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annabelle--cane · 7 months

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I guess the thing that makes me not so fond of Jon's addiction allegory is that it's only coherent to a certain extent? Like I think people sometimes forget that he's actively violating these people

anon, through no fault of your own you have accidentally hit upon my sleeper agent trigger phrase. I have layers of answers to this.

so first off, yeah, it's not a 1:1 direct metaphor, it's a soupy dream logic fantasy plot device with flavors of a lot of different things. there's quite a lot of addiction in there, there's some abuse of power, there's some cyclical nature of trauma, there's a dash of disability, there's a few notes of gendered violence, there's a good bit of just. violence violence and being kind of a motherfucker because goddammit it feels good to be an active agent about something in your life, even if it's just choosing to be a worse version of yourself than you strictly need to be. a lot of tma's worldbuilding is very allegorical, but apart from aspects of individual statements nothing really matches up quite 1:1 with a real world counterpart, and if more things did then it probably wouldn't be a fantasy show anymore.

secondly. okay to contextualize this answer a little bit I have a kind of hypothetical video essay project about vampirism and addiction that I like to spend a few hours thinking about every so often but am almost certainly never going to make because the full research burden required is a lot higher than I actually have the time to properly do. but because of that I've spent a lot of time sorting through why framing vampires as addicts really works for me in a way that it doesn't seem to for everyone, and I think a lot of my thoughts on that also apply to jon. there's going to be a bit of a detour here before we get back to talking about tma, but we'll get there, I prommy.

I've seen a lot of people take issue with various paranormal addiction allegories because, a lot of the time, the act that is meant to metaphorically represent the act of use itself is something that is directly and inherently harmful to others, e.g. drinking human blood, handing over power to your hedonistic Evil alter ego, holding the cursed amulet and going crazy going stupid, slurping trauma out of the head of some guy you ran into on a boat to norway, etc., and yeah, I do get that. substance use is not inherently harmful like that to anyone except sometimes the user themself, and addicts are not inherently fucked up and destructive people; those are dangerous stereotypes that often lead to the demonizing of a whole group of sick people.

here's the thing for me, though: those are definitely truths I want explored and represented when it comes to portrayals of non-allegorical actual addicts, but fantasy fiction isn't for showing the world as it is, it's for showing a subjective fun house mirror version of reality where certain aspects are minimized and magnified depending on how it feels to live through it. and yes, absolutely in real life drug use is not an inherently evil act and it does not make you an inherently evil person, but... doesn't it kind of feel like that? sort of? absolutely no one is living their best life nor on their best behavior while experiencing any kind of major mental illness episode, and when it comes to addiction you've got a very clear tangible symbol of when The Episode is happening that it feels like you have much more control over than when it comes to other illnesses. it's also a thing where people are a lot more likely to be openly angry and distrustful of you if they find out it's happening. so you mix together the ideas of "I know I get worse as a result of doing this one specific thing" + "I act less like myself when I'm using, it rearranges my priorities and I care less about hurting people because that's what happens when you're experiencing The Horrors" + "society at large/people directly around me are pretty quick to say that doing this is evil," and you get the subjective emotional result of "I hurt people by using and it makes me monstrous." I tend to respond to those kinds of paranormal allegories like they're just cutting out the middle man of those subjective fears. "using makes me monstrous" -> "using is monstrous."

anyway. jon archivist.

don't get me wrong, I totally understand if this aspect of metaphor doesn't gel for some people and they only like taking it exactly as far as the text explicitly makes them, but I really get a lot out of reading jon's connection to the fears as addiction precisely because he does genuinely awful things to people as a result of it. he's a person in a very bad physical and mental place with little to no support who is constantly being told by both allies and enemies that he's already a monster just by being alive, and he copes with that by secretly falling further and further into an compulsive act of consumption that skews his priorities and makes him care less about hurting people because at least sometimes getting to be the cause of pain makes him feel a little bit less powerless when he has to be the subject of pain the rest of the time. then he's found out and is made to stop, and he has to grapple not just with the physical toll of withdrawal but with knowing there is a not insignificant part of him that will excuse any act of malice if he knows he'll feel better afterwards.

the end of tma is very explicit in the fact that the rules of its world are shaped by the subjective worst fears of those who live in it, it's "an exercise in unreliably reality" as jonny sims put it once, and I think that principle extends backwards in some ways to apply to the rest of the show. I don't think the fact that there are only entities of fear and not hope or love is meant to be a full commentary on the total nature of the real world, it's a reflection of what fear and suffering can make the world feel like. eric and melanie both go to really harsh extremes to extricate themselves from the fears and live peaceful lives, and in both cases something happens that foils their plans (getting murdered + the apocalypse, respectively), but I don't think the intended message is to say that is definitively how real life works, they are metaphors for the limits of individual agency in larger systems and represent two types of worst-case-scenarios. similarly, I don't think reading jon as an addict implies that addiction inherently involves violence or that the reactions of those around him were completely unjustified, it's just a subjective exploration of the kinds of fears that can come with addiction dialed up to 100.

#also to be clear after the first paragraph I'm using 'you' in a general sense not directly to You The Anon Who Sent This #I'm not trying to insinuate anything about whether You The Anon Who Sent This does or doesn't have any experience w substance use #tma #answered #anons

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wowowwild · 11 days

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Ace's All Time Best Fic Rec List (AATBFRL) April 2024: Ace Attorney

It's been a 6 months since my last list so here we go again! (I specified Ace Attorney in case I start doing this for other fandoms.) I originally planned to have all the old recs here as well but the list was too long so here's a link to the previous list. These aren't necessarily in any particular order, but if you can think of a good way for me to organize them, please let me know for future lists!

P.S. Anything rated over T mentions that immediately for your browsing convenience.

Doing more self promotion this year, so check out my pinned post or fic tag (desktop only)!

London, 2021- 7 yg Wrightworth hint of Krisnix. Phoenix is presently in London with Edgeworth. Phoenix is presently knowing that he knows about Kristoph but doesn't want to acknowledge it bc Kristoph has been really good to him and Trucy. But that doesn't matter right now bc they're going to the theatre.

if you leave the light on- 7yg Wrightworth. Nothing can happen until it's over but something Keeps happening. Miles will wait as long as it takes and Trucy decides he's part of the family.

In The Dead Of Night- During the 7yg Edgeworth invites the Wrights to Europe. Trucy has a nightmare and 'Uncle Miles' comforts her.

Phoenix's List- After getting his badge back, Phoenix has some regrets and sets about fixing what he can.

Perfect- I actually found this on another fic rec list and I can see why it was their favorite. Set towards the end of the trial of Bridge to Turnabout. TW if you have memory issues, it might be a little hard to get through parts bc of all the mindfuckery. I have to be really vague here so as not to spoil it. (Wrightworth)

Eo Nomine- Klapollo fake marriage turned real marriage but ig that's what happen when you get fake married while being real in love.

the best you'll never have- Rated M for sex reasons. I love the tagline: "Someone else's wedding is something that can actually be so personal". It's a Blackmadhi complicated relationship, what relationship, they weren't actually dating but also...

Apollo and the Artist (1975 - Oil paint, wax crayon, pencil, collage)- Rated M for mentioned sex reasons. Apollo is not an art person. But to Klavier he is art... and also a person. They've known each other for 8 years and it's probably been coming for just as long. It was a long time coming.

darling i'd wait for you (even if you didn't ask me to)- Wrightworth fake date bc Edgeworth needs a plus one to a wedding for some guy, it's not really important. But the cake sucks.

A Knight in a Loud Red Suit- oh my god oh my god oh my god Klavier gets shot and Apollo stabs a guy. And also love confessions at the hospital. They could have me also if they wanted.

Written- Rated E for sex reasons. Edgeworth moonlights as a Steel Samurai fic writer, and due to it being an obvious coping mechanism for his life and feeling Maya finds out... and accidentally sends a fic to Phoenix who... finds out. Half of the smut is Edgeworth's own fanfic, so we get like... fanfic-ception. That doesn't really work with more than one syllable words, huh...

Lover Be Good to Me- Rated M for implied sex reasons. 5+1 klapollo wooing each other.

