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#god lets me live because he knew the world would be terrible without me in it :p

lixzey · 7 months

Text

Letters

Info: age gap, reader has nightmares

The Second Letter.

Timothée woke up with a terrible hangover. The party was great, and he had an amazing time with his friends. He sat up and walked to the bathroom of his hotel room. He stared at himself in the mirror; he was still in the clothes he had on last night. Timothée hopped into the shower, feeling the cold water against his skin, sobering him up.

After a relaxing shower, he remembered the letters. The basket he shoved under the bed, he knelt down, grabbing the basket from under the bed. He untied the stack—eighteen letters—all eighteen letters still there.

He sat on the bed and opened the second letter, dated June 18, 2023.

Dear Timothée,

Every night before I go to sleep, I whisper good night to you. I have a framed photo of you on my bedside table. I know, it's weird and creepy. I don't know why, but I've done it for so long that I can't even remember when I started it.

Is it weird for a grown woman to have a stuffed animal to be able to sleep at night? Yeah, it's weird. My stuffed bunny keeps my nightmares at bay every night. Julie told me that one day, all of my fears would go away and my nightmares would end. And I'd be able to look back at my past without getting hurt. But everything's getting worse. Every fucking night.

Maybe you're wondering, "Why in the world is this girl telling me this?" Well, I don't know, really. Maybe it's because you'd listen? Who am I kidding? I don't even know if you'd even get my letters. I've locked up those memories for so long, and it hurts to think about them, let alone talk about them. I'm not going to tell you everything, but a little something about me can't hurt, right? It's better to write it all down rather than talk about it.

I remember when I was a little girl, my parents would take me down to the park near where we lived. My dad would push me on the swings, while my mom would set up a little picnic for us. Life was happy. Until that fateful day when I was ten. Let's just say that my life wasn't the same as it once was. I thought my life was perfect, but boy, was I wrong.

I've tried everything to get the nightmares to stop, yet nothing ever works. Not once in the past eleven years have I had a good night's sleep. Honestly? I'm terrified of falling asleep; the nightmares keep getting more vivid. My room mate, Ava, gave me a crystal bracelet—to protect me and keep the bad auras away. She's the only one other than Julie, my therapist, who knows that I get nightmares. Since Ava's room is right next to mine, she hears me scream every fucking night.

Oh god, that sounded morbid. I should stop. Well, it's not like you'd ever get any of my letters. So I'll carry on writing, pouring out everything in these letters.

I'm going to try to get some sleep; it's literally half past three. I have exams in the morning. I'll probably fail again anyway, since I'm not exactly the smartest. Wish me luck?

All my love,

Y/n.

Timothée was slowly understanding Y/N. She's seven years younger than him. He checked the envelopes, searching for an address so he could reply to her after he'd finished all of her letters. But he couldn't find anything—not even in the basket.

“How on earth did these letters get here? I'm in a fucking hotel that only my family knew." Timothée muttered. Questions filled his mind. He put the letter back in the envelope. He picked up the next letter, hoping for answers.

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fairysluna · 1 year

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Hello, I just stumbled into your old account and read and LOVED one of your Aegon fanfics (What Should've Been) and I have a teeny tiny request, if you don't mind. It seems the reader had tuberculosis from the symptoms, especially the bloody coughs, and since Aegon was thoroughly exposed to it, I was wondering if you can maybe make a teeny tiny follow-up about how he also contracts the disease and dies and later joins the reader in the afterlife under the same weirwood tree where she's waiting for him in her wedding gown and Aegon goes to her and tucks a purple pansy in her ear and they walk off into the light, together at last.

Please, I'm terribly heartbroken (and depressed but that's just my usual depression) over this beautiful story and I'd love a follow-up, even if it's just bullet points of what happens 🥺🥺

Author's Note: Hi hun!! I love the fact that you love my story enough to come here and ask me to write more, I will always love to make a follow up of my fics... so this is entirely dedicated to you, love!! thank you for enjoying my writing (and srry for breaking your heart). These are bullet points btw and it is quite short, but i hope you like it!!🤍

WHAT SHOULD'VE BEEN — Aegon's Grief.

Summary: The aftermath of the biggest loss in Aegon's life: you. An epilogue for this story.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Arryn!Reader

Tags/TW: angst, grief, death, mentions of depression, sickness, sensitive content. If something is missing pls let me know.

