#and also a comfort character that ripped my heart to shreds

[steviewashere]

Hold My Hand and Look Me in the Eye

(also on ao3)

CW: Canon Compliant Violence/Gore, Slight Panic Attack

wc: 2,251

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington & Eddie Munson

Tags: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Steve Harrington is Traumatized, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Post Season 4, Brief Mentions of Character Death, Eddie Munson Lives, Pre-Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Hopeful Ending, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Sort of Love Confessions in Here

------------ In Steve's lap is Eddie's head. His wild, scraggly, curly mane of hair. Relaxed face—closed eyes and neutral lips and button nose. Tens of freckles and fanned eyelashes and straight cut eyebrows. Him and his soft puffs of air. All of him, facing up to Steve's torso and own face and his shaking hands.

He wants to run his fingers through Eddie's hair. Feel the dry ends and the knotted strands and how it's all soft in the end anyway. Wants to hear him hum in contentment, because that's what's missing in his demeanor. But there's one problem. One huge problem that threatens to gape Steve's mouth and make him puke. That causes him to rip his eyes away and stare at the wall.

For a while, he thought it was love. Something simple and mundane as that. Well, sort of simple and mundane; Steve's never loved normally a second of his life. He wished it was just this wonderful, bright thing that causes his insides to flutter and his heart to cease and his tongue to pool saliva like a hungry dog. Maybe, if he were to close his eyes and feel Eddie's skin against his own, he could admit out loud through a waned, hesitant, soft breath: "I'm so in love with you." Because he is. He's so madly, terribly in love—he wishes sometimes he could consume all of Eddie, stuff him behind his ribcage, squish him around his heart where all the holes are, and feel Eddie's sinew combine with his—feel them coagulate and meld and stick to one another like dried blood in lifelines. Maybe he's possessive, obsessive, beyond freak and human nature. But maybe tasting Eddie between his teeth would cure his sickly insides.

But no, he's just sick. He's sick with want and need. He's sick in the head, unable to imagine anything else but...blood. Eddie's blood. The torn, shredded skin on his limbs. All the wet layers of muscle that dried in the air of the Upside Down. That's all Steve can see when he looks at Eddie. When he feels him. When he hears him, even. That death rattle. The thing that haunts his sleep. The thing that threatens his very being, his solitude, his touch starved sin. The thing that makes him lean close, too close sometimes, and make sure Eddie's breath is solid and long and passively peaceful—or there at all, for that matter.

Steve can't look at somebody he wants like no other. Can't stare without imagining death and grief and sabotage and broken ribs under his palms and the metallic taste on his own lips, the metallic strings of saliva that connect him to the Eddie of yesterday—the one who laid stock still in a field of rock hard dirt and blue skies. He wonders how Nancy can ruminate on pictures of Barb. If her stomach and heart lurch the same—if her insides know her betrayal, like Steve's insides know his and Eddie's betrayal like the alphabet. (Steve can recite it all backwards, forwards, misplaced but with the same end result.)

So, instead of running his fingers through Eddie's hair, Steve tucks his hands under his armpits and looks off at the wall. He wants to touch, but can't. Just...can't.

---- It comes to a head one evening in Steve's living room, miles of space beyond them, and yet. It's the same predicament, of sorts. Eddie's too close. Steve's too hungry with want. Too devastated by what he's seen. And makes last ditch efforts to not look Eddie in the eyes. But the one time his sight locks on with Eddies, by accident because Steve would never allow this, all he sees is anger.

"You don't look at me," Eddie bites.

Steve flinches. And, even though it's being Brough to light, he still looks away. His tongue too heavy in his mouth, he doesn't dare open to respond. There's a million things he could say. The trauma. The heartbreak. The devastation. His messy over the moon feelings. Put his beating heart into the open air, it pulsating and tender and red raw. He could look Eddie in the eyes and feign annoyance. He could look Eddie in the eyes and break out into tears. He could cry, that's it. That's what he wants to do every time he sees Eddie, and how awful is he?

"Seriously, man?" Eddie asks aloud, annoyed. "You're unbelievable. Maybe I should just go home."

He whines pathetically at that like he's a wounded animal. Some little thing laying battered on the forest floor behind his house. A three-legged dog with a sprained foot and wet eyes and malnourished belly. The mewling cat that lays prone in his neighbor's front yard, also hungry, also sad, also injured like a shot-to-the-head mistake. Steve shakes his head. Inhales something stuttering and scrunches his fists in his jeans. If Eddie goes now, Steve knows he'll never see him again. And if Eddie goes, it'll be just like what Steve thought back in the Upside Down: I will never see him again and I will miss him with my whole body and I will wish that I was his friend. I will love somebody I could've loved harder.

"Look at me," Eddie demands. "Look me in the eyes and tell me that you want me here."

And Steve should. He should stare and gaze and ignite with fury. How stupid of an idea, that he doesn't want Eddie in his home. He should say something, really. Get down on his knees, maybe. Beg and plead. And tell Eddie all the ways in which he's charmed Steve's soul. With every flourish and every stuttered sentence and every half-assed doodle. All the smiles he presents because Steve can remember, if he tries hard enough, though he truly isn't sure he could. Recite word for word how Eddie orders his cheeseburgers and his breakfast platters and his coffee. Make list after list of every band that's ever inspired Eddie to be a musician or to fall in with music. Paint over all the ugly Harrington portraits with all the colors staining Steve's heart—the rainbows and pastels that Eddie has somehow bruised him with. But it's futile.

He can't look and can't speak and can't stop the lurching of his own stomach.

"See," Eddie hisses, "this is exactly what I'm talking about. I'm going home."

Eddie stands. And he’s tall. Well, as tall as Steve. Lithe and long and movement after movement after movement. Steve has always loved to watch his back as he enters rooms or exits doors or turns and stretches and—But Steve doesn’t like to watch him leave. 

His chest boils with unkept feelings. The want, the desire, the multitudes. Throat stinging and nose pinching and eyes…He begins to cry. Softly, at first, as Eddie grabs his coat from by the front door. As he bends down to tie his shoes and untuck his hair from the collar of his jacket. As he chases around his pocket for his keyring. But as his hand lands on the doorknob—

Steve sobs, at least he hopes he did. The sound that escapes him is halfway a cry and halfway a scream. Raw and bleeding and hurting. He can’t stand to look at Eddie always leaving, nearly leaving, leaving Steve’s heart like a steadfast bullet.

And that’s when, for all the energy and movement constantly leaving Eddie’s body, Eddie goes stock still. Head angling to look over his shoulder, though not quite peeking. Fingers scrunching around the doorknob.

“Wait,” Steve gasps, “Eddie, wait.” He scrambles up from the couch as fast as humanly possible, clumsily ambling around his coffee table, nearly tripping over the floorboards. “Eddie,” he whispers, pleading, “please don’t go. I can—Please let me explain.”

“Then explain,” he demands once more.

Steve, for the first time, reaches out. He gently brushes the back of Eddie’s right hand with his fingers. The skin under his fingertips is warm, thin, malleable. It’s wrinkling and pushing with Steve. It’s warm. On a real body. On an alive body.

His breath stutters in his chest as he attempts to get himself under control. He swallows back the rest of his tears, they go down harder than he would like to admit. “It’s really hard to—To really look at you sometimes,” he admits, voice quiet and trapped. “But I always want to look at you. I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

Eddie shifts in front of him. His hand moving away from Steve’s fingers. Face directed at Steve’s head. Probably looking, but Steve doesn’t actually know. His own face is pointed down to where his fingers were, eyes dim and closed off. “Why, though? You too good for me or something?” Eddie asks. And Steve feels mad for a second, that that’s the assumption that he goes to. But also, he knows that Eddie has every right to ask. It’s not everyday that one of your close friends admits that it’s hard to look at you.

“No,” Steve breathes. “I just can’t look at you without—“ And his voice stops there. Trapping in his throat as if two hands wrapped themselves around his neck, pulling him back and restraining, forcing him to choke and heave and fall silent. He just shakes his head and sobs again. He feels so weak, unable to explain himself, unable to put himself back together enough to get the words out in the open. To finally let Eddie truly decide if he wants to leave or not.

And at this point, Steve would understand if the door slammed in his face. Opportunity now forever closed off to him.

But instead, there’s a soft touch to his shoulder. Fingers gently creeping up the side of his neck, probably able to feel his rabbit like pulse. “Hey,” Eddie whispers, “just tell me. Let me understand what’s going on in that big brain of yours.”

Steve lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “You’re going to hate me,” he chokes. “You’re going to hate the reason.” He thinks, as he always does, Please don’t hate me, Eds. Please don’t go around and hate me.

“Stevie, if you just tell me what’s going on—No—“ Eddie’s hand scoots up to Steve’s face, his palm barely cupping his cheek, a thin gap of air and palm. “—Stevie, I don’t know what’s happening, but I assure you that I won’t hate you. It’s too easy to love you for that to happen.”

He peels off the bandaid at that. He loves me, Steve glows, he thinks it’s easy despite me. “I look at you and see blood, Eds. I see…I see death. And I hear that—That stupid fucking rattle. I can’t escape it,” he rambles on. “I go to sleep and have nightmares about you laying on the ground and I’m able to see all your muscles and your bones and—The blood, Eds, I see the blood.” His breath leaves him haltingly. Sharp and fast and panting. “I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I love you, but I can’t even fucking look at you. I don’t know—I don’t know how to fix it.”

Eddie makes a soft sound. Something like a coo. A gasp. A gentle, unmoored, sad sigh. “You don’t need to be fixed, Steve. That’s—God, you’re traumatized. Fuck,” he whispers. “I fucking scarred you.”

“Eds, you didn’t—“

“But I did! I changed the way your brain functions. But I—You don’t need to be fixed. We…” Eddie’s hand flexes on Steve’s cheek. His other hand cups Steve’s face. They bring him up to Eddie’s eyes. And Steve, for all that he usually can’t handle looking at, sees color. Like the transition in The Wizard of Oz. Blushing cheeks and dark brown eyes and rose petal pink lips. “We’re going to get you through this,” Eddie devotes, determined and still. “What makes it easy to hang around me? Like…What do you do to even let me be in your home?”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and sighs through his nose. “I keep my music and movies low. To hear when you move around or when you breathe. Like when you stayed the night a few days ago, all I did was lay awake in my room to hear you shift around your bed,” he concedes. “I know that sounds…It sounds really creepy now that I say it out loud. When you laugh, I like that. Or when I can feel your skin under my hand, it’s warm. I like the warmth.”

Eddie blinks, thinking too. “What if,” he tentatively starts. “What if when I stay the night, we share the bed? Or when you listen to music, I sing along? Or if I blink really fast and you look at me?” Steve huffs a laugh and opens his eyes, feeling already a tad lighter. “It could work! Even if you just watched my mouth when I talk? Or when I snore, because I know that I snore.”

“God, you really want me to look at you,” Steve teases.

“I want you to be comfortable. Also—“ He drops his hand away and grabs Steve’s left. “What if I just hold your hand all the time, squeeze it every once in a while? Maybe that will tell you that I’m alive.”

Steve’s smile is small, but there. “I’d like that.”

“Good, then I’ll hold your hand every step of the way.”

-----------

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #angst #hurt/comfort #traumatized steve harrington

[miguelswifey04]

What if bubbly!reader passes away but Miguel still has to go to work but breaks down every few hours because he’s reminded of of something she did like bring him lunch or go hang out and cuddle with him while he worked and Peter b and everyone else helps comfort him yet that still reminds him of reader

you’re gonna make me break my own heart 😕 actually this gonna be the first time i write a death of a character, so let’s get into it 💔💔

miguel o’hara x bubbly! reader

warnings: reader’s death; angst

just like the wind comes and goes, you left behind a precious family, your friends, your loved ones, and miguel. you were a ray of sunshine for miguel’s darkest hours now his darkest hours had turned into his darkest days where you were no longer around to keep him going. if you are gone how is miguel supposed to live? how is he supposed to move on?

miguel had lost every little thing he could not hold onto, including you. what were you supposed to do when someone you truly loved dies? was miguel supposed to cope? was miguel to pretend to keep it going even if you weren’t by his side cheering him on and being supportive? these were the kind of questions everyone thought when they saw a melancholic miguel. a part of him died that day when you slipped away through his fingers. he couldn’t save you just like he couldn’t save his own daughter. now, surely that’ll eat him alive—his own heartbreak would be his own cause of death.

everywhere miguel goes, every smell and every thought connected to a song reminds him of you. no matter how hard he tries to be himself, no matter how hard he tries to cope—he cannot be the same person he was when you were alive, as if he can never be the same again. he tries to carry the burdens of the world on his shoulders but he finds himself cracking at the seams. he breaks down as he reminisces on the memories of you. the way you shined so brightly like a star high in the sky…or the way your smiled so big that made his heart ache that he can no longer appreciate that. the simple acts of kindness from yours truly, like you bringing him lunch or proving him that comfort and love he needed. the way you reassured him that he would never be alone.

“miguel, as long as you have me you’ll never be alone..i promise i won’t ever leave you..”

words were left empty, and promises left unfulfilled. how dare you slip away and not stay by his side, and grow old together…how dare the universe punish miguel when he himself is trying to save it..