Love Love Love- Rated M for implied sex reasons. klapollo is messy in a good way and takes wayyyy too long to call themselves boyfriends. Set from middle of aa4 to past aa6.

delicate- Rated M for sex reasons. klapollo is messy in a bad way (long distance is hard) and they break up but it works out, I prommy. If you don't like angst you'll want to skip this one, though.

(i was) enchanted to meet you- klavquill! I love them, I need to read more fics with them. They meet at the Prosecutor gala for the first time and sparks fly. Actually, they were fireworks, but that's not important.

Process of Elimination- Rated M for sex reasons. One day I will read a fic where Blackmadhi is not complicated as hell. Can they ever talk about their feelings? Apparently I like this, though, bc I keep reading and recc'ing them. Um, Nahyuta is looking for a fuck buddy and by 'process of elimination' ends up deciding on Blackquill but whoops! Feelings.

feel your skin- Rated M for one boner. Klavier is infuriating AND wearing lipgloss and Apollo can't take it. Cue making out in the janitor's closet.

moribund- I keep thinking about this one so I need everyone else to read and think about it with me. Pre Gant busting, POV Lana has to help clean up his messes. This a comedy, mostly of errors.

chronophobia- StarrSkye (AngelxLana) Be forewarned, you are going to cry. Lana has done her time and is trying to find a way to reconnect with the most important people from her past.

Crash! Landing- Junithena, fantastic traumatized autistic representation, if I do say so myself as a traumatized autistic person. It is very sweet and Juniper is a real one. I need me one of those.

In Pursuit of Justice- This one is not yet complete, but I preemptively j'adore'd it. It's a klapollo. Sebastian is great. He says Apollo looks like a frog (accurate).

Witcheln Woes- Secret Santa klapollo and they are cute and Clay is alive and it is sooooo fluffy.

Samurai Swear- Maya making besties with Edgeworth! Maya and Phoenix being besties also! Dash of mutual pining wrigthworth.

Missing You/Missing Time- Ok, hear me out, yes, the mystical bullshit tag is accurate, and de-aging is a weird concept, but !!! It actually serves this story very well! It is a fanfic that feels like a fanfic, but sometimes you want that, you know? Not every fanfic needs to feel like Little Women. Established klapollo first I love yous.

#aatbfrl #ace attorney #klapollo #wrightworth #narumitsu #blackmadhi #junithena #starrskye #klavquill #ace attoney #krisnix #i'm not listing individual characters but there are other things in here besides ship fics

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stevenose · 10 months

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don’t delete the kisses - 6/?

landing page

a camboy!steve au

this installment contains: gender unspecified reader; camboy!steve; like a hint of sugardaddy!steve but it’s a HINT; affection; lil bit of inconsequential angst; lingerie (reader wearing); masturbation (reader)

authors note: i decided if i was going to write this long from i might as well write it grammatically correct lol so sorry for the formatting change! appreciate y’all, actual sexy time next chap PINKY PROMMY !!!

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Keith shoves his hand inside a bag of Doritos. It makes you want to scream. “They want it cleared out by the end of the week.”

“And you just learned this today?”

He nods, hand unmoving from the bag. You freeze, shocked by his casualty.

“And you’re not upset?”

“I’ve got the arcade,” he says, shrugging a shoulder towards next door. “Nostalgia for games is in, not VHS.”

You want to strangle someone. Mostly him. The door opens and men - movers - pile in with more boxes and dollies.

“If you help, you’ll get paid til the end of the week,” Keith says through a mouthful of chips.

“You understand I’m broke, right? You know my rent went up like a billion dollars and it’s a thousand for a week of groceries, right? And you’re giving me five days to find another job?”

He shrugs again. “You kinda should have seen this coming.”

Incredulous, you grab a cardboard box and stomp to the break room, pulling your phone out with your free hand.

i am so fucked

You wish he was here. To share a look with, to scream with. Though Steve wouldn’t really suffer like you’re suffering. You almost want to curse him for it. You shove a few tapes into the box, overcrowding it, not caring enough.

By who?

Not me. :/

You roll your eyes, but you smile wide.

don’t tease

just lost my job lol

He calls you a few moments later. “What happened?”

“They’re closing the damn store.”

“Finally?”

“I’m screwed!”

“I’ll be right there - give me half an hour, okay?”

He hangs up before you can protest. It takes 45 on a good day, but you know he’ll speed for you, which makes you smile and worry simultaneously.

You spent the night with Steve after your confessional, but it didn’t go any further. He insisted on having uninterrupted time with you. Neither of you wanted to risk being caught, either, so you instead curled up together. It was admittedly a little awkward - things were moving impossibly fast and much too slow. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to hold each other, or touch - but after staying up until 4 in the morning talking and giggling, your back ended up pressed against his chest, his warm breath fanning across the back of your neck.

“Gotta take those little shits home,” he mumbled into your ear when you woke to whooping and singing only four hours later. His tone was apologetic, and he pressed a feather-light kiss right under your earlobe. “So, later?”

“Later,” you agreed sleepily, following him to the kitchen for coffee.

It took everything for you to avoid Eddie’s prying eyes.

But you hadn’t seen Steve since, both too busy the following day to make the trip. You’re relieved to see him, though nervous. What do you say? How do you act? There’s still so much that you haven't said. Too much and not enough time in between your last interaction with him.

He busts through the door 27 minutes later, looking out of breath, as if he’d run to you. He searches for you among the sea of boxes before spotting you in the Fantasy section. You yelp as he grabs you, pulling you into the Adult section, behind the velvet curtain.

“You okay?” he asks, rubbing your arms before pulling you into his own. You sigh, instantly comforted. “I’m sorry, this sucks.”

“Yeah,” you mumble into his chest. He smells like vanilla, some sandalwood. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. My rent - how am I gonna-?” You have to cut yourself off to stop yourself from crying.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “I’ll help.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I will,” he insists, pulling back. “I’m serious, I will. It’s no big deal, I can afford to.”

“That’s - no,” you push. “Steve, you can’t pay my rent, it’s hundreds.”

“I probably owe you that much, don’t I?” He’s got an amused glint in his eyes. You pinch his chest lightly.

“It’s not fair.”

“I’d do it for anyone,” he says, and you know it’s true. “Though you are my favorite.”

You bite your bottom lip until he pops it out with his thumb. “How about you just... pay for our dates?”

Steve scoffs. “I was already going to do that.”

“I’m not trying to use you.”

“I know.” He rubs your cheekbone with his thumb. It’s so wholly intimate, almost unbearable under his hazel gaze. “Let me do what I can, okay?”

You sigh heavily. “Okay.”

He pulls you into his chest again, resting his chin on the top of your head while his hands run soothingly up and down your back. “Besides. I know a few ways you can make it up to me.”

“Oh?” Your cheeks heat, stomach flipping, aching between your thighs.

“Yeah,” he whispers, pulling back to look at you. “Like... stealing one of these for me.”

He reaches over your head to grab a video, pulling back to read it. “Ah, Big Tittied Bimbos Gone Wild III, an excellent choice.”

You giggle, grabbing his wrist to pull him into you again. “Sure. Guess you need somethin’ to watch while you work, huh?”

Which gives you an idea.

You feel stupid when you set up your phone later that night, Steve back at his apartment after buying you lunch and helping you throw tapes into boxes. You’re dressed scantily, in your best lingerie, a set that’s sat in your wardrobe for months. You’ve done yourself up to look your best, wanting to look perfect for him. Like an angel. You bite your lip, sighing and trying to hype yourself up before pressing the circular red button.

“Hi,” you say shyly, moving to the chair stationed in front of your phone. “Wanted to send you something for helping me today.”

Behind your phone, your laptop is open, Steve’s profile and videos loaded up. The camera is fully on you, from the waist up, but he’s sure to know what you’re watching when he hears the audio. You press play on a video where Steve’s touching himself. It’s soft and sensual, little groans and moans slipping from his mouth as he plays gently with his cock. You try to ignore your image reflected back to you off to the side and move your hands up to your chest. You cup yourself, thumbs rolling over your nipples. You shudder and sigh, head thrown back just slightly but eyes still on Steve. Only his hand and lower half are present, and you wish you could see his face.