Aegon didn’t leave his bed for days. The grief and sorrow in his heart was too much for him to bear. He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t bathe, he wouldn’t even stand from his bed… the bed he used to share with you.

It was hard for him to go inside the room, the weeks before your funeral he couldn’t even bring himself to look at the door of it. Needless to say, he didn’t even step inside of it until the funeral was over. The sheets were still there, the shape of your body was still seen on the bed. He did not allow the maids to clean up the room; he could smell the scent of death that was left behind, but once he went closer to the bed he was able to smell your perfume… and that was enough for him to bury his face against the pillows as he sobbed and whined.

Alicent tried to go and persuade him to go back to his duties. He had become a King, but what kind of King he was if he didn't have his Queen by his side? What purpose was left for him when the most important person in the world was now gone? The forces of your love had left him without warming, the warmth of your love no longer covered his body in the shape of an affectionate kiss. He felt useless without you, for you were the only thing that brought meaning into his life.

Aemond would start to cover him up in the Small Council meetings and other duties. Aegon was in no condition to fulfill his activities, because not only his spirit was broken but his health was deteriorating with each passing day. The health of their King was starting to cause rumors around the halls, servants claimed that he went mad out of his own grief.

His chubby shape soon became a skeletal one. His rosy cheeks were now pale and bony, his cheekbones being too noticeable now. Alicent would go at night trying to make him eat something, but Aegon had lost his will to live the day he lost you. And eventually, the Gods were merciful enough… and they made him sick too.

Alicent knew what was coming, she had witnessed the same symptoms in you a few weeks ago before you took your last breath. She cried herself to sleep many nights as the Maester would only inform her that her son was slowly dying, with no signs of improvement at all. And then, the hallucinations started as Aegon was being slowly killed by the fever.

His already weakened body could not handle that sickness that came upon him. The lack of food, of sleep, along with his lack of will to live were enough to get him seriously ill, to the point when he started to speak to the maids thinking they were you.

"Oh, my sweet wife," he would say with a thin voice, barely audible. Most of his wording would be interpreted as mumbling and nonsense, "can't wait to see our beautiful child growing inside of you."

A few days later… Aegon passed away in the same bed that he used to share with you, grasping the same sheets that covered your body during your last days, and in the same bed where he held you close every night. And even though that was the day his body died, his soul had left him the same day you left him.

Alicent cried for days after the news, but she wasn't surprised at all. No one was. The love Aegon had for you was too obvious for everyone.

"Not even death could pull them apart," Aemond would say as he consoled his mother during the funeral, where Sunfyre was the one lighting the fire that ended up consuming his skeletal body.

Aegon thought he was dreaming when he found himself standing in the gardens, wearing a black suit but feeling light, the anguish that had haunted him for the past weeks was no longer there.

And then, he heard your laugh.

A small giggle that made him feel as if his heart was beating again. A sound so soft and gentle, delicate and blissful, that it brought a rose color upon his cheeks, which returned to be as chubby as they were before.

At first, he was afraid of turning around, thinking that it was a delusion, some trick of his mind making him hear things. But then, he heard it again, and the urge to look at your beautiful face once again was stronger than any fear that might succumb him. He needed to see you… and he did.

There you were, as beautiful as you have always been, wearing a tighter and less pompous version of your wedding gown. Your hair was falling down your shoulders in cascades, your eyes gleaming with pure happiness as you laughed at the pages you were reading. Aegon was enchanted, mesmerized by the angelic sound your laughter would produce.

He walked slowly towards you, as if he was scared you would become a pile of dust and fade into the wind, but you never did. Instead, you looked up at him and your eyes shined so bright that Aegon was sure he saw stars in them. You were so gorgeous, far from being the sick woman he saw before you passed. You were your old self, the woman who would make him laugh and make him fall in love all over again every single day.

"You came," you said with a radiant smile.

"You know I've never done well without you, my love," he replied.

You saw him picking up a flower from the greenest grass he's ever seen; a purple pansy soon was on your hair, and Aegon's heart felt alive once he felt your lips against the softness of his flushed cheeks. A gesture that he had terribly missed.

Aegon cupped your face between his hands, and looked down to you with admiration and pure devotion. Your eyes were full of life once again; a sight that Aegon wished to never forget again. Before you could say anything to him, he kissed you, and your lips felt warm and soft as they always were. Your touch made him feel like a teenage boy, the same boy that fell in love with you many years ago.