“i love you so much, and you’re such a hardworking man. please never feel as if you have to shoulder these burdens alone. your burdens are mine to share.”

the pain had become unbearable. and it had become difficult for miguel to find solace in his daily routine. peter b and the others, observe miguel’s struggles and offer him support in their own ways.

“hey miguel? i’m sorry about them..i know how much they meant to you.” the same sentence gutted miguel and ripped his heart to shreds. they’d offer listening ears and comforting words, even sharing their own stories and memories of you. while their efforts bring miguel some comfort, they also intensify his grief, as they serve as constant reminders of the one he lost.

though time slowly passes, miguel has seemed to forgot the memories of your face..it’s not longer etched in his mind, and the way your voice sounded was now just but a distant memory. maybe, it was for the best for miguel to forgot about you and move on. maybe just maybe it may have been what you wanted. now, you’re a soul lingering in the vast universe with no memory of what your last life was, and maybe in another universe you could have had your happily ever after with miguel.

-yours truly

tags 🏷️!! @kairiscorner @meeom @sabcandoit @emiemiemiii @obi-mom-kenobi

#spiderman atsv #spider man: across the spider verse #miguel o'hara #atsv x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #🌱 lin writes #miguel spiderman #miguel o’hara x y/n #lin’s asks #♡´･ᴗ･`♡ lin answers #miguel o’hara imagine #miguel o’hara angst #miguel o’hara x bubbly! reader #reader death #tw death

[ecoamerica]

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#ACLA24 #ACLA24Leaders #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental justice #environment protection #environmental health #Youtube

[dispatchwithlove]

I'll have you know that I talked with friends ages ago about Shepard resting her cheek in his palm about how much trust you have to have bc god turians could rip you(a human) apart!

Then you put it in writing and I nearly combusted. I have to take some floor time.

I can tell that the fic is gunna destroy me in the best way

Dude, don't get me started on the topic of physical vulnerability in romance/sex! You already have though, so here goes, sorry (I'm not).

As an unashamed monster fucker/monster romancer, this is what it's all about! There is something so moving, so entrancing about a character finding safety, comfort, and pleasure from a character that possesses traits that frighten others, especially physically. Scenes where Belle softened her nerves and touched Beast tenderly shook me as a child! The bravery, vulnerability, and kindness it took is so touching. His huge mits that just swipe wolves away, the sharp claws on his thick fingers...and she just puts her tiny little hand in his, trusting him to be gentle with her! UGH! My heart.

Have you watched or read The Ancient Magus Bride? It's probably my favorite monster themed story. There's this scene where Elias (who looks scary even in his "normal" form) busts out into full scary monster mode and just SHREDS something that hurts Chise, and when it's over he's self conscious and ashamed, not wanting her to see him like that, and her reaction is so beautiful! She accepts him as is, and offers him assurance and kindness. UGH! My heart!

Monster fucking/romancing, to me at least, is all about accepting someone who's different, but it's also about finding comfort and safety in something you're supposed to fear. It's about finding beauty and attraction in features you're supposed to fear, like sharp claws/talons, sharp teeth, etc. It's about a character allowing themself to be vulnerable and trust that the other character is going to be tender. Because that's what love really is, right? Exposing your vulnerabilities to someone and trusting that they'll treat you with tenderness. That you'll open yourself up to someone, letting them see all of your imperfections and insecurities, and they'll still love you, protect you, be gentle with you. Portraying this emotional vulnerability through literal physical vulnerability just works so beautifully. It's a literal "you could hurt me right now, but I'm going to trust you and give myself to you anyway."

Ok, and there's also a lot of great play between pleasure and pain in sex scenes, if you're into that. Talons pinching into thighs, teeth raking across skin, etc.

So yes I will jump at any chance to depict this. Garrus and Shepard fit this so well because turians are apex predators, their teeth and talons are sharp, they look fast and agile, and god damn are they beautiful. And they're tall and have huge hands! They're ripe for monster fucking/romancing themes. In this fic in particular (it was titled Invisible String originally but the rewritten version will be titled and posted as Singularity) vulnerability and trust will play important roles in Shepard and Garrus's relationship, so of course I had to bust out some displays of trust juxtaposed with scary anatomy. Garrus in Archangel mode is a threatening sight (which I effing love), so having Shepard meet him and find comfort and safety in his presence gets my heart beating.

I'm so happy you enjoyed that little bit where she rests her cheek in his palm! There will be lots of Shepard seeking comfort from a dom-leaning Garrus in that fic.

I hope to post soon, but my silly brain is telling me it's not good enough yet so I keep poking at it. Crossing my fingers that the rest of the chapter makes you combust too 😊

Thanks for sending me this! I'll always get up on a podium to talk Shepard/Garrus, romance writing, and monster loving ❤️

#shakarian #garrus vakarian #commander shepard #garrus x shepard #shepard x garrus #elias ainsworth #the ancient magus bride #beauty and the beast #monster romance #monster fucking #asks and replies #monster writing

[hellsingmongrel]

So, bit of ramblings on my Post-Trimax Wolfwood headcanons.

Man, one of my favorite tropes in media is a character who's spirit lingers on after they've died, but it's usually something you only see in fanfic, so I cannot get over how FUCKING FERAL I was when I realized that it was legit a thing in Trimax, and that Wolfwood was the one we actually got to see, legitimately talking to the people he'd left behind and confirming that ghosts in the canon weren't just hallucinations or something! Like yeah, we saw Tessla leading the boys to her body, but since her ghost was never mentioned again, it could have easily have been written off as a fluke, right?

NOPE. They are real and they linger after to watch over the people they care about or to send messages to the people who are still alive! And the fact that the character who had just wormed his way into being just as beloved to me as my favorite character (Which NEVER happens, I usually only have enough brain cells for one at a time!) and that we had just had our hearts ripped to shreds watching him die was also the one we got to know had definitely stayed behind to watch over the people he loved just makes me SO HAPPY! I rp that asshole from time to time, and I just love exploring the implications of it!

I play him like he's been there a LONG TIME. When he died, Rem was there, watching over Vash, but when Knives spent the last of his energy, she chose to move on with him, now that she knew Wolfwood would be there to keep watch over Vash, and he took it SERIOUSLY. He's been waiting so long, he's lost his sense of time, he thinks it's only been a couple decades when it's been CENTURIES. And the time has softened his own trauma, he's gone from being surly and angry and defensive to being at peace and finding comfort in the fact that its allowed him to see more of Vash's life than he ever would have been able to live long enough to see when he was alive. And it's given him time to notice just how unwell Vash is, how broken he is, watching over him when he thinks he's alone and lets himself break down.

But it's also made Wolfwood a bit unwell in his own way; as time went on and the people he knew in life began to pass away, too, his interest in paying attention to what the people around them were doing wained, and his dedication to watching over Vash until it was his time to pass on became a strange sort of dependence. He loses his sense of self, in a way, until the most important thing in his existence is being there for Vash, waiting for him, having long-since accepted that when the time comes, it'll be over and he's alright with that.

He's happy, but to the perspective of a living person, it would seem TWISTED in a way. He still thinks he's a damned soul, stealing more time than he's allowed and only damning himself further by doing so, and he just knows that when he gets to walk Vash into whatever comes after for them, they'll be separated again, for the last time, and there won't be any coming back from it that time, because Vash is too good, too kind, too HOLY to ever be damned. But it's fine. Wolfwood knew he was damned long before his death, and time has just given him the chance to make peace with it and simply be happy with the fact that at least he'll be able to be with Vash when he can move on to wherever good people go at the end. And yet when it happens, Vash feels the same way about himself, so certain that he's the one who's damned, and their reunion is wonderful and painful and terrifying for both of them in different ways.

He's even worse with interacting with people, once he's forced to interact with the living. I play Wolfwood in a game where he stumbles into revealing himself after spending centuries never letting himself be seen, and he worries that going "silent" again will upset people. He's spent centuries being a silent shadow, certain that letting Vash know he was there would only cause more suffering for an already unwell mind, so he's forgotten how to interact with tact, blurting out whatever pops into his head because he's only had himself to talk to for all that time. He hurts people without meaning to, begins to suffer from the crisis of worrying that no matter what he does, he's a burden to the people who mourn him, he doesn't belong, his existence is nothing but a constant reminder of what's coming and will only cause the people around him pain. He's both able to be the kind, caring, loving person he might have been if the Eye of Michael had never taken him from the orphanage, and also a HUGE, ANXIOUS WRECK.

And the thing that makes it all worse for him is the fact that when he was dumped into the game I have him in, he was separated from the Vash of his timeline, and now lives in constant fear that he'll never see him again, that he won't be there when he passes on and there won't be anyone to greet him on the other side, alone and never knowing that he was waiting for him. He made a promise to Rem that he'd watch over him for her, that he'd lead him to his final destination where he could be with his family again, and now that he's lost that, what purpose does he have? He's terrified to let go himself, worried he'll pass onto the other side when Vash was right around the corner, but the thought of lingering without finding him again, missing his chance to be there for him when it's his turn, leaves him in an almost constant state of almost-panic.

I also just think it's kind of sweetly poetic, if in the end, he chose to continue the role he'd been forced into; take Vash where he's supposed to be. Only this time, it's his choice, and it won't be to his death. He wants to guide him to where he knows people are waiting for him, where he'll finally be happy and be at peace. He doesn't mind the fact that he's going to Hell, so long as he was able to be the one that leads Vash to the place where he won't have to be in pain ever again.

#Trigun #Trigun Maximum #Nicholas D. Wolfwood #Vash the Stampede #This probably is a bit insufferably angsty #I can't tell #I'm PMSing and having Vashwood feels and I'm making it eveyone else's problem! #But no really though I fuckin' LOVE ghosts in media! #Favorite trope 10/10 would rip my heart out again! #RP musings #Vashwood #Also yeah this may be completely out of character to other people but #S H R U G #This is just where my brain lead me when I started wondering what Wolfwood's ghost did after Trimax #Also I know it doesn't exactly fit canon but his Vash has started developing salt-and-pepper streaks in his black hair #and little age lines because he's like 500 YEARS OLD at that point or something #andI kind of love that mental image #Wolfwood still thinks he's the most beautiful thing on No Man's Land but he's VERY biased and has developed a bit of an unhealthy fixation

[depends-on-the-sellsword]

hi! i was wondering if you could do an imagine for sandor clegane? idk where it would take place but let’s pretend he and reader or y/n have a secret relationship going on. he sees them get uncomfortable or straight up leave and goes to comfort them? IDK HAHA i tried not to make it too detailed

i didn’t see if you had any specific characters you wrote for, i’m sorry if i missed it!

comfort enough | sandor clegane

"I'd kill for you."

"I know."

your lover calms your temper, and you have a moment together. takes place pre-canon.

this takes a ton of inspiration from one of the absolute best sandor fics out there, Pretty Words For A Drunk Poet (which also has a sequel!) by my friend @poisonsage808 ! You don't have to know it to read this, but I highly reccomend checking it out. Its a literal masterpiece ok. sorry this is a bit shorter than usual! i really struggled with it lol

masterlist

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It churned through your body like nothing else could. From the center of your chest cavity, through your aching shoulders and to the very tips of your fingers. It was in your ribs, in your lungs, in your beating heart. It was living, breathing. The urge to destroy, to writhe, to kill. Your hound was right; they were all killers here. Why should you be any different?

Your feet hit the ground again and again, hot skin on cool tile, the usual elegance in your movements nowhere to be found. A fox, your lover always called you, a beautiful and clever animal. But while the hot blood poured through your veins, the fox that was sly and graceful had burned, and only the wild animal remained.

All the same, you couldn't very well sink your teeth into Meryn Trant and rip him to shreds, no matter how much your body screamed to. So you danced. It was all you could do. You danced for no one but yourself, for the first time in a long time, alone in your studio. It was not practice. It was not choreography for yourself or for the princess. It was a release, and nothing else.

You allowed yourself to be sloppy, imprecise. You were not beautiful now, and you didn't want to be. For once, the long dancing ribbons lay discarded in the corner. They only would've gotten in the way right now. You let your feet pound freely on the ground, your head snap whatever way it wanted, your arms lash out in any direction.

It was a long time before you stopped, and only then because your lungs started to burn.

"What's got you all worked up?"

Startled by the noise, you whipped around to face it, then relaxed. Sandor. Out of his armor, sitting against the wall. His mouth twitched upwards. "Just me, little fox."

You sighed. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough."

With another sigh, you padded over and sat down next to him. A strong arm engulfed your shoulders, and you let him pull you to his side with a gentle force. It helped. Just a little, but it helped.

"What happened?"

"Trant."

Sandor's grip tightened, and you rested your head against him. The worn cotton of his shirt and his scent familiar. His warm hand grazed your chin, tilting your head just enough for him to look you in the eyes. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, just a slap. Didn't leave a mark."

Sandor nodded, letting go of your chin, though he still frowned. "One day, I'm gonna shove my sword through that cunt."

"Not if I do it first," you snorted.

Sandor matched your laugh. "You don't even own a sword, little fox."

"Then I'll steal one," you said with playful finality, pressing yourself yet further into his side. Your rage slowly drained with his touch, as if he'd drawn it from your body and put contentment, however temporary, in its place.

Through the open wall of your studio, the setting sun painted you and your lover in rays of gold. You stayed like that for a time-- comfortable silence, warmth from Sandor's body, the feeling of security that was so rare for you both these days. A brief oasis.