You feel yourself up, the ache below growing to be nearly unbearable. Your hands skim over your exposed skin, making goosebumps rise. You eventually move your hands behind you, unfastening your bra and letting it fall to the floor below you. Your nipples are pretty and perked from your attention on them. “Wish you were here,” you sigh. “Would love to feel your lips on these… and down here.”

Your hand trails down your stomach to the waistband of your underwear. You click to another video. It’s one of Steve fully exposed, his fingers dipping in and out of a fleshlight before fucking his cock into it. You follow the motions of his fingers, slipping the pads of them up and down your skin, letting yourself finally relax as the pleasure builds.

The video’s a full twenty minutes before you’re finished. You were sure to moan his name, along with strings of swears. Your body shakes and writhes with your orgasm, fully on display, and you smile blissfully to yourself. You have to upload it privately to your Google account because it’s much too big to send him via text. You smile maliciously as you send him the link, along with the text, in case you wondered what i looked like while watching you.

It’s stressful waiting for him to reply. You nearly lock your phone away while you wait. You’re disheartened after forty minutes with no reply, but after an hour, he does.

Unlock your door. I’ll be there in 25.

taglist: @sillypurplemurple @kknockursocksofff @knowitsforthebetterr @micheledawn1975 @thehermitsaltar @loverofmarsss @unbetaedimagines @mikefaistwasinnewsies @localbnbg @starlitlakes @the-fairy-anon @cloudroomblog @inmyh0rnyvillainera @sherrylyn628 @piecsesrising @mandyjo8719 @astermath @mochminnie @live-the-fangirl-life @five-seconds-flat @kennedy-brooke @munsonzzgf @mysticrose1210

#steve harrington smut #stevenose posts #ns/fw #steve x reader #camboy!steve #camboy!au

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crookedkryptonitebeliever · 11 days

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I discovered your blog yesterday, and I confess I became obsessed with Cyprus😫

I hope I'm not bothering, but I wanted to ask if Cyprus would like to have children? And what would he be like as a father

Yves as a parent

Blanche as a parent

Montgomery as a parent

i prommy my other ocs are better than cyprus </3 i do not like this stimky man as much as my other ocs

tw: Transphobia, homophobia, Cyprus is a misogynist, violence

Cyprus isn't necessarily too keen on having children. He very much rather devotes all his time to you. But that doesn't mean he will be a horrible parent like how Yves would be.

If you have a child with him, it's most likely due to an accident or an attempt at baby-trapping you. He would absolutely stop at only one child though, he doesn't want more draining his money and energy.

He would fork over his cheque to hire a nanny to care for his child when they're a baby, choosing to spend his time going on dates and romantic getaways with you, Not to say that he wouldn't change a diaper and lose some sleep to burp them, he just wants to keep the stress under a minimum. Only when they reach age 3, he will step in and handle the disciplinary and developmental side of things.

A daughter would have an easier life than a son. Cyprus would be much softer towards her, paying for her tuition fees and generally becoming that overprotective father figure. He will be very present in her life and yours too, forcing family bonding time whether you or the child likes it or not. You are going to her every piano recital and ballet performance with him, he wouldn't allow himself or you to miss it for the world.

Whoever makes her cry would be pummeled into the ground by Cyprus, she just needs to tell him a name and the deed would be done. In school, Cyprus's daughter would most likely be the mean girl, the queen bee of the bullies because he would be actively encouraging becoming the alpha bitch in class. He would be spoiling her with all kinds of girly things; makeup, the prettiest dress, and all the hair and manicure appointments she would ever want. He would bond with her by taking her out to malls, carrying all her shopping bags as if he were her personal servant.

No chores, just excel in studies. He leaves the burden of teaching her basic survival skills to you, but otherwise, the only requirement for her to meet is straight As on her report card.

He approves of his daughter joining the cheer team, dance classes, or any clubs that elevate her social status while being 'girly' in his eyes.

Cyprus prefers it if she's straight, bagging a boyfriend that would treat her right. However, he would begrudgingly accept if she's a lesbian or bisexual, as long as she's calling the shots in the relationship.

The downside to this is that he would be annoyingly misogynistic at times, giving her slack just because she's "just a female" and couldn't handle things like a man. He wouldn't let her follow in her father's footsteps in boxing, take an interest in 'boyish' things, or even cut her hair shorter than shoulder length.

He would get ugly if his daughter transitioned into a man or took on a more tomboyish personality, yelling and shouting as his worldview crumbles around him. It is excruciatingly hard for Cyprus to accept this, he would most likely disown them and stew in his bitterness and hurt for years to come. When he matures and adopts an open mind with your help and coaxing, he will only be open to reconnecting with his child. However, he wouldn't be the first to apologize, still thinking that his child decided to throw the first punch by killing off his little girl.

He would call his child by their deadname, misgender them, and being an overall patronizing asshole to them. But he is desperately trying to change them back into his daughter, failing to realize that isn't happening.

Nothing will get through to him; inevitably, his child will cut all contact with him. Sending Cyprus into hysterics because he simply cannot accept that some people aren't going to be confined to the sex that they were born with. He would become extremely clingy towards you, though. Fearing that his wife will also leave him too.

But that is if his child is genderqueer. If his daughter grows up to be a straight, cis woman, he would just continue being protective of her, vetting all her partners and scaring away the unworthy boys. She would definitely have a life on her own, but she has to call him from time to time. Because he's a strong believer in "The phone works both ways".

When it comes to sons, there would be no coddling. No spoiling- he would have to earn his own money to get what he wants. No emotional support; if he came home crying, he would receive a barrage of insults for being effeminate, leaving him to fend the bullies off by himself. Cyprus would teach him self-defense in the form of boxing from a very young age, though, making his son a carbon copy of Cyprus in his youth. He would encourage the child to be aggressive, outspoken, and direct, the complete opposite of what he would tell his daughter to do.

Unlike his daughters though, he wouldn't encourage his son to be a bully. Because it's harder for him to get away with it since he would think using his fists. But he does not accept weakness from his son, he would egg him on to continue the fight, but never, ever start it.

He would work his son like a dog, making him mow the lawn, carry heavy furniture, climb up the roof of the house to do gutter maintenance, make him cook and clean, service the cars, whatever labor-intensive and dirty work he could find, Cyprus will make his son do it.

He would bond with his son through boxing, said chores, and man-to-man talks. Competitions on who can lift the heaviest or punch the strongest would be common pastimes between the father and son duo. Despite how he would clearly raise his son with a heavy hand and tough love, Cyprus is a very present father. He gives a damn about his development, not wanting him to be 'useless'.

He doesn't particularly care about his son's grades, as long as he's not held back more than twice in a row, he's fine. Cyprus also doesn't care about his son's taste in women either, as long as his girlfriends don't pose any harm to you or Cyprus, he's fine.

Unfortunately, it's less likely Cyprus would sponsor his college fees unless he's choosing a degree that his father likes. That means, no arts. No medicine either, because Cyprus thinks his son is too stupid to even get through the first semester. The only Bachelor's degree that Cyprus would 100% agree on is something to do with business or finance.

He wouldn't take it well if his son is genderqueer, he would get violent and perhaps break a bone or two if you're not there to stop your husband from hurting your child. Moreover, he couldn't accept the idea that his son was attracted to another man and being dominated by one. It's an instant disownment with a 0% chance of reconciliation.

There aren't many differences between his treatment of his son and his daughter when they're adults, they get their own lives but they have to call Cyprus from time to time to maintain their relationship with him.

Overall, Cyprus isn't the worst parent out there. Although he may be toxic as hell, he is at least there for his children and actually has their best interests at heart.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere male #yandere oc #yandere x you #male yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x reader #tw yandere #yandere concept #oc cyprus #tw transphobia #tw afab reader #tw homophobia #tw misogyny

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therottenkingsreckoning · 13 days

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Ough, this one got a lil sad and a little long, be prepared for that. Really two chapters combined into one, but I just couldn't stand to leave y'all on a cliffhanger like I had planned. I prommy it'll be much lighter from here, but for now, have this.