He realized then that he finally found heaven, that all his wishes and pleas were listened to by the Gods by sending him back to you; back to where he belonged.

Aegon saw your eyes once again, and right there he realized that the Gods were finally merciful, because now he got to spend the rest of his life by your side without having the constant fear of losing you again.

He finally found peace, because you were there with him.

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fandoms-writings · 1 year

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Could you please do gentle kisses with bucky? I was listening to "like real people do" by hoizer, thinking about a bucky fic and my heart melted

I love this so much and I want you to know I listened purely to Hozier while I wrote this and had to physically stop myself from making this a whole spicy one shot ooops But I hope you love it <3

Warnings: It gets a lil spicy kinda at the end but it's all fluff and love and a makeout sesh so yeah <3

It was his favorite part when he saw you - when your lips would dance with his.

Bucky had been seeing you for only a few months, but you were like home to him. Scratch that - you were home. All of your terrible jokes. Your rants about the books you read or the musicians you listened to. When you got all dolled up just for him. When you went anywhere together and you just had to hold his hand - not that he was complaining. Your laughter. The way you treated him like a real person, not a tool or some broken man. The look you got in your eyes when you looked at him compared to everyone else.

Everything about you was home.

But when your lips touched his, he felt invincible. Like nothing in the world could touch him. No missions. No memories of Hydra. Nothing but you completely enveloping him in the love he never thought he deserved.

He loved all of the different ways your lips would move in tandem with his - the urgent and needy, the quick pecks on your way out the door, the teasing ways you nip at his lips. His favorite though, was the slow and passionate.

You would gently grip the hair at the base of his neck, tilting his head to the perfect angle for your tongue to tangle with his. The slow way you'd lightly drag your teeth across his top lip, pulling a moan from his throat. And when he'd nip your lip back, it would pull a smile out of you but you'd refuse to stop. The only way he could describe it was like a dance. A dance that only the two of you knew how to perform.

God he loved every bit of it, it was like his own personal drug and he was addicted.

Your lips were always so soft and warm and they always tasted a little bit like raspberries - thanks to your chapstick. No matter how long you sat and kissed him like that, he knew could never get enough.

And don't even get him started on when he'd move his hands from your back to your thighs, pulling you on top of him and squeezing the muscle there. The little groan you always let out was music to his ears.

You would only ever pull back when you absolutely couldn't breathe anymore and even then it was only for a moment. A split second where you slide you thumbs along the line of his jaw or across his swollen bottom lip. It was when he got to see that look in your eyes. The one that told him you were going to shower him in affection and love for the rest of the night without interruption. He would get to swim in everything that was you.

He would think of little noises that he knew would flood the room once there was nothing between the two of you. When he got to drag his lips across every inch of your skin, worshiping you the way you deserved. When your legs would wrap around his hips to pull him closer because you just couldn't get enough of him.

Then you'd go right back to it, giving his lips their dance partner once again. You'd go back to making him melt at your touch. Making him dizzy in the head with only thoughts of you. Bringing him to his knees for you.

He'd let you kiss him like that for the rest of his life if he could. He would stay here, in your living room, on your couch, with you in his lap forever if the world let him.

Come join me for a drabble weekend!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes drabble #bucky drabble #mcu fanfiction #fandoms writings

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miracletyrant · 4 months

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Arthur Lester and living for someone else: an essay I dreamt up while I had the flu

First, some clarification: when I say living for someone else, I mean taking them into consideration in your life. It is not about catering unhealthily to them, or enslaving yourself to their whims. living for someone else is the difference between feeling love for someone and acting on it. It's about treating love as an action.

In episode 31, we learn a lot about Arthur's past. While Bella was giving birth, he said to James, "I can't live for someone else!" and he wasn't wrong. He loves Faroe, even if he didn't love Bella, but he didn't truly live for her. Don't get me wrong; he wasn't a neglectful father. He was kind to her and tried to spend time with her. Ultimately, he made few sacrifices for her, but not none.

Once she was gone and Parker had helped him restore his will to live, he found contentment. And this is the most important part; he wasn't unhappy living for himself, having no one worry about where he was or what he was doing, and having no one depend on him. He was fine.

