battleground, he inexplicably knew something was wrong. He ran over to Scott where the boy sat on the ground, and-

Oh, God, no. There was blood around her mouth, and her chest was still. Scott sobbed over Allison’s body and for just a second, Chris felt his world shatter. No, not her, please, anything but that. And then another one of Scott’s sobs pulled Chris back into reality.

Chris kneeled next to Scott, putting his hand on the wolf’s shoulder. “Breathe, okay. Breathe. I’m calling 911. You tell them you called me first, okay? Get your pack out of here when they leave with her, I’ll take care of it. You just have to tell them you called me first, and then go home.” 

Scott nodded blankly, and Chris made the call. He turned away from the kids as tears threatened to spill over, but he bit his tongue and forced them back. Allison’s friends needed him. The ones she died for. He had to honor that.

With you, I serve, with you I fall down.

Watch you breathe in, watch you breathing out.

_______________________________________________________________________

When the Stilinskis first brought Claudia in, Melissa assumed it was nothing. A routine checkup, or maybe a rough case of the flu. But then she was there again, and again, and when Melissa checked the files, she realized that her best friend outside of the hospital was dying. Not only that, but her mind was going, and that was almost more painful than watching her body wither and fail. 

Melissa did her best to support them. She brought over food when she had the time to cook, she invited Stiles over to her home to spend some time as a carefree kid, and she visited Claudia sometimes, after a long night shift when visiting hours were long over. 

The manager of the hospital had asked Melissa to pick up an extra shift once. Another nurse was attending his daughter’s wedding. Melissa had been all for it until she realized that it was Claudia’s floor. As much as she loved her friend, she didn’t trust herself to treat her. Treating friends and family was never a good idea, especially when she came home in the afternoon to see Stiles and Scott curled up on the couch together, Stiles sobbing into her son’s shoulder. 

Something med school did not cover:

Someone’s daughter, someone’s mother.

Melissa was working when Claudia died. The nurse had been at the front desk when she heard Stiles’ heartbroken shout, even from a floor below him. Mom. 

Melissa had grabbed another nurse, asked her to take over, and run up the stairs to Claudia’s room. Everything was silent in the hospital room. Stiles’ shoulders shook, and the Sheriff muffled his own cries into his son’s shoulder. 

She had a million things to say. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t say anything, scared to break the tension in the air. What do you say? I’m sorry, you don’t deserve this, she lived a good life, it’s no one’s fault. 

When Stiles and the Sheriff left for home, Melissa held the boy in her arms for a long moment. As she stood, she said, “Anything you need, come over. Any time, we’ll figure it out.”

Holds your hand through plastic now.

“Doc, I think she’s crashing out.”

And some things you just can’t speak about.

Melissa yawned, letting her head rest in her hand. She was sitting at the front desk of the emergency room, as she often did. It was exhausting to watch broken people drag themselves through the doors all day and night. Sometimes, as her vision blurred with tiredness, she would imagine Scott or Stiles, lying on a gurney, clothes soaked in blood, and jerk awake, heart racing. 

There was a lull in the ER, so she closed her eyes, pretending she was laying in her bed at home. Home, where everyone was safe. Where Scott and Stiles might be studying in a bedroom, where Isaac and Erica would play video games while Boyd made dinner for their little pack. Their little family. Derek might stumble in, streaks of dry blood on his shirt, and everyone would swarm around him to make sure he was okay. Because in their pack, they took care of each other. Maybe Derek would bring his sister, Cora. From what Melissa had heard about the youngest Hale, she guessed that Erica would get along beautifully with her. 

Maybe Lydia and Jackson would visit, too. They were barely pack at that point, but it was always nice to have them around. 

Only twenty minutes to sleep,

But you dream of some epiphany.

A light rap on the counter woke Melissa from her reverie. Scott and Isaac were smiling at her, holding a brown paper bag. 

“We brought you dinner. We didn’t want it to get cold, sorry for waking you up.” Isaac handed her the paper bag with a grin, his other hand woven through Scott’s.

The boys saw her eyes flick to their hands, and quickly disentangled themselves, looking away from her. 