~Little Flame, Chapter 3~

Back home, Frank crept carefully through the door and up the stairs, even though there was clearly no sign of his husband's return. Maybe guilt is what drove it. More likely though, it was the lingering tension, heartstrings pulled tight enough to snap at any second. Slipping into the same little bathroom that started this mess, he quietly shut and locked the door behind them, drawing the test from their waistband slowly as he prepared to do the deed.

Once done, they sat nervously on the edge of the toilet, eyes glued to the tiny oval of screen that was his lifeline and his judgement. All the previous worries (and a couple fresh new ones) were thrashing around the inside of their head right now, threatening to pull him down drowning into oceans of despair. What if they couldn't handle parenting, or if somehow this pushed Eddie to leave them? H-he wouldn't do that, right? Eddie is a good man, he wouldn't leave you over that. But...what if he did?

Please be negative, Frank begged from within the tangled web of his thoughts. I can't handle it otherwise.

Line one appeared, and a heavy silence fell over the room, the only sound his heavy, nervous breathing.

slowly, hesitantly...a second line emerged.

His hand was tangling their hair now, his shaking so bad that it was clattering against the toilet bowl. No. Nononononono. This was bad. This was very, very bad. They wanted to scream, to explode, to go back to a time before any of this had happened. Tears were welling up now in Frank's eyes, and all he could do was murmur a single, frightened sentence. "I have to tell Eddie."

"Tell me what?"

A startled squeak flew out of Frank's mouth at the unexpected sound of their husband's voice. Since when had he come home? He couldn't tell Eddie right *now*, they weren't ready for all of that! In a flurry of nerves and guilt and all, they quickly shoved the test into a box in the under-sink cupboard, doing his best to put on a calm face as they opened the door.

"Eddie, when did you get back home? I didn't hear you come in."

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "Been here longer than you have."

Shit. "Eddie, I-" Frank started, but was cut off by the raising of his husband's hand, the man turning and heading towards the stairs. "Meet me down in the kitchen. We need to talk."

Oh God. They'd really done it now. He should've waited, or talked, or done something, but like the impatient idiot they were he'd stirred the pot, and now Eddie was mad. Now he'd surely hate them, just like every fear Frank's mind had conjured up. Feet like lead and heart sinking, they descended the steps and walked into the kitchen.

Eddie didn't look up when his partner walked in, simply gesturing towards a carelessly abandoned brown paper bag. "Mind explaining this?"

"I'm sorry, " Frank mumbled, throat feeling tight. "I had uhh...wanted to get some medicine."

"And I couldn't have done that for you? I was literally there!" Eddie said, a rising tone of voice as he finally turned to face his love. "Weren't you the one who'd said ya need to stay home today? That I should go on off to work, and not stay here worryin' all day like you know I do? Don't ya trust me?"

"I do!" Frank's voice was rising now as well, and cracking with the start of tears. "I can't just stay in here all day though, I know I said it but I had to...h-had to get outside."

Eddie pinched his noise and let out a growl. "Honey, you're sick right now! What if you got Howdy sick as well? What if you'd made yourself worse?"

"Love, I..."

"Don't try to act all sweet right now. You were just tryna get me outta your hair and you know it."

A part of Frank wanted to scream how wrong he was, how mean he was being, but a bigger part of them knew that he was right. He was hurt, and Frank had hurt him. It wasn't fair at all to treat him this way, sweet, loving Eddie who'd done nothing but care for his partner and worry about their wellbeing. A knife-twist of guilt hit the scientist's heart, and he reached out a hand towards his love. "Eddie, I'm sorry. I am."

Eddie pulled back from the touch, pain & fear in his eyes which refused to meet theirs. "Frankie...darlin'... there's something you're not telling me, isn't there? Some reason you'd wanted me gone for the day."

Frank's stomach flipped at the realization of what he'd implied. "No, nonono that's not...sweetheart I'm-"

He cut them off, shaking his head hard enough to send teardrops flying. "Don't...don't tell me...I'm not sure I can hear it right now." He sighed, and once again headed towards the stairs. "I'm going to bed. Don't follow me."

Then Eddie was gone, and Frank broke down completely, sobbing and crumpling onto the tiles. This was it. They were over. One simple, stupid act and he'd shattered his husband's trust, had made him hate them and surely he'd never earn it back. Frank's fists were pounding against his gut, cursing the thing that ruined his life, this...

baby. His baby. He couldn't bring himself to hate them, this little life that hadn't even begun and had done him no wrong. The life he'd wanted so much for so long, but it wouldn't the same without Eddie there beside him, wasn't something Frank could stand to do alone.

Curling up on the floor, too weak to even move from his spot, Frank whispered through sobs, "I'm so sorry. I love you, just please. Come back."

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

Eddie stared into his reflection in the upstairs bathroom's mirror, darkened streaks below his eyes where tears and water had let the makeup run. What was going on right now? It had been such a normal-feeling morning, apart from the sickness of his spouse, and now? He wouldn't cheat on me, right? Eddie thought, He would never. He'd rather die. Wait, what if- no, no, surely he ain't dying either. That's something I refuse to believe. So what...

His evidence was scant in either case, he had to admit. His lover shooing him off on one day only to come home with groceries, and feeling sick in a way only slightly more intense than any other time. And yet, above it all there hung a darkened cloud of something left unsaid, some hidden truth that Frank had judged Eddie unworthy to know.

He pressed his head against the glass, its cool solidity grounding him for but a moment. "Frank, please tell me what I've done wrong."

When he opened his eyes again, all that he saw was the empty sink counter. "Tch," he hissed, his mind now grasping for distraction. "We're out of soap."

The little box containing more was shoved far back beneath the sink, behind the other household items that they hardly ever used. A dark, cramped little space...but not quite dark enough to obscure a white line that he'd not seen before. What's this? he thought, all other worries aside for an instant as delicate orange fingers grasped around the plastic stick and pulled it out into the light, out to where he could see-

Back in the kitchen, Frank's crying had quieted down into hiccups, though he felt no less awful. Their whole body ached with exhaustion, bruise-tenderness layered on wrenching gut-ache in his belly. His mind was just static and numb, feeble sorrow by now, only able to muster a single "I'm sorry."

"Frank?"

Startled, Frank looked to the doorway where his husband now stood once again...holding the test.

"Eddie..." Frank started, feeling the sour note of fear begin to churn inside his guts. And yet...the mood felt shifted now. The tears on Eddie's face had dried, his voice was soft and kind as he murmured "Is this what you'd wanted to tell me?"

"Yes." Could it be so? Could they hope?

For a moment, fear flashed in the man's eyes again. "It is mine...right?" he said.

Frank stared up at him, and for once in this whole wretched cycle he knew what to say.

"Yes," they breathed. "It is you. Eddie, my love, it's always...will always be you. No one else." He swallowed hard, gripping the fabric of their pants in each hand. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I... I'm scared. How will we handle this? Do you...even want them? Wh-"

Their words cut short as Eddie's arms suddenly embraced him, shaking gently as they pulled his lover close. "We'll figure it out together," he sobbed, his voice flooded with emotion. "D-don't worry darlin', we will."

All Frank could do right now was cry. He felt so dizzy with relief. They'd been a fool, of course Eddie would understand and accept! "You're not mad?" they squeaked, and he knew what the answer would be.

"No," Eddie replied, kissing his partner's forehead gently. "No, not anymore. I...Frank, I love you. So, so much."

Frank laughed through tears and kissed him back. It would be ok. He had a big home, and a loving husband who would be so very good to their children. There was no need to fear.

"You'll be a good father, I know it," they sighed. "I love you too."