Sandor's thumb drew circles on your arm. He sighed. "Really, though. Tell me what happened." His tone was casual in that somber kind of way, but as usual, he was terrible at fully masking the concern underneath. So reserved, he was, yet so very open all the same.

You told him, although more for his sake than yours. "I wasn't looking where I was..." you started, then backpedaled. There was no need to be respectful about Meryn fucking Trant around Sandor. "No, actually, Trant wasn't looking where he was going, and he ran into me, and since he's an absolute piece of shit--"

"Let me guess, blamed it on you?"

"Yes! He blamed it on me!" You waved your arms, "and it was clearly his fault. I'm certain he knew that he'd done it, too. He just likes slapping people around."

"Aye, that he does," Sandor agreed. He was silent for a few moments, as if trying to find the right words. You gave him time. You'd always give him time. Words didn't come to him like they did to you, but you held onto everything he said all the more for it. Your lover turned to look you in the eyes.

"If I could, I'd give that shit right back to 'im for hurting you, little fox. I'd kill 'im for it."

How tired he looked in that moment. The glowing sunset couldn't hide the drooping in his eyes, the lines of his furrowed brow. It all struck you with an urge to hold him, despite his size. To offer him the comfort he so readily offered you. Your hand found his face. His cheek was rough with stubble underneath your fingers, but you didn't mind, even when it pressed against your palm as he leaned into your touch. "I know," You whispered. "I know you would."

You left the 'I'd kill for you, too,'  unspoken, but you knew he understood as he pulled you back to his chest, where you belonged. After all, where else could you fit so perfectly? Not even in the sands of your home was there a place so comfortable as the pocket of his arm. 

Sandor was the reason you suffered this city, and he was the reason you survived it. He offered you care, and let you care for him in return, even as the world turned an uphill battle for the both of you.

Drawing idle circles on your lover's back, you let your worries go for now. You couldn't fix the world for each other. But you could sit together a while, and watch the sun leave the sky, and that could be comfort enough.

-----

the sellsword's taglist: @poisonsage808

sandor clegane's taglist: no one here yet!

(ask to be added to taglists! 'the sellsword's' is for all of my works on this account. Each character ive written for also has their own separate taglist, if you'd only like to be notified for certain characters.)

#game of thrones #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #game of thrones x reader #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x reader #the sellsword writes

[kandisheek]

FIC REC WEEK 7 - ANGST

He Keeps Me Warm by fangirlingfanatic

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: NR Words: 4,482 Tags: PTSD, Superfamily, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Steve has a nightmare about the plane crash and Tony is there to keep him warm. Also, Peter knows how to make hot chocolate.

Reasons why I love it: This fic is the perfect blend of hurt and comfort. I really feel for Steve here, his pain feels so visceral and raw. But the way Tony and Peter take care of him more than makes up for the hurt. The superfamily feels are definitely strong with this one. This fic is absolutely lovely, and I bet you'll love it just as much as I did!

Snowblind (The Hypothermia Remix) by SmileAndASong

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 1,581 Tags: Alcohol Abuse, Guilt, Homelessness

Summary: There’s a man lying against the gilded gates of Avengers Mansion and at first, Steve doesn’t recognize him.

Reasons why I love it: Tony's multiple drinking arcs are some of my favorite topics for angst-centric fics, and this one is a great example of that. The ending especially hits really hard, and I love how Steve struggles with both anger and guilt and how to express his feelings properly. This fic is great, and I hope you give it a shot!

Waiting For You Still by De_Marvel_Bunny

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: NR Words: 2,111 Tags: Major Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug

Summary: As per request: Steve goes back into the ice. He comes back out to find all the original Avengers dead and Tony waiting for him in the hospital

Reasons why I love it: This fic is so, so fucking sad. Keep some tissues handy before you click the link, folks, and enjoy getting your heart ripped out of your chest. I sure as hell did!

Pawprints by Perlmutt

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: E Words: 7,746 Tags: Werewolves, Blood and Injury, Disability

Summary: “Steve?” Tony breathed, not convinced that what he was seeing was real. The light of the perfectly round moon painted the scenery silver. A pair of huge green eyes fixed on him, and Tony had just enough time to realize that there was no recognition in them before the wolf pounced on him. This was not how Tony had imagined their first night alone together.

Reasons why I love it: This fic fucks me up in the best possible way. It's so raw and painful, but the last few paragraphs give me that hopeful tingle that makes it all okay. I love how visceral the violence is, and the aftermath just rips my heart to shreds. This fic is fantastic, and I hope you give it a shot for yourself!

the art of letting go by somalester

Pairing: Steve/Tony Rating: T Words: 3,778 Tags: Major Character Death, Grief, Coma

Summary: Following a bad hit during a fight, Tony falls into a coma he's not expected to wake up from. Steve doesn't cope.

Reasons why I love it: This fic feels like a punch to the throat. It choked me up hard. Made me cry. It's amazingly painful but yet kind of beautiful in its own way? I love it, and I hate it (but really, I love it). If you've been looking for a good cry, give this one a whirl. Don't say I didn't warn you.

#marvel #stony #fanfic #fic rec #ficrec #fanfic rec #a year in fanfic recs #angst

[thesandsofelsweyr]

HIS

《 CHAPTER 2/4 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

Jason has been beaten half to death with a crowbar, shredded by barbed wire, strung up for so long his shoulders ripped from their sockets, shocked, starved, branded… It's only a wooden paddle, it can’t hurt more than any of the Clown’s other toys… right?

《RATING》 🔞 Explicit 《WORDS》 1,362

《CHARACTERS》 Jason Todd/Robin, Joker, Bruce Wayne (mentioned)

《TROPES》 Hurt No Comfort, Angst, Whump, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

《WARNINGS》 Humiliation, Forced Nudity, Non-Consensual Spanking, Paddling, Ownership, Torture, Blood and Injury, Non-Consensual Touching, Scars

《SERIES》 Part 2 of My Arkhamverse, Part 2 of Ruined

《TAGLIST》 @aaliyah-wayne @ladytauria @millyhelp @betty-1880

《NOTES》

This fic is dark (and will get even darker in the following chapters) so be aware of the tags (especially the DD:DNE tag)

If you'd like to be added/removed from the taglist, you can submit a request here!

Kudos & comments on AO3, as well as reblogs here, are greatly appreciated 💛 (I'd really love to see this fic get more attention so that I'll be inspired to finish writing it!)

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated)

The first blow was harder than he’d ever imagined, the second blow was even worse. Joker was swinging that heavy wooden paddle like a baseball bat, driving his scrawny body into the side of the desk with such violent force that the solid wood desk bucked beneath him.

“Five sir,” Jason grunted as thousands of red hot needles stung his bare ass.

Before the sting of the last blow faded, before he could prepare himself for the next blow, before he could even catch his breath, another loud CRACK shot through his storage room cell then searing pain exploded in his paper-thin flesh. “Ssssix, ssssir!” he hissed through gritted, broken teeth. Every muscle in his emaciated body was pulled taut as he fought to keep still while the paddle landed again and again across the same burning stripe of skin. There was hardly any meat protecting his skinny ass so he felt each bruising swat all the way down to the bone.

CRACK! “Eleven, sir!” CRACK! “Twelve, sir!”

The Clown was continuing his “angry dad” routine but Jason had tuned him out while he focused on surviving each horrible stroke. He clung to the lip of the desk as if it were a life raft, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white. With his ear pressed against the wood, he could hear his heart hammering in his chest as his malnourished body absorbed shockwave after shockwave of tremendous pain.

CRACK! “Thirteen, sir!” CRACK! “Fourteen, sir!”

CRACK! The paddle tore into the tender skin where cheeks met thighs, right above his dangling balls. “Fffffifteen, fffffuck!” He bit down on his tongue a split second too late to contain the curse.

Immediately his heart leapt into his throat and he flinched as Joker rubbed the flat of the paddle against his blistered asscheeks. “Was that a naughty word I just heard?”

“No!” he squealed desperately, remembering the time the Clown had duct-taped a sudsy bar of gooey soap in his mouth before stringing him up by the wrists then leaving him dangling for hours—punishment for his “naughty words.” “No sir, please. I didn’t mean it. Fif-fifteen, sir. Please. It hurts so much,” he begged breathlessly.

A whoosh of air licked against his vulnerable sack a heartbeat before the paddle cut across that same tender crease of stretched skin. CRACK! “Sixteen, sir!” Jason shouted, his legs straining painfully against the urge to close them and protect his nuts from that wicked piece of wood.

Whenever Willis had been sober enough to notice him, he’d find an excuse to beat him. When he wasn’t using his fists, he’d whip him bloody with a belt, leaving angry red welts down his back, ass, and thighs that lasted for days. But this pain was different. Each stroke seemed to burn his humiliation, his weakness, his cowardice, his failures, his shame, deep into his flesh like the brand on his cheek. Another agonizing reminder of how helpless he was to resist, how he was no longer in control of his life. How he let himself be treated this way because he was too afraid to fight back.

CRACK! “Twenty… ohhh… twenty-two, sir,” he moaned.

There was no predictable rhythm to the blows. Sometimes the psycho would hit him several times in rapid-fire succession, and Jason could hardly keep count. Other times Joker would wait long, agonizing minutes before hitting him again, teasing him with soft taps before the torturous blow.

Jason clenched his throbbing ass as the paddle rubbed hard circles over the bruises, then—CRACK! “Thirty-five, SIR!”

The burn grew hotter and hotter with each brutal blow, the sting more maddening, and before long he was squirming like a child to avoid getting hit across the same raw band of angry red skin, his voice increasing in octaves until he was nearly squealing like a piglet. Sweat dripped from his forehead, into his eyes, stinging them.

CRACK! Joker had given that one a bit of an upswing. His head snapped back and he yelped, “AH! Forty-seven, sir!”

Not even fifty strokes and he already felt tears wetting the corners of his eyes. “Pathetic,” a familiar voice echoed in his head, and his racing heart shriveled in his chest. Batman scowled at him. “You just reminded me it’s better to work alone,” his old partner growled before shaking his head in disgust and turning away, leaving Robin behind. Jason squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to hold back the hot tears of shame threatening to spill down his ruined cheeks.

CRACK! “Fifty-three, s-s-sir,” he cried, his voice finally breaking with the dam of tears.

A gloved hand seized a fistful of sweat-damp black hair and wrenched his head back, yanking his neck into a painful arch. “Are you crying already? I’m just getting warmed up, baby boy.”

The fist loosened and Jason’s head fell limply back against the blood-stained desk with a thud. “I’m sorry sir,” he whimpered feebly.

Joker sighed. “I suppose I should’ve expected as much. Why did my ol’ Batsy keep you ‘round for so long? His munchkin army was much more impressive before you sullied its ranks.” Jason choked back a hollow sob as Joker continued to mock him. “I don’t think the first Boy Blunder would be boo-hoo-ing right now, do you? And what about the girl? I doubt a little hide-tanning would have her in tears.”

Shame reddened his face. “No sir,” he agreed wanly with a sniffle. He hated being reminded how he didn’t measure up to the first Robin, how he deserved to be thrown away, to be replaced with a better model. One that wasn’t a useless, sniveling coward.

Joker sighed again, then tapped the paddle against Jason’s burning ass, lining up his next shot. Jason sucked in a quivering breath and gripped the lip of the desk even tighter.

The blows that followed were even more brutal than the first fifty-three.

“This is no more than you deserve.” CRACK! “Running away from your Batdaddy,” CRACK! “trying to take down the big, bad Clown all by yourself.” CRACK! “Did you really think you could kill little ol’ me?” CRACK! “I asked you a question!” CRACK! CRACK!

“No sir!” he wailed. “Fifty-nine, sir!”

“Liar… liar… pants… on… fire!” Joker punctuated each word with overlapping blows and Jason was on his toes trying to redistribute the awful pain. “I took you in when you fell into my lap,” CRACK! “after your Bat-daddy abandoned you.” CRACK! “Put a roof over your head,” CRACK! “food in your belly,” CRACK! “even let you keep the clothes on your back.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! “And you repay the kindness of my heart,” CRACK! “by running away?” CRACK! CRACK! “That broke my heart, sonny boy.” CRACK! “I thought we really had something special,” CRACK! “you and me.” CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Seventy-nine—ah! Please, I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry!” he sobbed, squirming as the paddle rubbed hard circles over his battered, burning flesh. “Please,” he rasped, “please forgive me—ohhh…” The paddle tapped his ass, and he braced for the next blow. When the blow didn’t fall, Jason stupidly prayed the punishment was over until he felt Joker bending over his back, then a gloved finger traced the J on his cheek.

“How can I forgive you,” Joker asked softly, dragging a bony finger over the curved and puckered letter, “if I don’t believe you’re truly sorry for what you’ve done?” Joker pressed down, rubbing the brand harshly with the pad of his thumb, irritating the scabbed skin. Jason winced. “I thought this would help you remember your place, but you’ve forced my hand, kiddo. You still haven’t learned your lesson.”

“I have sir, please, I swear. I’m your sidekick,” he panted. “Yours.” CRACK! “Eighty, ugh! Please! This is my home now, I know. I know. I swear to God I’ll never run again.”