Melissa offered a small smile. “I don’t mind, I just hoped you would tell me when you started dating again.”

Scott’s face lit up, and he kissed Isaac on the cheek. “I’m dating again.”

“Alright, boys, now go finish your homework and get some sleep. I’ll be home late again.”

The two teenagers left, holding hands much more comfortably, and Melissa allowed herself a moment of joy before returning to her work, eating as she reviewed patient files.

When she got home, Scott was sitting on the couch. She walked straight to him, dropping her purse on the ground, and pulled him into a hug. “I love you.”

Just one single glimpse of relief,

To make some sense of what you’ve seen.

_______________________________________________________________________

Chris lay in the hospital bed, breathing raggedly. He rasped out several ingredients before his eyes closed, and Melissa ran to find them. She quickly concocted the potion before spreading it over his wounds. They smoked, and Chris screamed, face contorted in pain. Melissa forced a rag between his teeth, muffling the noise. 

Several moments later, the lash marks had faded. Chris panted, trying to catch his breath. Melissa removed the rag and filled a glass of water, carefully pouring it into his mouth. 

Chris coughed weakly. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Melissa replied. “I’m just glad you’ll be okay.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead gently as he fell asleep.

With you, I serve, with you I fall down.

Watch you breathe in, watch you breathing out.

Melissa was in the hospital. Melissa had been shot by hunters. Melissa was in the hospital. And Chris was a fucking mess. He hadn’t slept since he heard the news. Rather, he had climbed into his car and driven frantically back to Beacon Hills. Melissa was still asleep when he sat in the chair next to her bed, having received permission from one of her friends to stay past visiting hours.

Pain flooded Melissa’s body as she woke up in a hospital bed. What had happened before was hazy; she assumed her house had been shot up by hunters. Scott had asked her for advice, as he often did, and she had told him to fight back. Her chest throbbed over the bullet wound, but she would be okay. She had to be, for her son. For her pack.

“Melissa, thank God.” Chris reached out hesitantly to take her hand. “I was so scared, I thought… and after Veronica and Allison, I couldn't…” he trailed off, a couple of tears running down his face.

“Hey, I’m okay,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about what happened and I-”

“I do appreciate it, really. But shouldn’t you be off saving the world?” Her lips quirked up into a playful smile.

Chris shook his head. “Not until my world is safe.” He bent down to kiss her before settling back into his seat. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Rest.”

With you, I serve, with you I fall down.

Watch you breathe in, watch you breathing out.

Melissa held Chris’s hand. They stood in the cemetery, staring at the Argent tombs. Veronica Argent; Allison Argent; Kate Argent; Gerard Argent. Chris didn’t bother checking the dates. They were carved into his mind already. 

“And then there was one.” Chris laughed, his voice hollow. “I can’t believe…”

Melissa held his hand. “I know.” 

Chris choked down a sob and Melissa held him. They stood there, by the graves, holding each other, for a long time. When the sky began to darken, Melissa led Chris to her car. 

“Let’s go home, okay? The kids will probably be there, and it would do you plenty of good to be around a dozen lively wolves.”

Chris nodded, and they headed back towards their home, towards their family.

---

Melissa was right; the entire pack had taken up residence in her house. Scott, Isaac, Mason, and Malia sat jammed together on the couch, Isaac on Scott’s lap. Derek, Stiles, Ethan, Jackson, and Lydia sat around the dining table, catching up with each other over a game of poker. Corey, Theo, and Liam were lying in a puppy pile on the living room floor.

Chris and Melissa walked in to scattered greetings and the smell of brownies baking. Chris raised an eyebrow at the mess, but Melissa just laughed. “Don’t worry, I make them clean everything up before they leave.”

They shared a smile and headed up to Melissa’s room, where they changed into pajamas and lay under the covers.

“Good night, Melissa.” Chris kissed her. “I love you.”

She smiled. “‘Night. I love you too.”

Only twenty minutes to sleep,

But you dream of some epiphany.

Just one single glimpse of relief,

To make some sense of what you’ve seen.