But he wasn't thriving. Guilt and loss aside, he was living the life he would've, had he never gotten Bella pregnant. And yet, despite everything, despite knowing that he prefers a life lived just for himself, Arthur still said that the time he spent with Faroe--for Faroe, so to speak--was the happiest of his life. He didn't allocate much time to that selfless joy, the joy of telling fairy tales to his little girl, of dedicating time to her, but he was happier with her than he would've been without her. Happier carving out a piece of himself and giving it to her, sharing it with her, hollowing out a space in his world for her to be safe and loved in.

But he did cave to himself. He didn't dedicate as much to her as a father should, because he didn't want to live for someone else.

Cut to episode 20. This is a different Arthur than the man who fathered Faroe. This Arthur has lost absolutely everything, except John.

Arthur has made up his mind. He knows he can't beat the King in Yellow, but he also refuses to let him have John. He knows that John doesn't want to return to the King, and he knows John doesn't want to die. But John has no real agency over his fate, as he is trapped within Arthur. John can't fight back, and he can't run away. The only way he can be protected from those terrible fates is if Arthur puts himself aside entirely and thinks only of John.

So he does. He faces the King, knowing that he might die, knowing that he might fail, but completely unwilling to make a call that would doom John. And the King sees that. That's why, during the confrontation, he says to Arthur, "You despise me... and yet you love him."

That line. That beautiful, poignant line, spoken so contemplatively by the bloodthirsty god of madness. He seeks to understand Arthur, to manipulate him, to find his true intention, and that is what he finds. "You love him" means "You act singularly out of love for John, with his best interest at the core of your every decision."

He knows, because of this, that he has lost. So he chooses to take out his anger on Arthur instead.

It would've been easier for Arthur to give up while his bones were being broken. He was helpless to stop the torment, but he knew he had the knife. He could've killed himself once he realized that he was going to be subject to eternal torture, and it would've made sense. But he didn't. In fact, he begged John not to return to the King even while screaming in agony, even knowing that if John left, the pain would end. Because John's fate mattered more to him than his own. So long as he endured, John would live.

It wasn't until he realized that John was leaving, sacrificing everything for him, that he decided to kill himself. If John was doomed regardless, then this way, at least he would be free from the King. And if Arthur's motivation was at all unclear--perhaps he was sacrificing himself because of all the people the King would hurt once fully restored--he clarifies it later, in season 3.

"I died for you. For a fucking voice in my head, that stole my eyesight. I fucking died for that. Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?"

It does sound insane. But he doesn't even mention the even crazier thing he did; being willing to live for the voice in his head. To live through unfathomable agony and terror of the King's torture, just to protect John. Dying for him was his last resort, because he shares a body with him. Dying for John could only save him from something worse than death.

This means that in order to love John, Arthur has to live for him in every way possible. He has to care for himself in order to care for John. He has to do things he doesn't want to do--like maybe one day sit through a film he can't see--to care for John. Every single experience--good and bad--that he has brings John life and humanity, and every good thing he does shows John how beautiful the world can be. His patience and forgiveness helps John to grow his own sense of compassion.

The core beauty of their relationship lies within this, at least for me. Arthur Lester, a man unable to live for anyone but himself, is put in a position where everything he does has a potent effect on a lost fragment of an eldritch being. And despite what that being is, despite the bloodlust and violence of his entire existence, he slowly becomes someone so full of love and compassion that he can hardly stand to ignore a person in need. Even before growing close with Arthur, he knew compassion from his new desire to grow. He wanted Arthur to spare the wraith in season 1, because he wanted to know that monsters can be saved and redeemed. And he kept growing from there. John shed his first ever tears for an innocent animal. He looked through Arthur's cruel words in season 3 and understood that they were fueled by self-hatred, and he stuck by him and refused to let him drown in his darkest moments. He was willing to risk everything for strangers victimized by a terrible monster. He begged Arthur not to take the stone from Mr. Scratch, because in doing so, someone innocent would have to pay the price.

Of course he isn't perfect (ahem, that whole thing with Oscar), but he has been loved enough to be transformed completely. He has been loved enough to return that love, not only to Arthur, but to people he doesn't know. Because Arthur lived for him.

#sorry this is so long lmao #these thoughts have been churning in my head since i finished the podcast #it's just so beautiful #their relationship is so complex and fascinating #these two are gonna be the death of me #jarthur #privateeyes #john doe #arthur lester #malevolent #malevolent podcast #qpr #kayne #the king in yellow #faroe

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blackjackkent · 4 months

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So... I was already going to write something about Hector and Karlach, and Hector being forcibly reminded that Karlach would rather die free than go back to Avernus and live, and Karlach laughing it off in the dryad's vision, and Hector feeling like shit about it.