Joker gave his branded cheek a soft pat. “Oh I know you won’t, my darling baby bird,” he cooed in his ear before straightening and resting the heavy paddle against Jason’s black and blue ass. “But just in case you start to forget, you need a reminder of what happens to naughty little boys who misbehave.”

#sands writes #my arkhamverse #series: ruined #fic: his #jason todd #joker #robin #arkham asylum #arkham knight #arkhamverse #whump #angst #dead dove: do not eat #jason todd angst #jason todd whump #jason todd fanfiction #dcu

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 05/12/2023

It's Snowy but its snowy

Season 2 Featured on: Rips of Christmas Past

Ripped by Ahmaykmewsik

And so, we return to our regularly scheduled, holiday-season programming. Though, its a bit more low-key this time - I talked quite highly last week about Patched Plains Fusion Collab and snow halation but it shreds (and rightfully so), yet those were both rips made for very special occasions. The amount of love poured into those rips was both evident, yet also somewhat expected given the context they were released in, as part of a greater event. And part of what I love about It's Snowy but its snowy is how its able to be excellent despite being in the complete opposite context - a rip amidst a sea of others, quietly ringing its bells of cheer, hoping someone's around to notice it.

And like, it was kind of obvious to me that It's Snowy but its snowy was going to end up affecting me in some way. This is ripper Ahmaykmewsik's fourth appearance on the blog, after already being behind one of my all-time favorites in Your Silent Reality - the guy has a long track record of being very good at tugging at your heart strings. Yet again, what I love about It's Snowy but its snowy is that its able to do that whilst not exactly being loud-and-proud about its own quality. It's a seven minute rip without much in the way of twists or dramatic turns - instead, its a comforting, soothing medley arrangement, of various Christmas songs played with the same piano instrumentation as the original Snowy. On top of that, SiIva's typical draw of bait-and-switching its audience is lost completely here: the rip's title spoils the common thread with each of its edits.

Yet without ceremony, without surprise, without subversion, and even without the context to really warrant it, It's Snowy but its snowy delivers exactly what it promises with absolute splendor. There's small little flourishes on top to tie the whole package together - faint sounds of Undertale characters talking, instrument cues from Temmie Village at one point, a faint sound effect from the Genocide Route - little things bringing your mind back to Undertale, as if you're taking a stroll through the Underground during the holiday season. Yet it never distracts or shies away from the main point of the rip - to be seven minutes of calm, soothing reminiscence on the Christmas season.

For as exciting as the aforementioned other Christmas rips were, I find myself returning to It's Snowy but its snowy far more often - at least once every Christmas, and several more times in the months inbetween. Because that excitement that Patched Plains Fusion Collab holds, while palpable, is sort of fleeting - it was building up to an event which we've now mostly seen unfold. Ahmaykmewsik channels that other part of Christmas cheer - the fondness of nostalgia, of remembering the good times, and celebrating the music that we've loved since we were children. Its easy to feel fed up with White Christmas and Winter Wonderland, yet deep down I find it hard to truly be antagonistic of them given just how much the Christmas season means to me every year.

Hey, its just a few weeks left, everyone. Happy Holidays.

#todays siivagunner #season 2 #siivagunner #siiva #Ahmaykmewsik #undertale #utdr #toby fox #sans undertale #papyrus undertale #undertale music #undertale ost #christmas #holidays #xmas #festive #xmas 2023 #merry christmas #christmas music #christmas songs #holiday music #Youtube #Bandcamp

[drabbles-mc]

Over and Over and Over Again

Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff

Fic for @the-slumberparty Week 3 Challenge: Something New. The trope I got was time loop!

Warnings: 18+, blood/injury, canon-typical violence, angst, hurt/comfort, technically character death??? it's a time loop idk if it still counts lol

Word Count: 6.5k

A/N: Sooo just like the challenge title says, this was very much something new for me! I've never written a time loop fic so I hope this came out alright. I've been wanting to write more for Bucky and Nat and this felt like a good opportunity for that. Hope you enjoy! xo

MCU Taglist: @garbinge @artemiseamoon (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

He came-to, rattled by the pervasive feeling that he’d just been falling. His heart was racing in his chest, breathing labored which had him wondering if he really had fallen. His limbs felt heavy, and he could feel the sweat and grime on his face. The more he registered everything around him, the more familiar it all felt. The problem was, that though it felt familiar, it also felt wrong.

He finally made a point to look around the room he was in. It was abandoned, filthy, and almost completely empty. Craning his neck, he looked upward and was met with the sight of a shattered skylight. That would explain the falling sensation that had ripped through him.

Everything in his body felt just a little out of alignment. He went to roll his shoulders when he caught a glimpse of his arm and froze. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t been branded with a red star on his metal arm in years. That part of his life was long since over.

Once he realized that, all the other realizations came in rapid succession. He felt the mask covering the lower half of his face, his long hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat. It was all wrong. He was all wrong. And he was wrong in a way that he hadn’t ever felt before, and until that moment he thought that he had felt every single kind of wrong there was. This was a body he no longer belonged in, a part of his life he had completely moved on from. He knew that because the rage that came with this body, the lack of control, none of that was there. He didn’t know what was happening, or why, but he wanted it to be over.

Reaching up, he went to tear the mask off his face, but it wouldn’t budge. The more he fought against it, the harder it became to breathe, one problem feeding right into the other. For all the mental control he had now, there was nothing he could do about the physical. He was stuck like this, in whatever place he was in, until he figured out how to undo it. Fix whatever was broken.

Once his breathing was as normal as it was going to get, he reached down and grabbed the large gun off the floor, slinging it across his body with ease before heading to the door that would lead him to the rest of the building.

He carefully made his way into the hall, scanning and his hand ready to reach for the handgun strapped to his thigh. He could hear chaos and gunfire outside. None of the voices were distinct enough to clue him into wherever the hell he was. Wherever it was, it wasn’t Brooklyn, that was for damn sure.

There were only two flights of stairs left between him and the exit when he heard another set of footsteps, these ones too close for comfort. He grabbed his handgun, flipping the safety off as the footsteps got closer. Whoever it was, was coming up the stairs towards him.

Then he saw her, the first real shred of relief he had in the center of this whole mess. He lowered his gun as he looked at her. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who had been thrown into a past version of themselves.

Natasha had gone through countless looks over the years to go with her countless identities. He’d know her no matter what though. She couldn’t see it, but there was a small smile of relief on Bucky’s face as he continued down the stairs closer to her.

“Nat,” he said, his voice slightly distorted between the mask and the fact that he still hadn’t really caught his breath. He went to holster his handgun as he spoke. “I’m so—"

He was cut off by her shooting at him. He brought his metal arm up just in time to keep from getting shot in the head. His reflexes weren’t failing him yet. Even so, he couldn’t hide the shock on his face, in his eyes, at what was happening.

Bucky tried to think logically, but it was difficult when she was trying to put a bullet between his eyes. Maybe she didn’t really think it was him. Maybe she was just as lost and confused and assuming the worst. After all, Black Widow and The Winter Soldier didn’t have nearly the same kind of rapport or relationship as Natasha and Bucky. Two different sets of people, two different sets of lifetimes. He just had to prove to her that it was him.

Every moment they’d ever shared was running through his brain at warp-speed, but he couldn’t articulate any of them as he blocked each blow she tried to land. He couldn’t get any words out as he watched the rage in Natasha’s eyes, an anger that hadn’t been directed at him in so long, he almost forgot what it looked like.

He had been so focused on the intense look that he almost didn’t hear that she was talking. She wasn’t talking to him, even though she was looking at him. It took him more effort than he cared to admit to register what she was saying.

“Target acquired,” she grit out as she continued to try and take him down.

His heart plummeted into his stomach as he continued to try and fight her off. He still wasn’t trying to hurt her. He didn’t want to do that. The two of them had spent so many years at odds, through no fault of his own, and so many years after that rebuilding everything that was broken there. He didn’t want to go back on all of that now because of whatever new Hell he had been thrown into with her. He didn’t know if he would have it in him anymore.

So, he stayed on the defensive. He blocked and dodged and did whatever he could do not let her walk him down the last two flights of stairs. She was fighting with everything that she had, and it certainly wasn’t an easy fight for Bucky at this point either. It had been a long time since he felt so lost.

He deflected one of her punches, aggressively swiping her arm away. He pushed her, pinning her between his body and the unforgiving concrete wall behind her. He gripped her wrists, pinning her arms above her head, each movement rougher than he wanted it to be but there was nothing else he could do.

“Nat, it’s me,” he said desperately as she struggled against him.

Her expression didn’t soften at all at his pleading tone, no recognition in her eyes as the two of them continued to stare at each other. She took a deep breath, not breaking eye contact with him as she said, “I know,” before leveraging her weight against him, bringing her leg up and slamming her foot down on the top of his knee as hard as she could.

Bucky winced, his grip on her wrists loosening just enough for her to wrench one hand free. Bucky’s eyes went wide as he realized what she was doing. “Natasha please don’t—”

His words fell on deaf ears as she reached and grabbed one of the knives that he kept strapped to him. She brought her hand up and was about to bring the knife to his throat. Panic surged through him in a way that he thought he would never feel again. He didn’t know that he was still capable of feeling it. Sheer instinct took over, his body moving independently from his mind as he grabbed her wrist, cranking it harshly and turning it back on her, driving the blade directly into her chest.

They both fell to the floor in tandem, Bucky’s arms slipping around her as they both went down. He was making sure that her head didn’t smack off the concrete floor, like it would make any difference now, like she would even know why he was trying to show any shred of kindness.

He was trying to hold her, just as much for himself as for her, but with what little strength she still had left she was struggling against him. He kept apologizing over and over, trying not to think about the blood that was starting to drip from her body onto the floor. It didn’t stand out against her black clothing, but he could feel the tackiness of it beneath his fingers. The more he apologized, the more confused she looked.

“Natasha, please.” He reached for the blade that was jutting from her chest. “I’m so sorry.”

She reached up, her hand wrapping around his wrist. It would’ve been a vice grip if she hadn’t been bleeding out on the floor. He knew that. But for the moment, he was just soaking up the warmth that was bleeding from her palm into the thin strip of his wrist that was exposed. He could hear the footsteps getting closer as her grip got weaker. He didn’t even care about what was going to happen next.

Her hand fell to the floor, her body going limp in his arms at the same moment the door on the first floor got kicked in. He shut his eyes tight, dropping his forehead down so it rested against hers. He held onto her, waiting for the hits, the pain, everything that wasn’t coming.

Then he jolted awake on the cold concrete floor. He was gasping for breath as he lied there flat on his stomach. He coughed a few times, forcing himself up so that he was braced against his palms and his knees for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he stood upright, looking straight up at the ceiling. That’s when he saw the shattered skylight.

For a brief moment, he felt like he was going to throw up. He fought against it, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to pull the mask off his face. He tried to take a few deep breaths to try and steady himself, not that he was successful, not that they would do that much good anyway. None of it was making any sense.

He grabbed the gun off the floor again, and made his way to the door of the room again. Despite the fact that he’d done it before, he didn’t feel any more confident or in control as he walked out of the room and out into the hall. There was the same cacophony erupting outside as he made his way down the stairs. He stopped at the top of the same flight that he had last time, listening for what he now knew where Natasha’s footsteps. He was ready this time. Or, at least, he was as ready as he could try to be given the circumstances.

Then she was there. Just like before. He didn’t let himself get floored like he had the first time. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t let himself have any feeling of relief. He was only going to grant himself that when she recognized him. Which, with the way she was already firing her gun at him, clearly hadn’t happened yet.

They grappled, Bucky taking her to the floor in the hopes that it would make it easier to force her to stop for a second, to really look at him and listen to him. He just needed to make her really see him. If he could get her to set her rage aside for a moment, they might actually be able to get somewhere. He wondered how many times in the past someone had that same thought about him. He didn’t have the luxury of time to be able to think about it.

“You’re okay,” he grunted out as he fought to keep her pinned to the floor. “It’s me.” She was still struggling against him as he said, “It’s Bucky. I promise.”

Turning her hips slightly, she got him to shift just enough so that she could pull her one leg up, bringing her knee towards her chest for all of a moment before kicking him harshly right in the middle of his sternum, sending him backwards. Jumping up, she reached and pulled the other gun that she had holstered to her. She brought it up, firing one shot after another directly at his head, and he managed to block every single one. He almost didn’t want to, though.

He wondered for a brief moment if her killing him would be the only way to put him out of his misery. He didn’t want to keep doing this over and over again. He wasn’t strong enough for that kind of repetitive torture, not anymore. If him killing her didn’t do the trick, maybe her killing him would.

But then her gun ran out of bullets. Bucky knew for a fact that she had more ammo on her. In all the time he’d known her, Natasha had never gone anywhere underprepared. He found it curious, then, that she threw the gun off to the side and charged towards him. She was on him fast, and all Bucky could bring himself to do was shell up and try to block her blows. He was fighting every reflex that he had that was telling him to loft her off him and down the remainder of the stairs. He didn’t want that. He just wanted to get through to her.

The hits stopped for a moment. Pulling his arms away from his face so he could try to get a look at her, Bucky saw that she was, once again, reaching for the blade that he had on him. If there was a next time, he would be getting rid of that immediately. As it was, though, he allowed her to grab it and then promptly knocked it from her hand. It clattered against the concrete, both of them watching it for a moment before going back to looking at each other.