#welcome home #welcome home fanfic #Little Flame #eddie x frank #frank x eddie #frankly dear #franklydear #welcome home eddie #eddie welcome home #eddie dear #welcome home frank #frank welcome home #frank frankly #fanfic #fluff #angst with a happy ending #stuff I said #Ember's art

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happy-beeeps · 1 year

Note

Jumping on the band wagon since I’m a massive TCW fan and found your account! Hear me out

What about reader having to dress up for a dinner meeting and Rex sees them in a dress for the first time? 💃🏻

Anon, I adore you. This was so fun to write. Fair warning, I absolutely blacked out the first part of this request and it's definitely not a dinner meeting, but I feel like the vibes still work, I'm so sorry!😭 This was so fun to write though omg

Lucky Hand

Summary: When reader goes to Cantonica to find a Separatist arms dealer, Rex reacts to seeing her dressed to impress for the first time

WC: 1.4k

Warnings: Alcohol mentions, reader gets her thigh touched by a weirdo but that's it I prommy, Rex is not saving room for the holy spirit but it stays PG-13, no editing because I haven't before so why start now

* * *

This isn’t the worst plan Anakin’s ever had, but that isn’t saying much. It’s also not the worst plan you’ve ever had, so that gives you slightly more comfort. It’s simple, in theory. There’s a separatist arms dealer who frequents the sabacc table at Canto Bight. You are supposed to slip in, get his attention, and hopefully some intel. You’re prepared to meet resistance, but you’ve been assured it won’t come to that. Still, you don’t know how you’re supposed to access your saber in this dress, maker forbid it comes to that, or how you’re going to get access to this arms dealer in the first place. Anakin can sense your discomfort as you enter the room, picking at the sheer, glimmering fabric as you walk, willing it to stop clinging to your body for just a moment so you can pull yourself together.

“Where does Senator Amidala even wear this?” you mumble, grateful that the Senator had a dress she didn’t mind donating to the cause, but you wished she had sent you with something a little less revealing. The skirt is full and floaty, with layers of sparkling sheer fabric dyed in a rainbow of blues and greens. The bodice sweeps off the shoulder into two sheer long sleeves that clip around your fingers, but is centered around a plunging neckline that cuts nearly clear to your belly button. It’s through the will of the force alone that you haven’t had a wardrobe malfunction just from walking.

“Yeah, I was gonna ask the same question.” Anakin grumbles before walking over to you and placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “Snips and I are behind you the whole time, we’re going to keep a close perimeter to Canto Bight once you touch down on Cantonica.”

“Remind me why we can’t send you on this mission?” You grumble, crossing your arms over your chest. You try not to blush when you feel Rex’s force signature shift from where he’s standing across the room, your Captain’s stoicism failing him in ways only you can see.

“Because, frankly, I’m too distracting, we can’t have everyone in the casino offering to buy me a drink.” Anakin chides, and you send an elbow into his ribs with a laugh. “Rex and Bubs are going with you as security. Figured they’re pretty much the only two without face tattoos, hopefully the guards will just think they’re brothers. You’ll take one of the transport ships we have on the Resolute.”

You swear you hear Bubbles snort from where he stands across the room, but the sound is soon silenced by a motion from Commander Leo.

“Ok, I think I’m ready.”

The small squadron that will be landing on Cantonica with you begins to prepare their weapons while Anakin pulls Ahsoka aside to find an ideal landing zone. You’re watching the chaos unfold from the back of the room when you feel a presence begin to enter your orbit. You say nothing, but slip out quietly, making your way down the hall until you pass by a small supply closet, ducking in without turning around. Just as you suspected, the door slides open a minute later, and you find yourself chest to chest with Rex, breathing heavily as he takes you in in the cramped space.

“Mesh’la” he breathes, reaching out towards your face before you intercept his hand, catching it, and placing it on your waist.

“It took me and Ahsoka nearly a full hour to do my hair, can’t have you ruining it Captain.”

“Wanna ruin more than that,” he breathes, his eyes focusing on your perfectly painted lips, but shakes himself out of it, holding you firm on your waist. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you dressed up.”

“I think this is one of the only times I’ve been all dressed up.” You can’t say you hate it, both the way you feel and the way his eyes burn as they devour your form. “Are you ready for the mission?”

“It’ll be easy,” he shrugs, cooling off back into the casual nonchalance Rex always has. “You’re good at negotiations,” he taps your hip where your saber is carefully guarded beneath layers of expensive silk.

“I��m not worried. I’ve got you and Bubbles to back me up.” You shrug and Rex laughs a quiet, breathy laugh.

“Kid’s got spunk, I’ll give him that.” But he looks at you fondly, placing his pointer finger and your chin and tracing your bottom lip with his thumb. “I trust him.” He backs away from you too quickly, and you barely suppress the sigh that threatens to escape your lips as he ducks out the door. “Follow me out in a few minutes.”

* * *

So, it wasn’t entirely going wrong. You were able to get in with Rex and Bubs, and quickly located the arms dealer, a Theelin man with bright purple skin and coiffed blue hair. Bubs quickly broke away under the guise of getting you a drink, and Rex maintained a close detail, just as any security agent would. The casino was busy, you were able to float through with near anonymity, and you quickly sidled up the man sitting at the sabacc table, placing your handful of credits next to his. “Can a girl get dealt in?” you crooned, and the man gave you a wide grin before moving his chair to the side.

“For a beauty like you, I’d nearly offer my hand.” He said, and you could feel Rex start glowering from where he stood a few feet back. “I’m Grafan Thif.” He extended his hand and you shook it delicately.

“Amila Shula,” you smiled, offering him the pseudonym you’d landed on. “Let’s play.”

The mission had been going well, Grafan had been slowly letting on intel the whole night as you followed him through the casino, your hand loosely through his arm. The two of you settled at a quiet table near the patio, he looked at you, his eyes barely focusing from the drinks he’d consumed. “You should come with me, see my new vacation home.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows rose, and Rex and Bubbles stood straighter, listening to his words, “Where are you going to take me?”

“Got a new job on Agamar, some backwater system, overseeing a new factory out there.” His hand began to slide up your thigh over your dress and you tensed, trying to urge him to stop as his hand grew closer to your saber.

“Sir, if I may-” Rex stepped forward, his face a blend of calm and barely concealed jealous rage when Grafan’s hand grazed the shape of your saber beneath your dress.

He glanced at you, then at your two guards and his eyes grew wide, as if he was connecting all the pieces. “You, you-”

“Are leaving.” You hoisted your dress up to grab the saber out from where it hung around your hip, gesturing for Rex and Bubbles to follow. The three of you ran towards the patio as Grafan shouted for security, and you pressed the concealed comm on your bracelet to reach Anakin. “We’ve got company!”

“Already on it!” came his reply, and as the three of you ran down the stairs, you were greeted with the always reassuring sight of the Twilight near crashing onto the beaches of Cantonica.

“Are you waiting for an invitation!” Shouted Ahsoka as the ramp lowered, and the two troopers rushed towards the ship.

“This karking dress!” You grumbled, a few feet behind them as the security team scrambled down the steps. Rex turned around and saw you fumbling with removing the shoes and ran towards you, picking you up and tossing you over his shoulder in one fell, seamless beat. “I don’t need to be rescued.” You grumbled, pulling out your saber and deflecting the blaster fire that now approached you.

“Yeah, I know. Been looking for an excuse to hold you since that sleemo touched you earlier.” His hands gripped you tighter and you couldn’t help but grin as he brought you both on the ship, setting you down gingerly as Bubbles helped Ahsoka and Anakin pilot their way out of the atmosphere. Rex gave you one more wicked grin before whispering in your ear. “Think Senator Amidala would notice if you never gave the dress back.”

You winked back at him before giving his arm a pat, “I’m sure I can think of more excuses to wear it.”

#star wars #rex x reader #captain rex #captain rex x reader #captain rex x f!reader #captain rex request #commander rex #clone trooper rex #requests #platonic!anakin

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barry-j-blupjeans · 8 months

Note

key to the storage unit/ oh but I gotta know? thank you!!!

object + emotion prompt list here! still accepting!!

19. Key to a storage unit.

20. OH BUT I GOTTA KNOW??? I GOTTA

Kravitz could have sworn that being sneaky used to be a lot easier. Maybe people— necromancers, in particular, because that's those are the only people Kravitz had been around for a good while— had just been stupider in the past? It was possible, considering the amount of necromantic knowledge that just got fuckin' blasted into everyone's heads thanks to Story and Song. People had definitely been more dumb when he was alive at least.

But maybe he was coming at this from a weird point of view, considering that he was still getting adjusted to having two people with him on every single mission. The two people who, in particular, had done most of the necromantic research that got blasted out to everyone. And the two people who had multi-classed in so much shit that Kravitz wasn't even sure what their main class was.