And then this happened when I went back to camp:

"Ngh. Soldier... my engine. It hurts... I think this might be it. Soon. Thing's burning hotter than I knew it could."

"But look - we've just about made it to the city. That'll do me. Let's go protect it. Whatever happens after that is between me and the so-called gods."

"You don't think we'll find you a cure?"

"With this heat going, I can't spare the energy to think. I just want to enjoy whatever's left of this life of mine. Anyway, it could be worse. I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. With who I'm meant to be with. How many people can say that?"

-------

She laughs again, grins and shakes it off, and suddenly he can't take it anymore.

"Damn it, no!" he snaps. "Stop that! Stop laughing about it, as if it doesn't matter!"

She blinks, draws back a little, startled. Hector very rarely loses his temper; the last time she saw it was in the House of Healing against Malus's terrible cruelty. Not here, not in camp, where they're safe and they're together. "Soldier--"

"Don't 'Soldier' me." Hector's jaw works and then he looks away from her abruptly, staring down at the ground. "This isn't funny, Karlach. It isn't a joke. You heard what Dammon said. If we don't find a cure, you'll die."

Karlach's smile fades. "You think I don't know what death means, Hec?" she says more sharply. "I've seen way more of it than you have. I know what Dammon said, and I also know what I said. I'm not going back, not ever. Not even to save my life."

"I know. Believe me, I heard every word when you told me." Hector's lips draw into a tight line. "I'm not talking about that."

She hesitates, puzzled. "What are you talking about, then?"

"How am I supposed to feel, when you look at me, and say you're about to die, and laugh?" He looks up at her, his eyes burning with frustration and pain. "Do you expect me to laugh too? Do you expect me to pretend like it makes no difference?"

She frowns. "No, I--"

"Because I can't," he continues hoarsely. "I can't laugh. I can't shake it off the way you can. I..." He pauses, rubs a hand down his face, desperately trying to regain his habitual control, but it feels completely lost to him right now.

"I will never, not once, tell you what decision you need to make. This is your choice. Your life. I wouldn't take that away from you." He shakes his head. "I respect you too much for that. It's your body and your soul, your free will and your choice. But I need you to respect me too, enough to believe that what you choose affects me too."

He feels his voice crack, and dashes his hand in frustration and shame against his eyes, feeling dampness in them. "I love you," he whispers, clenching his fists at his side in the struggle for control. "I love you, Karlach... so much, so deeply... I didn't know feelings like this existed in the world until I met you. I was taught to be self-reliant, to need no one's reassurance, to keep my heart wrapped up in books and faith and dust, but then I found you, and there's no going back to that. I'm lost in you." He hesitates. "As... as I hope you're lost in me."

He can see her expression twisting with emotion but he doesn't give her time to speak. It's all coming out now, everything he usually doesn't have the words - or the bravery - to articulate. "I'm not trying to change your mind. I've learned so much from you, from everything we've experienced out here - and one of the things I've learned is that there are things more important than living or dying. That there are things worth dying for. If this is yours... I won't stand in the way."

He swallows. "But I need you to understand that... I don't know what I will do without you. And when you laugh, when you act as if it doesn't matter that you will be gone... it tears my heart out."

Silence. He's run out of words and stares at the ground in front of her feet, his shoulders tight with the effort of keeping his voice steady.

When she finally answers, her voice is softer. "Dammit, I'm... I'm sorry, Hec. I really am. This, how I am..." She gestures vaguely at her own chest. "In Avernus, it was the only way to stay sane. You had to laugh about it all, or you'd go mental." She snorts bitterly. "I told you, that's the only reason I hung around with Flo. She was a bastard, just a complete motherfucker... but she made me laugh. And I couldn't make it otherwise. It would've crushed me."

She pauses for a moment and then goes on. "I don't want to die, Hec. I really don't. I never had the chance to live like this, loving someone, loving you, and doing good work, and feeling like I mean something. And I don't want to hurt you. Gods... that's the last thing I want."

She reaches out cautiously, takes his hand. He draws a sharp breath, although his shoulders instinctively relax, feeling the familiar pulse of her heat against his skin.

"I love you too, Hec," she says quietly. "You're not the only one who never thought life could feel like this."

He lets the held-in breath out shakily and grips her hand like a lifeline in a storm. "I'm scared, Karlach," he admits in a whisper. "I don't know if I can do this alone."