The anger in her eyes intensified as she grabbed the handgun from his thigh. Reaching up, he closed the hand of his metal arm over the barrel of the gun. His vice grip rendered the gun useless after she pulled the trigger the first time.

The sound of frustration that she let out as she ripped the gun out of his hands was something from deep in his memory banks, in one of the boxes that he tried to keep closed at all costs. She changed her hold on the gun, instead of using it for its intended purpose, she brought it down hard, cracking it against the side of his forehead.

He grunted in pain as he finally pushed her off him. “Natasha!” he yelled as he jumped to his feet, trying to back up a step to put some distance between them. “Please, just listen to me!”

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “I don’t care about anything you have to say.”

“Don’t make me do this again.”

Confusion flashed across her face for a moment at his statement, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived as she charged at him one more time. They fought, nearly going right back to the ground again. Bucky managed to get a grip on her, his vibranium hand wrapping around her throat as he pinned her to the wall, keeping his arm extended and some distance between them. He wasn’t squeezing hard enough to kill her, not yet. He saw the panic in her eyes even it was something that she wouldn’t ever cop to.

“You know me,” he said with ragged breaths, “and I know you. Come on, Natasha. Look at me.”

She kicked at him, not that it did her any good. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it. Because I told you, I don’t care what you have to say, what lies you want to tell me.”

“Nat—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as she called out, alerting the rest of her team to where they were. He sighed, his head dropping, hair falling in front of his face. As much as he didn’t want to, he forced himself to look her in the eyes as his grip around her throat tightened.

“I’m so sorry.”

He woke up again. And again. And again. Each time he woke up in the same spot, with the same means. Each time he tried to change his tactics just slightly, hoping for a different outcome. He tried letting her just put a bullet in his skull. He was hoping that even the worst case scenario was that he would just die for real, even if it wasn’t the most optimal solution to getting out of the hell loop that he was stuck in. But it didn’t even do that. It didn’t free him, didn’t kill him. It just reset him.

He tried waiting for her to make it up all the stairs to get to him. He thought that maybe it would make it easier to get her to listen, but it didn’t. He tried getting her to follow him out of the building and into a different one. He tried to play the hand he’d been dealt every single way that he knew how, but none of the plays ever worked.

They all ended the same way: with Natasha dead, because of him. Over and over again he had her lifeless body sprawled across his lap, clutched tightly in his metal hand, strewn across the floor. Time after time he saw her bloody and bruised because of things that he had done.

For a moment he wondered if this was the universe making him pay for all of the things he’d done before. All the years of killing and violence finally catching up to him. The universe let him have a beat of happiness, of love, and now they were going to use it against him. Now that he knew how to love someone, how to let someone love him, the universe was just going to make him kill that person over and over again until, well, he didn’t know.

Bucky was sitting on the floor of the room he woke up in when Natasha came slinking in, her gun at the ready. He was sitting with his back against the wall, knees bent and his elbows pressing into his thighs as he raked his fingers back through his long hair.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” he said, calling out to her from the opposite side of the room.

“I think it does,” Natasha answered calmly, already reaching for her gun.

“Every time we do this, it never gets us anywhere.”

“Every time?” She clicked the safety off.

“I don’t want to keep killing you.”

She laughed and shook her head at that. “I know I’ve never come out on top, but come on, Soldier, you haven’t been lucky enough to kill me yet.”

“Natasha, please.”

“You don’t want to keep killing me?” Her sarcasm stung him in a way he hadn’t been ready for. “Fine. Let me kill you.”

He shook his head, looking up at her as she stood over him. There was enough sadness in his eyes to fill an ocean but she couldn’t see it, too blinded by her anger and desire to put an end to this. His head rested back against the cold wall behind him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he told her helplessly.

“Let’s find out.”

He locked his eyes with hers. “If I tell you about this next time, will you believe me then?”

She shrugged, her tone flippant as she answered, “Sure.”

He woke up gasping like he had just broken the surface after being underwater. He was in no rush to get himself upright this time. He was so tired. He almost wished that with each reset, he’d forget about the previous one. But he didn’t. Instead, he was just being crushed more and more under the weight of each unsuccessful attempt to free himself, to make Natasha see him the way that he knew she could.

When he got out of this, if he got out of this, he wondered if he was going to be carrying all those memories with him still. He wondered if he would have to look at Natasha at home, in their kitchen, in their shared bed, sitting with her feet on the dash of his car, and remember killing her over and over and over again.

Bucky knew that he shouldn’t put any stock in what she had told him. It had been made painfully clear to him that he was the only one out of the two of them who remembered anything that happened each time the loop reset. Still, though, if he didn’t cling to the tiny glimmer of hope it provided, he would have nothing at all left to cling to.

He stripped himself of all his weapons. No more guns or blades or anything else. He still wished that he could pull the mask off the bottom half of his face, but this would have to do. He knew that he didn’t have much more time before Natasha came through the door again. He pulled the door so that it was open at a ninety-degree angle. It allowed him some cover for a split second when she walked into the room, and hopefully that’s all he would need.

When he heard her footsteps getting close, he stood with his back against the door, completely hidden from her view. He kept his eyes trained on the ground, and the second that he saw the toe of her boot peer past the edge of the door, he moved in. In what felt like one fluid motion, he knocked the gun from her hands, shut the door so it was just the two of them in the room, and pinned her against the wall.

He made quick work of gripping both her wrists in one hand, and covering her mouth with the other. She was struggling against him but it wasn’t getting her anywhere. He could see the defeat creeping onto her face. It sent a wave of pain through his chest to know that she could already envision him killing her, and that in his reality he might not have any other choice. He wished that he could tell her it wouldn’t come to that and mean it, but he just didn’t know anymore.

“You need to listen,” he spoke quietly, harshly. His chest was pressed against hers and she could feel the dramatic rise and fall of it as he breathed, never really having gotten it back in order since the first time he woke up here. He tried to ignore it. “You promised me you’d listen, that you’d believe me.”

Her brows drew together and she mumbled something against his hand. Bucky couldn’t hear what it was, but judging by the look on her face it wasn’t anything that he would really want to hear anyway. This was all a longshot. It was all futile to him at this point, but he couldn’t phone it in just yet.

“We keep doing this,” he told her, adjusting his legs and hips as she tried to wriggle free from him. “I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve done this. It always ends the same. You kill me. I kill you. Then I wake up right here again, waiting for you to come up those stairs. Over and over. Nat, you need to listen to me. We can’t keep doing this. We’re never going to get out if we keep doing this.”

Her breathing was ragged too as her eyes darted back and forth between his. Bucky could tell that she was trying to figure out if he was serious, or if he was just trying to manipulate her somehow. He waited a few more seconds before pulling his hand away from her mouth, giving her a chance to say something, anything about what he’d just told her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you really wanted to get out, you should’ve left before I got here.”

Bucky wanted to shake her. He wished that he knew what to say to make her see what was going on. That had to be the key. That had to be how he got out. He could only get out if he was taking her with him. It was the only thing he could think of.

“Do you believe me?” he asked, already having a feeling about the answer.

“Does that matter? You’re going to kill me either way, right?”

He shook his head, fighting the urge to scream. “I don’t—” He stopped himself and leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers as he shut his eyes. It was a gesture that used to be a source of comfort, but he could feel how it wasn’t the same, how she was confused, tense. He understood that but he wished he could change it.  “I don’t want to. I can’t keep doing it. I just, I need you to believe me.” He pulled away so he could look her in the eyes. “I need you to believe me so that we can get out of here.”

“We?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

“I know exactly who you are,” Bucky told her. And he was right. He knew nothing about this world he was trapped in, but he knew about her. Natasha was the one thing he could be confident about, even if she didn’t know that anymore.

“You shoot me once? Outrun me a few times? And now, what, you think you know me?”

He cupped her chin with the hand that wasn’t holding her wrists. His grip wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t hurting her, either. “I know who you are, Natasha. I do. And you know who I am.” He wanted to hold her for real, but he couldn’t. He knew her well enough to know that if he let her go, they would end up right back where they ended each time. He didn’t want to do that again.

“What happens if I believe you?” Her tone conveyed that she didn’t believe him, not yet.

But Bucky was willing to take her curiosity as a win. It was more than he’d ever gotten from her in the past. “I don’t know,” he told her honestly. “You never have before.”

“Why would I?”

He didn’t have a good answer for that either. “I don’t know. But I don’t, I don’t have any other options.” He paused. “You’re all I have.” That statement, he knew, was true no matter where he woke up.

There was a long stretch of silence, that in reality was only a handful of seconds but it felt so much longer than that. He spoke up again. “If I wanted you dead, Natasha, you would be. I,” he hesitated, “I’ve done it a million times already.”

She didn’t say anything, but Bucky felt the way the tension in her body changed. She wasn’t fully relaxed, because who would be? But he saw the way there was the tiniest drop in her shoulders as a bit of the tightness went away. That was a win.

Figuring that the worst case scenario was that she would kill him and they would have to start all over again, he let her go and stepped back. She dropped her arms to her sides, immediately rubbing her hands over her sore wrists. She fought to catch her breath as she kept her eyes locked on Bucky. She still didn’t trust him, still didn’t know what his plan was, but she believed him for some reason when he said that if he wanted her dead, she would be.

They were locked in a stalemate. Natasha waited for whatever Bucky had to say next, Bucky waited for the world to come crashing down around him now that he’d made a tiny step forward with Natasha. But nothing changed. It was just the two of them in an empty room with the world falling apart outside.

Looking around, she saw the way that he’d piled all of his weapons on the opposite side of the room. That seemed like a dumb move to her, but then again, nothing that he had said or done made a lick of sense to her anyway.

Bucky followed her eye-line and saw what she was looking at. He wondered if she was trying to figure out how to get her hands on it. Maybe it had all been for nothing. He wanted to have the right thing to say, but whatever train of thought he had been trying to put together was cut off by the sounds of other footsteps coming up the stairs.

The two of them looked at each other and Natasha asked, “What now?”

He shook his head, eyes wide in disbelief. It was the most genuine she’d sounded with him this entire time and yet he didn’t know what his answer was. “I…I don’t know.”

She reached and grabbed the gun that was holstered on the back of her waist. Bucky’s heart plummeted into his stomach when she raised it in his direction. Something in him told him that he wasn’t going to get this lucky twice. If he didn’t make it work this time, he didn’t think that he was ever going to get out.

He took a deep breath, ready to try and plead with her, not that that had ever done him much good in the past. But, just as he opened his mouth to try and make his case, the door was kicked open behind them. For a split second he regretted not keeping his weapons nearby, but regret wasn’t about to do him any good.

Much to his surprise, rather than pulling the trigger and killing him while he was completely unarmed, Natasha quickly spun around and started firing at the men who were coming into the room after him, the men on her team.

Bucky froze up for a fraction of a second before getting himself back into gear and going for his gun. The second his fingers wrapped around it, he turned and started shooting. He still didn’t have a clear idea of how many people she was working with—the two of them never lived long enough for him to get a headcount. For now, he was just going to keep shooting until he was either out of bullets or out of people to shoot.

Eventually, the stream of people stopped. Bucky and Natasha were both out of breath, the smell of blood and gunpowder thick in the air. She turned and looked at Bucky, uncertainty all over her face, like she couldn’t believe what she had just done. Bucky couldn’t really believe it either.

Part of Natasha wanted to ask him what happened now, but she could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t have an answer for that. She reached to put her gun back in its holster when her legs gave out and she crumpled to the ground. She barely braced herself in time to make sure her head didn’t collide with the concrete.

Bucky was by her side in an instant. He frantically looked her over, and then he saw it, the blood on the floor coming from a wound in her side. He could tell that it wasn’t all that far from the place that he’d shot her before. There was no end to the layers of cruelty in this universe he was trapped in.

He reached and put his hands on her wound, pressing hard. She let out a groan of pain, but the pain of the pressure was still a better alternative than bleeding out. His breath was shaky, but this time it wasn’t because of the fear he had for himself, but the fear he had for her. Having to kill her all those times was horrible, but having to sit idly by like this was a new and different kind of pain.

“Natasha…”

“If you’re going to get out,” she said, her voice already starting to weaken, “you should go. They’ll send more.”

He nodded, knowing that she was right. He also knew that he wasn’t going to leave without her. He looked her up and down, and Natasha could see it in his eyes that he was trying to figure out the best way to pick her up and move her. He could carry her easily, that wasn’t the issue. The issue was trying to find a way to do that that wouldn’t make her wound any worse than it already was.

“Without me,” she said. “Go without me.”

He shook his head. “I can’t. You’re…all of this is about you. I can’t leave alone.”

“You said it yourself, you’ve done this a million times. You’ll just have to…do it again.”

Bucky let out a shuddered breath. He didn’t know if he had it in him to do it again. He couldn’t keep getting this close only to have it ripped away from him. He looked her in the eyes. “Will you believe me again?”

She gave a small, weak shrug as she laid there. “Maybe.”

He shook his head, not able to resign himself to the reality of the situation. “There’s gotta…gotta be another way.”

“Doesn’t look like there is.”

He lifted her torso just enough so that he could press his forehead to hers again. She didn’t pull away from him, didn’t push him like he expected her to now that she had the freedom to do so. He doubted that she found any comfort in the gesture but it was all he had now.

His eyes were shut tight as he said, “I’ll see you soon.”