Kravitz missed when he only had to worry about Lup and Barry in abstract. Like, "wow, these folks have died way too many times, that's fucked up!" and not "if I say one wrong thing, they will immediately swarm me like over-eager dogs and demand to know where I'm going and if they can go with me".

Unfortunately, Kravitz was bad at saying the right things. So here he was, swarmed, just trying to get his work done.

"We have a storage unit???" Lup said, stepping out of the portal behind him. He heard Barry trip, but he didn't turn to help, because one: Barry should know better by now, and two: Kravitz had to mentally prepare for what was coming next.

"Yep," Kravitz said, walking up to the building. "Well, it's more of a warehouse, if we're being honest, but same difference." It was bleak and cold outside, but it always was in the astral plane. He'd given up asking for a heater long, long ago. Lup and Barry followed behind me.

"And you never told us because…??"

Kravitz stopped at the door, sighing. He turned to face them. Barry's glasses had begun to fog up due to the temperature.

"I need you to promise," Kravitz said, very seriously, very professionally, "that you will not take anything that is in there back with you. Okay? Just like, a little promise—"

"A prommy," Barry said. Lup nodded in agreement.

"A prommy, sure," Kravitz said. "You gotta prommy you won't take any of this shit home, okay?"

"What happens if we do, though," Lup said. She paused. "By accident."

"The Raven Queen will be very, very mad at you," Kravitz said. "Also, depending on what you take, it could fracture the connections between planes, or like, your mind, or your body, or someone else's mind or body, or— a lot of bad shit, is what I'm trying to say. Do you promise?"

Lup and Barry shared a look. That was never a good thing.

"Cross my heart," Barry said, drawing an X across his chest and holding his hand up, like a boy scout.

"Hope to die," Lup said sweetly.

That's… as good as he's going to get, probably. Kravitz turned back to the door, using his pinky to slice another portal through realities and reach his hand into it. He really needed to clean out this pocket dimension, because the minute and a half he spent rooting around in it did not help his cool factor, even like a little bit. He found like, fourteen pens before he found the key.

"What's even in there?" Lup asked as he dug around the pocket dimension. "I gotta know. For science reasons."

"Mostly pens," Kravitz said, embarrassed.

"No, the storage unit, babe," Lup said. "I couldn't care less about your fucked up pocket dimension. Taako's got a whole ass spa in his pocket, it can get worse than that."

It can, but Kravitz wasn't going to say that.

"Oh," Kravitz said. "I knew that."

"Sure you did, bud," Barry said.

"Well, uhm, it's a lot of different stuff?" Was that the key? Aw, fuck, nope, that's a fifteenth pen. "Mostly confiscated necromantic stuff— which you promised not to take!" He could practically hear their disappointment. "Mostly books, but there's some huge ass bones and a few like, cursed objects? It's hard to— You'll— you'll see what I mean."

At long last, he pulled the key out. The key itself was black and sapphire blue, with a raven skull as the bow. Behind him, Barry snapped in appreciation. He slid the key into the door, unlocking it, and then placed the key back in the pocket dimension, so future Kravitz could deal with it. (Future Kravitz would not.)

The room was large and, much like he said, mostly filled with books. There was a loft up near the rafters and rickety stairs that led up to it. Most of what was in here was dust, if he was being honest. Dust and spooky, illegal stuff.

"Alright," Kravitz said. "Much like the Eternal Stockade, this room is mainly a waiting chamber. We're trying to outlast the magical energy these objects have, basically. You should just be able to like, feel if the curses or enchantments have worn off already. If they have, we can start a pile right ov— and you're not listening anymore. Great. Stellar."

Barry and Lup had immediately split off behind him. Lup was headed towards the big bones, Barry was poking around at some of the books already.

Kravitz sighed again. It was going to be a very long day.

#kravitz #lup #barry bluejeans #taz #taz balance #mine #ise cube writing #asks #ceilingfan5 #thank u for the ask larissa!! and for the prompt list lskdfsdf

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whumpwillow · 11 months

Text

Demon’s Haven 9

I’m also working on Hazeshift I prommy but I’m just feeling this series again, though I’m a little rusty and tryna get back into these characters, so sorry if the writing or interactions feel a little stilted

—

masterlist

warnings: blood, past torture, description of wounds, basically just more comf but they are both sad and awkward about it

—

The demon seemed relieved when Haven finally finished washing the wounds on his chest, but it was a short-lived comfort. She moved behind him to start cleaning the blood from the wreckage of his back and knew the worst was yet to come. The demon had been doing well so far, wincing only slightly without uttering a whimper of pain as Haven had dabbed at the cuts and burns on his chest. Looking at his back, such a thing seemed unavoidable now.

She cringed at the sight. Sitting down in the chair behind him, Haven took stock of the damage. There was almost too much blood for her to even see where the wounds were. She couldn’t tell where one injury began and one ended, as if they all melded into his flesh so that there wasn’t a speck of unbroken skin. Long, ropy scars dragged from the tops of his shoulders and down his body, ending at the small of his back, crisscrossed over one another.

Haven sighed. This was not going to be pleasant. For either of them.

The demon’s head turned slightly to the side, as if he meant to catch a glimpse of her, but his hair had fallen into his eyes so it was likely not a clear picture.

“Are you alright?” Haven asked.

She knew he wasn’t, but what else was she supposed to say? How did she comfort someone who had been through something as horrific as this?

The demon nodded lightly, ignoring what Haven could not. Red stripes gouged his back, stretching from his shoulders and moving downwards. Ropes of bloodied wounds overlayed on top of each other, some healed more than not, others fresh and weeping. A grotesque sight that made Haven want to gag, though she swallowed and contained herself.

She wanted to look away. She wanted to run from the room and forget this had ever happened. That this was something that could happen to someone.

But she was done with fearing for nothing—the demon had been hurt already, and there was nothing to undo that fact. Only to cleanse the wounds and bandage them would they disappear from her view.

“This might sting.”

It would do a whole lot more than that. The wounds that littered his skin…Haven didn’t want to believe they could be from a whip, but she didn’t know how else to describe them than as lashes.

The demon nodded again.

Haven touched the wet cloth to the back of the demon’s shoulder and instantly he flinched, drawing out a hiss. Haven drew her hand back.

“Sorry,” the both of them said at the same time.

A beat. Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. The demon clenched and unclenched a fist.

“Silver,” he said.

Haven waited for him to explain, but as the seconds passed and turned into minutes, she realized he wasn’t going to. She touched the cloth to his shoulder again and ignored the flinch this time, as there was no way to avoid it. She brushed the cloth along a long red gash, trailing in between his shoulder blades and down to the small of his back. Again. And again.

“It’s the silver,” the demon said. “The angel liked the silver-lined whip because it leaves scars.”

Haven paused. Lifted her hand away from his skin. Blinked. She had no idea how to even respond to such a thing.

“That’s horrible.”

The only words she could manage, the only consolation to a man now forever marked by what had happened to him that no healing powers would ever be able to fix. The demon seemed to feel this knowledge as keenly as she did, for he trembled under her fingertips. His skin jumped as tiny tremors ran through him, muscles taut and unyielding.

Haven set her cloth in the bowl of water, already pink with blood. She moved from behind the demon and sat in the chair facing him, and saw that he was crying. Silent tears rolled down his cheeks and his breaths hitched, but he bit his tongue to keep himself from crying out.

“You don’t have to do that,” Haven said.

The demon tilted his face up to look at her, a few more tears escaping from those viridian eyes. He blinked at her. Droplets of water caught in his lashes like morning dew.

“Keep quiet, I mean,” Haven clarified. “Cry all you want. Scream, if you must. I don’t mind.”

The demon blinked a few times, his face pinched in confusion. “You would…like me to scream?”

Haven’s eyes widened. “No, no, that’s not what I meant!”

“I can, if you’d like me to. The angel said it was a pleasing sound, though she was rather more vicious than you.”

Haven exhaled, seconds away from pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “I meant, you don’t have to be quiet! You’ve been hurt, terribly and irrevocably, so you can react to it however you want to, and you needn’t feel ashamed or that you must soften your grief in front of me.”