One of her hands came to rest on the cold metal of his arm. He could hear the slight trace of sarcasm, of mild disbelief in her voice as she said, “I’ll see you soon.”

Bucky snapped awake, heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t fully take in the room around him as he listened to the sound of glass clattering to the floor, of feet thudding up the stairs and closer to him. His hands were balled into fists, the rest of his body rigid and frozen. It took all he could do to even be able to turn his head to look around.

Natasha came flying into the room, her hair still a damp mess from after her shower. Her eyes were wide as she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Bucky opened and shut his mouth a few times, unable to force out words to answer her. He finally began to realize where he was. This was his room. Their room. There was no more mask stifling his breathing, no more hair sticking to the back of his neck. Glancing down, he saw the more reassuring black and gold arm at his side, one that was plagued with far less memories of torment.

He looked over at Natasha. The Natasha that knew him. The faded blonde ends of her hair hung over her shoulders, leaving wet spots on the fabric of the shirt that she’d stolen from his dresser. She was still lingering in the doorway, unsure of whether or not he wanted her to come any closer, unsure of whether or not that was the right thing.

She took one step past the threshold of their room. “You screamed my name.”

“I did?” he finally got a few words out.

She nodded, walking over to his side of the bed. “Yea.”

“Sorry.”

He shook his head as he sat upright. He didn’t even know where to start. There was no way it had all been a dream. He felt it too much. It went on for too long. It had to have been real. Somehow. He studied Natasha’s face, trying to figure out if anything similar had been plaguing her. She seemed so unbothered, though.

Reaching forward, he grabbed onto the bottom hem of his shirt that she was wearing. She tensed slightly, but she didn’t flinch away from him as he lifted it up. His eyes traveled over her skin, quickly spotting the scar by her hip that he’d left there so long ago. He looked a few inches higher, looking for any sign that what he’d gone through was real in some way. And, sure enough, there was another scar there, a little larger than the one left behind by him.

He brushed his fingers against it, the light contact causing goosebumps to break out over her skin. Natasha swallowed hard. “What happened?”

He looked up at her, exhausted and confused. “Where did this one come from?” he asked her, thumb tracing the skin right below the scar.

Her brows knit together as she tried to think of it. There had been so many fights, so many scars. It was hard to keep them all straight sometimes. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t remember.” She paused. “Why?”

“I, uh,” his voice was hoarse, “I think it was my fault.”

“Your fault? Bucky, no—”

He stood up off the bed and pulled her into him, arms wrapping tightly around her and pinning her body against his. For the first time in what felt like far too long, she returned the embrace. She held him tight, hands splaying across the expanse of his back.

“I’m never gonna hurt you again,” he mumbled against her neck.

She couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t a little confused by it all. “I know.” She pulled away from him so that she could look him in the eyes. She cupped the side of his face for a moment before leaning in to kiss him, getting caught off-guard when he pulled away.

He placed his hand over hers, trying to find comfort in the touch, but he couldn’t. All he could think about was what he’d done to her, the countless times he’d hurt her, killed her. He couldn’t allow himself that softness from her. He didn’t deserve that.

“Natasha…” his voice trailed off, not really sure what he wanted to say to her at this point.

“We’re okay.” She pulled him in so that his forehead was pressed against hers. “I promise.”

Now it was his turn to feel his body flooded with tension at what was supposed to be a comforting gesture. All he could think about was the way she fought against him, the way her body locked up at his touch. But he didn’t know how to say that to her. She didn’t remember, didn’t know. The pain was exclusively his own.

“We’re okay,” he repeated her words, his voice hardly above a whisper.

She nodded. “We are.”

She pulled him into another embrace, and he let her. He tried to ease into it, tried to allow it to comfort him despite the memories that were now going to be engrained in his mind forever. She held him tight and he attempted to focus on the warmth seeping from her body to his. He played her promise that they were okay over and over again in his head, hoping that one day, he’d actually believe it.

#marvel #mcu #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x natasha romanoff #bucky barnes imagine #navy and roo sleepover #navy and roo's sleepover #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #winterwidow #buckynat #timeloop #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

[night-market-if]

I finally reached the chapters about caliban and my heart was ripped to SHREDS, especially with, the One later Part.... one of the heaviest hits/decisions overall in this story and boy did that HURT (great job though, for real, I really actually loved it and have been turning it over in my mind all day!!!). I hope he's okay...

and thank you for all your hard work, it really shows throughout the story and I have an extremely hard time putting it down haha. (milo is my first route and I fell Instantly)

I never once thought Caliban would become what he is for you guys. He is a character that is so near and dear to my heart and to @mooreaux. I was just answering in another ask how he is a comfort character that I had put in this story to essentially help give me something familiar while I still figured out this world.

Caliban I think is also a character that will always be around. I'm sure he'll show back up from time to time and the series progresses. If not him, then probably his children at some point.

🪷✨🪷✨ If you want to support me 🪷 ✨🪷✨ 

Demo 🌿 Patreon 🌿 Ko-fi 🌿Discord

#the night markt #caliban #answering your asks

[carronyaflowers]

Thank you @official-impravidus for the tag!

Rules: Post 10 of your fave movies and tag 10 people.

10. Epic (2013)

When I first watched this, I was such a slut for Josh Hutcherson and Amanda Seyfried. I was so in love with Nod and MK, and Queen Tara + Ronin?? KILL ME

9. Pirates of the Carribean Trilogy

Look at her! She's my queen, my king, my awakening!! And I'm counting the first three films in one because I refuse to separate them. Jack will forever be one of my icons, and Elizabeth + Will will forever be my number 1 ship (even if it doesn't look like it, rhey're my one).

8. 20th Century Girl (2022)

Because this movie made me weep. The friendships! The high school of it all. The first love. 🤧🤧🤧 This is due for a rewatch actually.

7. Zack Snyder's Justice League (2021)

I'm a hoe for these bitches actually. THIS is my justice league. SO FUCKING ICONIC AND PLOT AND CHARACTER ARCS. And henry cavill in that superman suit!!!

6. Lord of the Rings Trilogy

"It's like the great stories, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad has happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer. I know now folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something. That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for." <- TURN THAT SHIT UP

5. The Princess Bride (1987)

Ohh another iconic iconic film. It made me laugh it made me cry it comforted me. If i could, i'd sell my soul to watch this again for the first time.

4. Pride and Prejudice (2005)

HANDS AND LONGING AND YEARNING AND PINING AND KEIRA KNIGHTLEY. YOU HAVE BEWITCHED ME. WALKS IN THE MEADOWS. THE MUSEUM HOUSE THINGY.

3. Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

I'm so jealous of Sam and Suzy's love. Just two kids against the world. And it's so so much. Like take me to an island and let's just wander it together. This is so dear to me, JUST TAKE ME TO MOONRISE KINGDOM WHERE WE CAN DANCE ON THE BEACH.

2. Moulin Rouge (2001)

Such a bonus that when i searched moulin rouge to search for gifs, scott and tessa showed up. Anyways, this film THIS FILM. The audacity it had to take my heart and make it believe in love only to rip it to shreds. And forever robbed that come what may wasn't eligible for best music for oscars bc it wasn't originally written for moulin rouge. And also, look at mr mcgregor and ms kidman. someone mash up my fave songs and create an elephant love medley for me.

1. Dead Poets Society (1989)

i miss neil.

Tagging these people bc i'm curious abt ur fave films: @f1-giuki @dreamingamongthestars @newtness532 @pancsaa @alestire @muhtants @nerdypandablizzard @putyourreddresson @xiaoluclair @fabbyf1

#tumblr tag game #movies #carronya.rambles

[miracle-sham]

Of a Sinking Severed Heart—Bleeding 'Til the End.

| {MGI Team Mixer Event Alphabet Soup Drabble — Letter P} |

| {Blue, Sapphire, I Want To Go Home To My Wife, Soulmates} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] | | [Spotify Link] |

———

| Dragons with soulmates were always said to have hearts made of the purest gemstones. Inevitably this led to them being hunted or captured for the wealth they could grant upon their death. |

| But sometimes, the reason for capturing one is far worse. |

———

| Word Count: 1,029. |

| Warnings/Tags: Major Character Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, implied/referenced torture, implied/referenced non consensual drug use, blood and injury, angst, hurt/no comfort, grief/mourning, non-graphic non-consensual body modification/amputation, dragon Tim Drake, dragon Marinette, and soulmates. |

———

| A/N: Here's the last fic of the event, finally cross-posted to Tumblr! |

| Please make sure to read those tags carefully before reading! But if you're able to handle that sort of content then I hope you enjoy! |

| Also side note, Don’t Like? Don’t Read. |

———

 This couldn't be it, this couldn't be the end. Not here, not now, not for her.

 Tim was helpless to do anything but watch from beyond the sickly green wrought iron cage—poisoned spikes on both the inside and outside of the bars to prevent any attempts at escape.

 Not that it stopped him, mind you. But all that brought him was mocking laughter, a cursed amulet preventing him from shifting back to his human form, clipped wings, horns cut, snout muzzled, sapphire scales torn and patchy—making it hurt to move, talons declawed—phalanges removed so they wouldn't ever grow back, and a cocktail of drugs fogging his mind and torpefying his body, all to keep him from being able to break out on his own.

 Marinette was his precious loving soulmate, she's a part of his hoard as much as he is of hers. Their hearts beat in sync. He could feel the distant frenetic desperate pulse of her heart tethered to him, completely in time to his equally pounding heart despite the distance between them. He could also feel the stinging scratches and scrapes on her hands and knees on his own, the deep ache in her muscles and bones in his, the flaring stabs across her torso and shoulders with every movement she makes in his as well, just as if those were his injuries instead of hers alone.

 She could probably feel the numb agony of the undoubtedly permanent damage done to him in this cage. How she was still able to keep going, keep fighting, with the pain slowly killing him—them—, was beyond him.

 That was how their soulbond worked, an eye for an eye, a heart for a heart, a soul for a soul, pain for pain. Bearing what the other is taking, sharing the burden of their suffering.

 A blessing and a curse, always being able to tell whether your soulmate was hiding injuries or overworking themselves to the detriment of their body. It was… it was probably a relief for her, in the time after his capture—to know the Joker's been keeping him alive.

 Marinette's heartbeat stuttered as the fight drew away from the cage and out of his sight. Heart in his throat, Tim barely holds back a desperate keel. He can't afford to distract her now—

 Electricity, surging through his body. Lancing pain whiting his vision out.

 He could barely hear her screams through the crackling around him. No, no, no, no—please.

 Maniacal laughter rang out clearly above the thundering of their shared heartbeat and the sizzling searing of electrical burns tearing through their bodies.

 And oh, oh…

  Oh no.

 If he thought the electricity was bad enough, then the five pinpricks of pain in the centre of his chest shouldn't have been noticeable.

 But it was. And brutally so. His chest. Ruptured open. Tearing and shredding apart like something was being ripped out. Or well, not his chest. But Marinette's.

 Throat constricting, he could barely breathe. The pain was so consuming. He couldn't tell if the struggle he had breathing was his or hers, or both of theirs.

 His, apparently.

 Seeing as Tim could feel it.

 The very moment his soulmate's—Marinette's—heart ceased to beat.

 That gaping agony rupturing and rending through his chest and sternum—right through to where their hearts lay in each of their chests—was painting a clear enough guess of what was happening—had happened. To her.

 “No!” He barely rasped under the restraining muzzle. Please survive! He wanted to beg her, please hold on just a little bit longer! The others must be near soon…

 The tether snapped. The bond shattered.

 “Plea—” Tears leaked from his eyes, stinging the small sore scaleless patches of skin as they dripped down his cheeks.

 The pain of her injuries faded as her heartbeat's absence grew longer.

 The Joker skipped back into view from within the wretched cage, a blue crystalline heart of a dragon, bleeding and unbeating in his hands. “Would you look at this! A pure of heart sapphire!”

 Bursting into cackles at his own words, the Joker barrelled over, grin sickeningly wide.

 The breath caught in Tim's throat.

 It… it should have killed him too. He should be dead.

 “NOOO!” He rasped again, throat bleeding from the strain. Clutching at his chest, overcome, he desperately wailed for his other half. Don't leave me! He wanted to cry out to all that remained of her, please, how am I supposed to live without you?

 His wail was cut off sharply with a wet cough. Choking on the blood from his throat as the muzzle kept him from taking any deeper breaths. 

An emptiness—hollowness, settled inside his heart. As the lonesome silence, barring the incessant laughter, persisted.

 What else? He thought to himself deadeningly—despondently, what else am I supposed to do? Without you here?

 The Joker straightened up and sneered at Tim. “Awww, aren't you having fun?”

 “No,” Tim whispered under his breath, closing his eyes and using what little strength he had left to curl up into a ball, covering himself with his clipped wings. “I just want to go home to my wife, my soulmate…”

 “Well let's fix that then! They do say laughter is the best medicine!” The Joker crowed, dropping the heart on the ground before moving out of sight once again. Followed by a chuff and a hiss of liquid gas spraying from a machine.

 Tim flinched. Expecting the worst.

  The machine exploded. The cage rocked crashing over—freeing him.

 The sounds of gunfire and batarangs reached his ears but Tim only had eyes for Marinette. Disconsolate, he slowly crawled to her and her heart with everything he had left. Fragilely, he scooped her sapphire heart up in his claws and cradled it against his chest fruitlessly, as if the proximity to his own heart would somehow breathe life back into hers. Once he reached her body, he bowed his head and let the tears spill from his eyes.

 This couldn't be it, this couldn't be the end. Not here, not now, not for her. But it was. And there was nothing he could do to change it.

 His heartbeat felt lonely.

———

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this short fic! Comments, Likes, and Reblogs are much appreciated! |

| And if you liked this, don’t forget to check out my teammate’s works as well! |

#Maribat #Timinette #MLB x DC #DC x MLB #ML x DC #Timari #MariTim #MGIMIxer #MGI Mixer #Maribat Mixer #Maribat Mixer 2022 #Maribat? Get In! #Tim x Marinette #Marinette x Tim #IssA's Stolen A #Of a Sinking Severed Heart—Bleeding 'Til the End #OaSSHBTtE #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics

[drpg-global-archive]

DRPG - Character Episode - Seraphina

The Gorgeous Overlord who has overcome her fear of poverty. Thanks to her newfound strength, she has become a fearless character. She has subtle romantic feelings for Killia.

Level 1/New Summon

Hmph..... I am Seraphina, a Princess Overlord from the Gorgeous Netherworld. Angels, demons or humans, no one can escape the power of my Balor Gaze! It is everyone's duty to be my servant!

I hear that your name is... Oh, you're [Player]. Alright then. You should regard it as a great honor to meet me and feel super fortunate that you and your descendants get to be my slaves. Hahaha, many people also cried tears of joy like you when they heard they were to become my slaves. Hmph.

Level 100

Sir Killia.... It's Sir Killia....? What, [Player]? Do you want to say something? In order to avoid a misunderstanding, let me make it perfectly clear right now that I definitely don't love Sir Killia. It's just strange to me that my Balor Gaze is ineffective on him, so I need to win over his heart to set things straight.

That's right. My dignity is at stake, the dignity of a beautiful woman! This isn't some popular TV romance drama or some trashy story you'd find in any old convenience store magazine. Understand? Let's wait and see. Just you watch! Sir Killia will be begging to be with me soon enough!

Level 200

Sir Killia..... Ah, yes. Sir Killia is in love with Miss Liezerota. But why doesn't my Balor Gaze have any effect on him?! It's so annoying! I get it now. This is jealousy.... I never thought I could be jealous of anyone else. But whenever I think of Sir Killia, I get taken over by extremely negative emotions. I just get so angry when I think of Miss Liezerota and Sir Killia together! I want to rip her to shreds!

I used to think that jealousy was just a hysterical emotion that stupid humans feel.... Love makes people crazy I guess. ...... No, that's not right. What I am feeling has nothing to do with love. It has everything to do with my desire to be an Overlord and to have dignity! Sir Killia's heart will be mine! I will get back my dignity!

Level 500

Listen to me, [Player]. I guess I am just a little too concerned about Liezorota. I'm a lot different from her. I'm just wasting my time being jealous of her. There's no point in doing so. It's so true. Why have I only realized this now? I will never be anything like Liezorota. I'll never get to be with Killia.

However, when we are on the battlefield, Sir Killia and I are the perfect partners. This relationship is based on mutual trust, not love. But trust is an important part of a relationship too. The trust between Sir Killia and me is something everyone would die to have.  Thinking about our relationship in this way, I feel a lot better. In a way, Sir Killia's heart is already mine! Right?

Level 1000

[Player]. Thank you. I can't stop talking about Sir Killia. I guess you must find it really annoying. But... Looks like you've stayed by my side despite this flaw. I really appreciate that. So, I've decided. From now on, I will forget about Sir Killia. Well, don't read too much into that. It's not like I'll never talk to him again. 

But, [Player]. I feel comforted when I'm by your side. I don't know when it happened, but it seems that you've replaced Sir Killia..... [Player]. It seems you've forced your way uninvited into enter my heart. And more than that. You stole a piece of my heart while there! You were the one who was supposed to kneel before me. Not the other way around! ....Well, it's not a big problem. I'll make an exception just this once. But there is one condition... You need to stay with me...forever, [Player].

#disgaea rpg #drpg #disgaea rpg global #drpg global #seraphina #character episode

[swirls-fanart]

*AMPHIBIA SEASON 3 FINALE SPOILERS* (again, best I can do is a text warning, sorry!)

Two pieces of Amphibia fanart from May featuring Anne Boonchuy my beloved!! I love her sm, she is a major comfort character of mine and I loved seeing her grow throughout the show, becoming more responsible and hardworking and also strengthening her bond with the Plantars.

The first piece isn’t any particular scene, I just felt like drawing Anne in a more dynamic pose with her sword because miss girl can USE it!! Just imagine she’s gearing up to fight some sort of huge beast in this piece!

The second piece is my take on a canon scene from the season 3 finale, one that absolutely ripped my heart out and shredded it to pieces 🥲 But despite that, I also absolutely adore how beautiful and emotional this whole scene is. Sprig and Anne are each others’ foundation and UGH found family stories make me so weak yall, they’re the best 😭❤️

#amphibia #disney amphibia #amphibia art #amphibia fanart #amphibia fandom #amphibia spoilers #amphibia season 3 #amphibia finale #amphibiaseason3spoilers #amphibia s3 #amphibia s3 spoilers #anne boonchuy #amphibia anne #amphibia anne boonchuy #anne boonchuy art #anne boonchuy fanart #annneboonchuyamphibia #sprig plantar #amphibia sprig #amphibiasprigplantar #sprig amphibia #sprigplantarfanart #sprigplantarart #amphibiasprigart #amphibiasprigfanart

[the-one-king-killer]

CREATURES OF THE NIGHT

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader Wordcount: 3.5k Warnings: Canon-esque violence. Main character be lurking. Summary: As an Avatar of an ancient god, you had seen and done many strange and violent things. However, you had never experienced another Avatar who shared divinity running through their veins. Your god is a protector, and calls you to find the Avatar of Khonshu to join in their mission but one action leads to the next and leaves you with only more questions rather than answers. Author's Notes: This idea have set my brain on fire for weeks and I finally decided to unleash upon the world for all to see. This is also a testimate to the absolute brainrot I have for Moon Knight and Oscar Isaac. This will be a mixture of mostly show canon with some comic canon mixed in, whoops. This takes place shortly before episode one of the show. Also, this shall be a multiple part series! (part 2 is written and shall be posted soonish) But onward y'all, let us descend into the madness.

You remember the first time that you had met one of your own. The one with fury and blood curling through his bones, a rattling force that demanded and commanded. The moon was high in the sky, a crescent that carved itself into the night. It was the only source of light in the darkness, a source for wanderers and creatures of the night. He was one of them; so were you.

You watched from atop a church peak as the white figure pummeled his fist into a man. You didn't know who was being beaten, and you didn't know why he was being beaten. But those details did not matter as you gazed downward, morality a shredded thing inside your mind. The figure was not subtle, clad in white armor and glowing eyes as he tore through flesh and bone. Mortals had trembled at a part of him for centuries, even if it was not in this body. A voice curled in the depths of your mind at the sight. It was something that you could not understand, but you could understand their feelings. It was of recognition as the man let out a shuddering final breath under the strike of a fist. You knew this creature of the night, and you knew the fury lashed in his strikes.

Your body stood motionless as the figure in white rose to his full height. His form was sweeping, covered with armor and banding lines that were now splattered with blood. The relief after a fight was evident in his body for a brief moment. It was a slight stutter in his chest as a cold breath entered his lungs. The strength of immortality was always a rush, but also came with a heavy fall in the end. This relief for him did not last long as familiar recognition struck him like a bolt. His body twisted to look up at you on the holy peak, perched like a statue. You were a protector, a guardian, that watched and waited as his glowing gaze met yours. His eyes may have blazed wholy white, but you recognized the look in them. You wondered if it was him, or if it was the writhing deity in his mind.

It is both, my girl. He has never seen one of his own before, and the bird has not seen me in many of his moons.

The voice smoothed across your mind, cooling the blood in your veins. She was quiet in moments like this, a strange kind of comfort. She could be like the god inside this man's rib cage, a creature in a too small body and ripping at the seams. But for now she was not. In the stillness you both stared down with glittering eyes. As your thoughts quieted, she acted. She turned your back to the man in white and leapt from the peak as you longed to gaze one more time upon his form. But she did not care, she had her fill of him, of the night. And so you went from one rooftop to the next without a sound, back to mortal coils and away from gods for another day's time. 

The man in white stood as you left his vision with a flash of burnt vermillion. You were a still creature, but fluid and full of grace. He was a landslide in comparison as he simply watched and so did the god, his heart thudding in his chest after the heat of a battle won. He wondered what this meant for him, his god. The god only answered in demands.

-

The deity behind your eyes never let you forget a figure, no matter how shadowed it could be. The shadows made shapes, ones that could be recognized.

Humans are patterns. You think in patterns and can be followed in that way. We gods can think without them. We just understand. But to exist here, we must follow what your brain can comprehend while we inhabit your flesh. The bird in that man's chest will do the same.

She could command you with cruelty. You had felt her voice rattle down your spine many times before, but more often than not she was more subtle. Her demands came from her words of wisdom. She wanted you to find the man in white again, in the next night's time.

And you did, carrying the strength in your muscles to shatter armies but now used to pull yourself across rooftops in the dead of night. Your body sang with the power and you would never deny saying you enjoyed it in times like this. You hunted in the night, following the strokes of the moon in the London landscape. There was the fake light of the human city, but the moon would always show its master and his body. You followed the path of his destruction illuminated in the cold light. One scene it was broken glass and shattered wood, the next it was broken teeth and splattered blood. You would find him in the next scene.

The broken body was forgotten as his armor slipped from his head. His god must have been quiet now. You stared down at him yet again. He lacked the flash of white fury in his eyes, and the form to conceal him from the eyes of the fellow man. He was more a man without the mask on, less of a vessel.

His features were dark, shadowed by the night but blazed into your mind no matter the mission of your own god. Ebony curls fell from his head to messily cover his forehead until a palm came to slick them back. His eyes were near black as he looked away from the body. They were endless at this time of night, but you wondered if there was any glimmer of color within. You wondered if the god had consumed the color from his eyes, the hungering and colorless moon. His jaw was set and his broad stance was one of confidence and strength. His face fit his form and you wouldn't lie and say it didn't fit the armor he wore. The deity had an appreciation of such things and so it has transferred to you. You wondered with your human mind how many hearts he had broken. The deity mused on how many hearts he had stopped.

He spoke something into the damp English air, a phrase that did not catch in your ears. But his unfiltered voice sunk in, an American accent seconded the defiance in his body. The deity would not let you forget this detail as it was memorized inside your skull. He spoke to nothingness, but it must have answered him from his expression that twisted his features. You knew the feeling. 

He did not recognize you this time as he continued moving on until the night began to end. The god in your mind wanted to observe and then strike.

I am a protector. I bathe in blood from wars to protect one's own. The bird is what he calls justice and vengeance, paying a toll for what has already been lost.

The deity explained to you as moved from the sky to the pavement of the earth. She made you as quiet as she wished as you hunted the man in white. You had questions about the other god in him, and she answered in riddles. You wondered why his bloody fists often matched yours. She answered in the gods' words. 

Eventually his armor was stripped away to reveal his mortal body. He was dressed like he was meant to blend into a crowd, neutral colors and layers. The lack of armor signified that his work was over, and that yours had just begun.

The man trudged up steps to an apartment building as you stopped in the shadow of an alley. He was tired, the god faded from the front and had left only a husk behind. It was an empty feeling. He disappeared into the building a few hours before dawn. You remained for a few minutes afterwards, the quiet returning to you as your own god left. Your muscles were strained and your bones groaned as you made your way back home via the streets of London. The human in you and him made its daily appearance in similar circumstances. You would return before he left his home again. Your god was sated with that knowledge.

-

In the morning there was no ceremonial armor for you or for the vessel that you hunted. It was normal dress for the dreary conditions of London, boots to step through puddles and jackets to perhaps shield the water from seeping in. You dressed as dreary as the day, grays and browns to blend in. Perhaps you were an academic to one’s eye, or a businesswoman to the next. It did not matter.

With an umbrella shadowing your face, you watched the vessel leave his home. He seemed scrambled and less put together. His curls were unkempt and fell over his forehead. His shirt was untucked and even his gait was different. He walked like he was a scared animal, hunched over and quick. You could have blamed it on the droplets of rain that he walked like this, but the man the night before would not have shied away from rain, not after what he faced. With the silence from the god in your mind, you imagined she was just as confused as you. The face of this man was the same as the nights before, but everything else was a different piece of a puzzle you could not understand.

With scattered steps, the man hopped onto the red bus of London as did you some moments later. Now you had no shadow to conceal you but it did not matter. The man had a lack of a regard for the people around him, uncaring for those who watched him. Uncaring for the deity that gazed at him from behind your eyes.

“Oh, bullocks, Donna’s gonna kill me.” You heard him mutter as he looked at the clock aboard the vehicle. You squinted at him. There was an accent again, but a British one. It was one of the strangest British accents you had heard. It was another puzzle piece that had no match.

The bird must be hiding. And this must be an illusion. The smooth lint of your goddess’ brain filtered through your senses. Even in her riddles, she was right. You did not feel the recognition you felt two night’s earlier, the solid strike of electricity as two gods faced one another for the first time in centuries.