“Oh.”

The only word that fell from the demon’s lips, plainly and without intonation. He stared at her, watching her again as if she were the only thing he had to keep him from falling into an endless abyss. Haven leaned in and wrapped her arms around him, making sure not to startle him as she enveloped him in a hug. She felt the demon lean into her and nuzzle his face into the crook of her neck, just as he’d done when she’d helped him from the cave she’d summoned him to. Some of the tension in his body dissolved, and while he still shook either with fear or with pain, Haven took it as an improvement that he could find some modicum of comfort with her.

After releasing each other, Haven found her hands red with blood. The demon opened his mouth, no doubt to apologize, but Haven shushed him before he could. She washed her hands with her cleaning cloth before dropping it back in the bowl of water.

“I could draw you a bath, if you’d like? It’d help you get clean faster than this, and it’d probably feel better too.”

The demon drew back from her as if she’d just told him she was going to waterboard him. The thought occurred to her that, given what had already happened to him, that wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility for him to believe.

Haven held her hands up, palms out, to reassure him she meant no harm. “Just a bath. Nothing to hurt. No holy water. Just cleaning.”

The demon hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “And you won’t…try to drown me?”

Haven really hated that her suspicions were correct.

“Of course not,” she said, offering him a tight smile.

She held out a hand to him, which he took shakily in his own. Haven wrapped his arm around her shoulders so that he could lean on her and they made their way up the stairs. It was a slow procession due to his broken ribs, and that every time he whimpered, Haven wanted to stop, but knew they had to keep going since it would do neither of them any good being stranded halfway up the stairwell.

Haven pushed open the door to her bedroom and wished she’d had the foresight to pick her things up off the floor beforehand. The demon didn’t seem to mind. His eyes had glazed over, hazy with pain and exhaustion. The night had been tough on him with the journey here. Being thrown from the front door by her protection ward she’d foolishly forgotten about and then being made to sit while Haven fruitlessly tried to scrub the blood off him with damp cloths from the kitchen had likely exhausted him beyond what he could reasonably stand.

“I’m sorry,” Haven found herself saying.

She wished she could convey just how sorry she was in those words, but didn’t know how else to say it. I’m sorry you were tortured. I’m sorry you were hurt so terribly. I’m sorry I didn’t help you when I first saw you, that I doubted you, that I don’t know how to help you, that you’ll have to live with these scars for the rest of your life and all the comfort you have is me when you deserve so much more—

The demon shook his head. “The cell I was held in was far dirtier than this, so pay it no mind.”

Haven found her cheeks reddening. She’d meant to apologize for not letting him rest as she’d wanted to get his wounds cleaned first, but huh. It seemed he had noticed the mess of her room after all.

Turning her gaze away from the wreck of her floor, she lead the demon into her bathroom en-suite. Sat him down on a little round stool she had by the door. Fetched some water for the bath and a few towels. Busied herself with getting everything ready, trying not to think about what she was doing and how she was likely breaking so many rules of what a good witch should not do.

Making a contract with a demon? Check. Letting a demon out of the summoning circle? Check. Bringing said demon not only into her home, but into her bedroom? Double check.

Oh well. She’d never particularly considered herself a stickler for the rules.

A quick spell, and the water was heated, good and steaming. Haven plucked a bottle from the windowsill next to the tub and dripped a bit of floral oil into the water, hoping the scent of lavender would soothe the demon enough that he wouldn’t panic at the thought of being left alone for however long it took for him to wash.

Haven looked back at him and saw his head lolled to the side, resting on the wall next to where he sat. His shoulders had lost their tension and his hands no longer fidgeted restlessly. No more tremors wracked his body, fraught with pain and terror. Haven stood motionless, not wanting to disturb him when he was clearly so exhausted, but it was as if he sensed the lack of energy where there previously had been an abundance of, and his eyes flickered open.

Blearily, his gaze found hers. He lifted his head from the wall and Haven made her way over to him with a towel.

“Here, for when you’re done,” she said, then placed it to the side of the stool he sat on.

The demon looked at it, then to her, then to the bath. Haven moved to help him up, then drew back when she was sure he wouldn’t fall without her support.

“Well, I’ll be waiting outside if you need me.”

Haven made to leave. She’d barely touched the doorknob when she heard the demon voice a single word, small and fearful.

“Stay.”

Haven whirled around. “I’m not going far.”

The demon squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his hands into fists. “Please,” he said, forcing the word from his lips like it pained him to do so. “Please just…” He opened his eyes and fixed them on hers. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He stood there, body rigid, barely holding himself upright without her help. Bruises painted his skin like he were abstract art and the holy water that had been drawn on him trailed lines across his chest and shoulders and even around his neck. Scars—thick bands around both of his wrists—were inflamed and red. Even more Haven couldn’t see lined his back, a permanent reminder.

Haven nodded. she could do at least that much.

“Okay. I’ll stay.”

—

(taglist in reblogs)

#whump #whump writing #my writing #willow writes #original work: demon’s haven #oc envy #oc haven #demon whumpee #demon whump #witch caretaker #platonic bathing trope my beloved #that's what's coming up

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arlertdarling · 11 months

Text

❥ WRONG PLACE, RIGHT TIME — levi ackerman x gn!reader, swearing, death, loss, mourning, modern au, angst, hurt/comfort, maybe slightly ooc levi, this is kinda sad but it has a good ending i prommy<3 PLS read the warnings and enjoy!

The columbarium looks even more miserable than usual, soaked in rain and grey under the clouded daylight. You’re standing in front of it, one hand tightly gripping your umbrella, the other gripping your late spouse’s favourite flowers even tighter. You’re wondering if it ever gets easier and holding back hysterical laughter at the same time. Of course it had to be raining on the day of the month that you’re visiting their urn, like a scene from some depressing drama.

You always knew that death is a part of life, the conclusion we’ve all had pre-written for us since the opening paragraph. And you knew it was hard. You’ve had distant relatives pass, and felt some of the weight that comes with grief and accepting death; you’ve seen and been told your fair share of how loss changes people, both temporarily and permanently. But it’s clearer now more than ever that knowing something is not the same as being prepared for it. You knew it was hard, but no amount of knowledge could ever make you understand just how hard it really was.

You know now though. When someone dies, they freeze in place and time, into a forever still-life image of what was and will never be again; a catalogue of memories that lasts for as long as you can remember them. They become a concept, an imaginary something whose existence can only be proven by what they left behind in the physical world. A name — and the anecdotes and personality traits others think of when you say it. Preserved in your mind like a pocket of air in ice, they’ll stay; never moving forward, only back to the moments and memories that make up what’s left of them.

You’ve had the same moments and memories playing on loop for weeks. Not really on purpose, they’re just kind of there. There when you wake up, when you check the fridge with an empty belly and no appetite, when you decide to put off showering for another day, when you’re alone, when you’re with friends, when you’re trying to sleep away the feelings in your chest. You feel as ghostly as the images of them that flash behind your eyes, comforting yet haunting all the same.

Wet footsteps pull you out of your thoughts. There’s sweat between your fingers where they’re still clinging to the plastic-wrapped bouquet. You tilt your head in the direction of the footsteps. A man stops some feet away from you, face concealed under his umbrella and one hand tucked into the pocket of his dress pants. If he notices your presence or stare, he doesn’t show it.

You’ve been coming here every few weeks, and every time without fail, this man is here too. At first, you thought he was a stalker, but he never approached you or stood closer than three feet, let alone looked at you, so that feeling was short-lived. He asked you for a light once, but other than that, you’ve never interacted.

You often wonder which one he is there for, who the person was, what his relationship was to them — but you never bother to entertain that thought for more than a few seconds. He never brings anything with him either, aside from the occasional lighter and cigarette packet, and tends to stay longer than you. You’re only really here to soothe a healing wound and replace the flowers once they start drooping. The ones from last month droop more than normal under the weight of their wet petals, and you hope that the heavy rainfall won’t do more harm than good to the fresh bouquet you just put up.