The man scrambled with something in his pocket before putting it on the shirt beneath his jacket. Your vision caught a glimpse. Steven. The detail was branded into your brain and the goddess rolled the name on her tongue. Another speck of blood the hunter in her found and savored. A name for a man with too many puzzle pieces.

Some time passed until Steven hurried off the bus with many others in front of the monumental building of a museum. You had been here before, before the goddess in your veins when you were young and unknowing. You had delighted in the artifacts then, rattling off the details of each piece and what it meant to the cultures of old. You remembered them all and now with the goddess in your head you knew much more.

Steven must have worked here, you realized as another puzzle piece met another. He practically leapt off the bus, knocking into a young woman with a high apologetic noise in his throat. You took your chance to brush past the commotion as he patted her shoulders and apologized with words. You wanted to watch him as he entered the museum, to see his reaction, to see if the bird would come out to play. With your own fascination with history in mind and Steven working at a museum, it seemed that the gods’ had a type when it came to Avatars. 

The moment your eyes came upon the workers of Egyptian gods and pharaohs, you sighed in relief. It was both you and the god that did so. She sighed as the feeling of home echoed in your mind. You sighed in relief for something you could understand with certainty and feel the embrace of history that you loved. For a moment the two of you forgot what you came here for and just relished the feeling. But it was a fleeting moment as you passed the absent security guard and headed further in to stand in the ruins of a wall painting. You wanted to blend in as he arrived. Would he feel the same relief that you did?

You grabbed a museum pamphlet and pretended to read as he walked in, bumbling and fussing with a bag as he passed the security guard.

“It’s Steven. Steven with a v.” He huffed at the guard and then passed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” He then muttered to himself as he passed and headed further into the museum without paying anyone a glance. He was on a mission it seemed.

Speak with him, my girl. Speak as mortal to mortal. Easier to call upon each other as humans rather than gods in this place.

This part of the mission was not revealed to you with riddles, wisdom, or anything. The goddess was quiet on her purpose with the man. She wanted to get to the god in his bones, but the reasoning for the stealthy hunt was not privy to you. You followed her command. You trusted her. The two of you had been too much for you not too.

The next room was filled with statues of pharaohs from across the eras of the Kingdoms, Hellenistic period, and even to Rome. A few of them you could name just from the style of the human figure, or the imported stone they were made of. For a moment it distracted you and dragged your goddess into memories as you gazed at the stone. While their forms were solid and stiff in posture, there was a life to the pharaoh’s likeness in stone. They wanted to look like rulers that could not be questioned, an unyielding strength. It was a display of power.

You were knocked out of your thoughts as someone knocked into your shoulder as you passed. Your body locked in place as you reacted, reaching out to grab the person who knocked into you so they would not lose balance. Your hand was met with wet fabric as you lightly gripped the person’s shoulder.

“Oh, oh my! I am so sorry! I am just a clumsy fool today. Are you okay?” You felt the surprise rush over your face as you heard the voice. Worried dark eyes met your own and scanned over your features searching for any sign of pain. His face was clearer in this moment as you dropped your hand from his shoulder. His skin was a shade of olive-tan and there were bags under his eyes. There was a shadow of a beard that was unshaven on his cheeks and even though he looked like he could be blown over by a gust of wind, his eyes only searched your own with care. The god in you surged forward as you both gazed.

With a mental push, you came back to the front. She was the one that wanted to speak as mortals, and you would do so. You let a smile stretch across your face.

"Oh, I am fine. Are you okay?" At your words, his face lit up with relief and then turned away to pat himself down with an awkward laugh.

"I seem to be! Although I was the one that bumped into you." He sounded so guilty, like you shouldn't have been asking if he was okay. Where was the figure of fury that made bloody punches? This man could not be that man.

"No worries-" you paused to read his name badge again, "Steven."

The beam of a smile that appeared on his face made you smile once again. He practically grew an inch as you mentioned his name. You gestured to the statue next to you,

"Although it is best that you did not bump me into the gneiss made pharoah here. Then we both would have been in trouble." He laughed at your words and nodded.

"Not only me being late to the job but knocking a guest like a fool, and knocking into a precious artifact? My boss would truly kill me there." He looked from you and then to the statue of the seated pharaoh, and back to you again. He raised a finger to point at the statue and then pointed back at you.

"Wait, you know about gneiss stone?" His voice gave away his shock as he marveled at your words. You tore your eyes away from him to look back at the statue. You opened your mouth to respond but he quickly interrupted.

"Also known as diorite, it is a true accomplishment of Egypt art for how hard the stone is. But it was beloved of the pharaohs, if I do say so myself. If I remember correctly, it was mined from the quarry at…." This time you interrupted him.

"Gebel el-Asr. It is interesting to see a gneiss piece that does not appear to be Khafre. Those are always the popular ones." You watched Steven's jaw drop as you spoke, a spark of intellectual respect glittering in his eyes. You let out a small laugh at the sight.

"How do you know that? I don't even think the tour guides know that kind of information." He sounded like he was in a state of reverence, finally enjoying the presence of someone who understood. You waved a hand dismissively.

"I specialize in strange facts and strange things. But if that is the case, you are a tour guide who certainly knows every piece in the museums." You smiled at him again. His enjoyment was nearly tangible and you felt it too. He smiled back to you before a different expression shattered it.

"Wait--no, I am no tour guide. Just a lowly, uh, gift shoptist? Gift shopist?" He rolled the words across his tongue, his face screwing up as he hated the words the moment they left his mouth. You felt the goddess mirror herself behind your eyes as she peered him, inquisitive but also questioning.

Is he….an idiot? 

For a goddess of wisdom, the immortal could be out of touch with social cues sometimes. You ignored her comment with ease.

"Well, I think you should get a swift promotion, if I could say anything about it, Steven." You watched his face lit up again. Human emotions were something you felt, but sometimes they felt so distant after being with the deity for so long. For a moment you enjoyed the raw emotion with him.

There was truly no recognition in his face as he saw you. You made no effort to conceal yourself from the two nights earlier and you were sure he memorized your face like you did his. The puzzle pieces did not fit together again.

"Do I know you? You look familiar, but well, I can't seem to figure it out." He broke the moment with the question and you had to resist raising your eyebrow at him. Was he baiting you? What was his play? It was hard to believe he had any play besides genuine conversation from the expression on his face. You brushed it off.

"I am afraid not. I have been here before, but it has been some years." You didn't miss the small look of disappointment on his face as you spoke, as if he wished to know you. But it faded quickly as he smiled at you and then looked behind you.

"Oh, bloody hell, I am already late, like late late. I am so sorry, but I need to go before I get my head chewed off." You turned and saw he was looking at a clock nearby and when you turned back, he was clutching his bag and walking away but paused to look at you again.

"But I hope that you come back, o' lady of gneiss!"

You lightly shook your head with a smile as he nearly sprinted away to what you assumed was his work shift. You did not see an Avatar in him, and he didn't see the goddess in you.

The goddess echoed your confusion as you walked for some time in the exhibits. The two of you plotted your next moves as statues turned to mummified crocodiles and sarcophagi.

Steven missed the face that glared back at him in the museum glass as he ran to chattering Donna. The face scowled at him and turned away.

#moon knight x reader #moon knight #marc spector #moon knight x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #moon knight imagine #moon knight fic #marc spector imagine #steven grant imagine #moon knight fanfiction #marvel #moon knight tv #thekingkiller writes

[marshmallowprotection]

hi kait!! i have a question: did you ever feel awkward when you first started writing fics about lila and saeran?

I've been sharing content with my CMC and Saeran since 2018, so you could say that I'm comfortable with it by now! I've always been someone who writes OC x Canon stories since I was really young, so it's really not that odd or weird for me to hit post on something with that content. Some of the most compelling stories I've come across have been OC x Canon, but sparsely few are popular.

It has a lot to do with the fact that those stories are emotionally tailored to be something that is very personal and close to the heart of the writer. I think it's important to be writing things that make you happy instead of trying to please everybody else. That's just the way that I look at things and if you like to share what you put down to make yourself happy, you might find that other people are capable of being just as invested. But, that only happens if you put your heart out there for others to see.

That can be risky because you never know how people are going to take something that you write for yourself. It can be scary to share OC x Canon stories out there. Throughout the years, I can definitely remember receiving flames or hate comments because God forbid people have fun writing something for free where they’re loved and cherished in a way that they may not be getting in real life.

It’s true for younger writers, especially those who start sharing these stories and run into the fear of people ripping apart their hard work to shreds because it “seems like Mary Sue writing” or whatever else you know people say when they come across it.

I definitely don't care for people who waste their time writing hate comments like that on works that are by people just having fun.

There was a time when I was younger when I would be wary of sharing things I wrote just because I knew that there was always a chance of receiving hate because of doing something that I had fun with. But, eventually, I set that fear to the side because I just wanted an outlet to share my thoughts and feelings about Saeran. As scary as it is to know that there are people out there that are mean for no reason, it's just as nice to know that posting something could change your life.

When I started writing for Mystic Messenger, would you believe me if I said that I never finished a story before then? Or that I never wrote anything longer than 2000 words? I'm sure that might come as a surprise because if you've been around here long enough, you know that in the past 2 years I’ve gone on to write stories that range in length from 75,000 to 200,000 words. I never once imagined that I would be able to do that when I was younger.

But, thanks to my starting to engage with the story that I started writing for Lila, I found an outlet to write something worthwhile to me.

I started to push myself to think harder about the way that I wanted to be able to tell a story. I thought about ways that I could change what I was reading and how to make it make sense to me but also make it feel compelling to others. In the middle of learning ways to do that, I wound up making my blog and spending my time practicing my character skills for strangers and fans alike.

At first, it was because I wanted to get some practice with all of the characters so that I could have a better means of knowing how to write all of them so that I could apply that character study to my story. I didn’t just want to understand Saeran, I wanted to know them all.

Because those characters were my family at that point. They were guiding me and with me at the worst and hardest times of my life.

2016 was a hard year for me, I got sick that year in the spring and I felt so lost and afraid, but I met the RFA in August and everything changed after that. These characters mean the world to me because they've seen me through the darkest days. If I can properly show the way that they are in my writing, it feels like I'm able to be closer to them. It feels like I’m with my found family and having Lila be with them connects a part of myself to them in a close way.

Since I've been doing it for so long, the characters have definitely grown with me and there are things that have changed over time because I've had so much experience with writing new perspectives and ideas that the way that I present my CMC now isn’t how I did years ago. She's grown as a character just as much as I have grown as a person so I have this cool time capsule into seeing how we both changed. 

Lila is a part of myself. She holds many of my mannerisms and passions in life.

Just like I can say that Saeran’s character journey has allowed me a chance to heal and see the person I want to be, I can say that Lila growing alongside him helped just as much. It's my passion to make sure that she believes in Happy Endings and that she's able to get them even if she struggles. That reminds me that I can have the same thing. If I can write a facet of myself exploring insecurities and other fears and overcoming them, that means that I can eventually get to a point where I can do the same.

I think that's why it's so important to have OCs and to be friends with your favorite characters if that helps you in any way. You don't just grow from seeing your favorite characters go through their story and reach the end. You grow just as much by creating a part of that story that's a piece of you to go through it. I never felt weird about sharing Lila's story over the years, sure, maybe a little insecure at the start because I wasn't sure if my writing was worth sharing... but never afraid.

I can say that at this point if nothing else, you guys don't know what can happen if you make a small choice as simple as sharing a story with somebody. I wouldn’t change anything if I had to go back to that time when I hit the post button because I know it leads me here. I know that creating Lila and her story led me to this place in my life.

It leads me to this blog and all the people that I have met over the years that have made me smile and laugh in ways that I never thought I would. I've interacted with all kinds of people who have touched my life in ways that I will always be grateful for. Whether I still speak to the people that have come here over the years or not, everybody's had an impact on me.

The person I was when I started playing the game to the person that I am today… I really don't know who I would be without this game and the experiences it’s given me. It's not the game itself that has helped me, it's all of the people that I have met since the start. I never would have had that if I didn't choose to share my story with my MC.

I was able to escape bad experiences because people liked talking to me about Mystic Messenger or any silly thing because we all loved the same game. I was able to realize what I really wanted out of life and I was able to save myself because people showed me kindness. A fandom is a great place if you need a home that feels like home. I'm grateful for my spot here in this fandom because I don't think I'll ever be able to truly say how thankful I am to this place.

So, I think at the end of the day, if you're ever afraid to share a story that you're writing that's personal to you, don't be. You don't know where you will be in life later on because of that decision that you made. You should never hesitate on something if you think that it's going to give you an opportunity of some kind. Even if you're scared of what might happen, take the chance. It might be silly to think about but… take it from me. Writing about Saeran and Lila led me to the love of my life, and good friends, and gave me a strong sense of self-worth that I never would have known if I didn’t hit post. 

You never know!

I love writing content for Lila and Saeran. I don't think that'll ever stop writing about them. There are always ideas in my head that I want to work on and things that I would love to explore with them. If you're itching to write about your CMC and a character, go for it! I'd love to see the start of someone's story written here... because I know that out there, no matter the fandom, someone's life is changing because they took a chance on a story for themselves.

#ask #anon #mod kait #cmc #lila lancelot oc #saeran x lila