A month later, the sky has just a few clouds dotted across it. The weather has been hectic, so as you’re approaching the columbarium, you’re curious to see how the flowers have been holding up. Before that though, you notice him first, standing in that specific spot that’s all his own by now. He’s dressed in the usual: a long-sleeved shirt, a blazer and matching trousers, all well-ironed and spotless, and a pair of polished Oxfords. You’ve always imagined him as a lawyer or office-worker of some kind; he certainly looks the part, especially with his tired face and perfect posture. There’s so much you don’t know about him, you can’t help pondering over things like what he eats for breakfast or if he has any pets or allergies, and imagining him in scenarios like typing away on a computer at a tidy desk or yelling ‘Objection, hearsay!’ across a courtroom. You’ll never know if any of those things exist beyond your imagination, and you have no way of knowing for certain either, but you like to think about it from time to time.

Two months after that, you notice he’s had a haircut. You can never tell when his undercut starts to get thicker, but once it’s trimmed, it becomes so obvious that it was overgrown before. It’s clear that it’s done professionally, and that he must be particular about his hair in general, if the perfectly combed middle-part and licks of gel are anything to go by. He looks good, you think, but as with most thoughts about him, you drop it before anything else can follow. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he lights the cigarette between his lips, then pockets the lighter and takes in a drag. His form is slanted and controlled in an effortless kind of way. He looks good, even in your peripheral vision.

The following month, you’re switching out the flowers with a different kind than normal since your florist didn’t have your usual. You think it’s the first time he ever looks at you, at least with any sort of interest in his eyes. It seems like a trick of the light at first, the way his silver eyes dart away when you glance at him. In fact, you’re still not really sure it actually happened, but you like to think it did, if it means he’s at all as curious about you as you are about him.

Three months later is the one year anniversary of your spouse’s death. For once, you’re not on your own; their family and close friends hover near their niche, paying their respects and exchanging embraces. You’re off to one side, not feeling particularly talkative or social, which is no surprise given the occasion. He arrives as he always does, but stands further away than usual, and with a more guarded expression. You wonder if the number of people intimidates him or makes him uncomfortable, or if there’s just something on his mind. After a short while, everyone starts to head off for the memorial service. You’re the last to take your leave, looking over your shoulder at him and hoping for a second of eye contact that never comes.

The month after that, he is nowhere to be found. You don’t think much of it initially — he’s never late but sometimes you’re earlier than he is — but he never arrives. You stay embarrassingly longer than you normally would to see if he shows up. He doesn’t, and you chalk it up to some minor thing, like a change of plans or a visit cut short. It isn’t until two months later, when he still doesn’t show, that you start to worry. You’re not sure what exactly you’re worried about, or if it’s something to even worry about in the first place. You start to visit every week and convince yourself that the only reason for it is that you’re just missing your lover more these days.

The relief you feel when you see him four weeks later is monumental. You’re practically buzzing as you walk up to him and you don’t even know you’re smiling until you feel your mouth corners drop at the sight of him. He’s always had faint shadows under his eyes, but you’ve never seen them this dark before, and his gaze is so heavy that it’s akin to a dead man’s. You wonder how much sleep he’s had, if any, and if it has anything to do with why he hasn’t visited these last few months. You wonder and you wonder but none of it leaves the confines of your mind. You’re just strangers, after all; two strangers who regularly see each other, but strangers nonetheless. All you can do is sigh, the joy of seeing him subsiding, and go to switch out the flowers.

“You’re later than usual today,” he says so quietly that you almost think it’s just a voice on the wind that you hallucinated in your desperation to speak to him. You stare at him, waiting for any sign that his low, hoarse words weren’t just a figment of your imagination. He just stares back at you, one eyebrow arched and his eyes expectant.

“Um, yeah,” you say, slowly, just in case you imagined the look on his face too. “I missed my bus so…” You trail off, tempted to smile at the fact that you’re actually, finally speaking to him. The swarm of unanswered questions that you’ve been trying to avoid suddenly floods you all at once. “It’s been a while since I last saw you here,” you say on impulse, but nothing else makes it past your lips. Lingers of why is that? and where have you been? and are you doing okay? die on your tongue.

He sighs. “Shit happens, I guess,” he mutters. His tone is void of all emotion, apart from maybe the exhaustion of someone who has been carrying too much for too long. You’re not sure what to say, about to opt for a hum of agreement when he speaks again. “I just needed some time away. Got two of these to take care of now, after all.”

You swallow nervously, trying to think of how, if at all, you should respond. How could he say that so casually? Like a comment on the weather or an arbitrary greeting? Your stomach hollows at the thought alone. Two urns; two whole people. That’s two names, two different faces and personalities, two lifetimes full of memories and smiles and tears, two amounts of habits and mannerisms, two lists of likes and dislikes and hobbies and pet peeves, of favourite films and colours and animals. That’s two whole people that he knew and he’s standing here like he hasn’t lost them both.

“Spare me,” he says, the flame of his lighter dancing over the tip of his cigarette. “My mother died when I was just a kid, so I don’t remember her. And that old bastard’s lived long enough, if you ask me. It was about time he kicked the bucket.” He tucks his lighter away and exhales some smoke, staring at the cigarette between his fingers. “Besides, it gets pretty tiring hearing the same shit the second time around, let alone the first.” His lips purse as he breathes in and pulls out the cigarette again, along with a slow trail of smoke. His eyes are on you as he says, “You, of all people, should know what I mean.”

Your gaze gravitates toward the flowers beside your partner’s urn. He’s right. It’s comforting the first few times — the condolences, the ‘sorry for your loss’s, the sympathetic glances — but after a while, it loses its warm touch. It starts to feel like an awkward finger, prodding at a bruise to point it out, even though you know it’s there, and all you wish is for it to heal already.

“Levi,” he says next, and all you can do is look back at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“My name,” he says through another trail of slithering smoke. “It’s Levi.”

You smile at this break in character, this rare show of warmth. You might not really know this Levi guy, but you get the impression that he doesn’t do things like this — whatever ‘this’ is — very often.

“I’m (Name),” you say, and that’s all it takes for the rest to pour out. “It’s good to officially meet you, by the way. I know we’ve technically known each other for over a year now but, also not, I guess…” You chuckle awkwardly. “Since this is the first time we’ve properly spoken to each other and… I don’t know. I suppose it’s just nice, is what I’m trying to say? If that makes any sense?”

Levi just takes another drag of his cigarette and for a second you think this is it — you’ve fucked it up by being weird, you could not have made it more obvious how deprived you were of human interaction if you tried — but then he turns to face you. You get a good look at his eyes, almost appearing sunken in by the dark shade of purple under them, and the dips in the hollows of his cheeks that make themselves known in the change of lighting. Then you spot the creases in his suit and shirt, his loose, ungelled hair, the scuff marks on his shoes. And that’s when you think: who am I kidding? This is a man who is mourning a second person before he could understand how to mourn the first. He is just as deprived and sad and lonely as you are; if anyone is to understand you, it’s him.

“The feeling is mutual,” he says. Then he smiles, faint and fatigued, and it feels like a shift. Right then, you feel your heart nudge forward. For the first time since your partner’s death, you feel really, truly present; like all this time you’ve been on autopilot with your consciousness trapped in the memories of your lost love, stuck in moments long gone. You know the deceased are chained to who they were, unmoving and silent and still, but somehow you’ve only now realised that you don’t have to be. You’re allowed to move on.

So you decide to take the leap. “Do you…” you start, and figure it’s too late to go back now. “Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”

Levi lowers his head as if thinking. “Well, I’m more of a tea guy myself,” he says before dropping his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. He smiles again, and your heart nudges forward some more. “But sure. Let’s go get coffee. Or something.”

After that, the rest is history.

Sometimes you wonder if he ever would have spoken to you at all, if not for you being late because of that bus, or if the entanglement of your lives was inevitable from the beginning; pre-written since the opening paragraph. You were two lost people whose paths happened to cross — and maybe it was the wrong place, but God, was it the right time.

#divider by benkeibear #cw death #tw death #tw loss #tw mourning #aot fic #levi fic #levi fanfiction #levi angst #levi hurt/comfort #levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #levi x y/n #levi x you #levi x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #{♡} juno writes !!

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