"You won't be alone." She smiles slightly. "We've got a pretty good group going here, now. And you're way stronger than you think. I've seen it." She hesitates. "Proud of you, y'know."

He closes his eyes and swallows desperately against the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he says softly. A pause. "I'm proud of you too, you know," he adds after a little while. "For standing by what's important to you. I want you to know that, no matter what else happens."

Her fingers tighten around his fiercely. "And I won't laugh about it, not anymore," she adds with a slight nod. "Didn't think about how it sounded to you. I won't make that mistake again."

He nods, musters a slight smile as he looks up at her. "Thank you. That's all I ask."

She steps forward, wraps her arms around him tightly, and he sags forward into her, burying his face into her neck. It's a great irony, he reflects, that the same heat which is going to kill her makes him feel so warm and comfortable in her arms.

His eyes squeeze shut against her and he lets out a single gasped breath, almost a sob. But only the one. Then he has control again, and all he does is lean into her and hold on as if his grip might somehow prevent her from ever slipping away from him.

And though he will not say it aloud, inwardly he prays for some miracle, some way out of the darkness that sits in his future when she is gone. Because he truly does not know how he will bear it.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #drabble #long post #bg3 drabble #karlach x tav #karlach/tav #karlach bg3 #karlach cliffgate #karlach #oops i made myself sad :(#i am trying really hard not to spoil myself on her act 3 questline #but the temptation to look it up and see if there's any chance for a happy ending here is very strong #:( poor hec is trying so hard to do the right thing #and it hurts so bad

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dutifullynuttywitch · 4 months

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Reflections on the eve of battle

Blades of Light and Shadow 2

Pairing: Mal Volari X f!mc (Autumn Nightbloom)

Rating: Teen

Word count: 744

Summary: This takes place on the eve of the Ash Empire’s invasion in Blades of Light and Shadow 2. I kept thinking of Mal’s internal conflict throughout Blades 2 and how it would come to a head before the big battle… wanted to try and do it justice

She loved him. Mal Volari still couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“You love me.”

“Yes I do, you scoundrel. Make sure to tell everyone.”

She looked up at him with a light smirk, a twinkle in her eyes, fingers lightly tracing down his face and chest. He pulled her tighter into their intimate embrace, unbelievably happy that this woman, his kit, really loved him back.

“Oh, I plan to.”

He flashed her a bright smile, preening. Some of the old swagger returning.

And he planned on doing just that.

A giddy smile lit up his face at the memory, all too quickly replaced by the now near-constant mask of worry.

Right after figuring out how to make sure she’ll survive the upcoming battle.

His chest constricted, heart rate accelerating as the familiar panic and dread took over. The guilt at having failed her already, again and again.

At not having been fast enough to keep Valax from dragging her into that portal. At not having been sufficiently resourceful or cunning to figure out how to get her back. Or able to keep their party from slowly falling apart after their repeated failures at freeing her from the shadow realm.

He had worked himself to exhaustion all those months, grasping at any leads albeit thin, going to increasing lengths – and risks – to find artefacts or spells that could bring her back.

He had poured his earnings from defeating the Shadow Court towards opening an orphanage. A dream he had shared with her just before her disappearance, on that wonderful evening where she had finally broken down the last of his defenses and gotten him to start to hope for something better, for the possibility of happiness and a life together.

He had wanted to honor her memory, and make sure these kids had a happier alternative to the harsh, violent life he had led, growing up in the Thief’s Guild.

But really, he had needed to keep busy. He didn’t want to stop, couldn’t stop and consider the possibility that she was really gone.

That nothing he could do would bring her back.

Because those thoughts brought him to a dark and dangerous place. One he had only visited in the deepest pits of hopelessness in his reaper days, horrified at his capacity for violence and death but desperate to pay out his and his sister’s debts and free them from that terrible life.

So he kept going, like an automat, refusing to stop and feel the loss of his love, of his home, because he knew he couldn’t live in a world without her.

And then suddenly she was back. His one dream come true. Smiling, beautiful as ever, bantering and alive.

Gods how he had wanted to lose himself in her embrace and forget the world around them.

But he couldn’t relax and let himself feel the joy of her return. Couldn’t let his guard down.

She was still being hunted down by Valax and the Ash Empress. He had already failed her too many times. Wouldn’t do it again.

His dark train of thoughts returned to the present, and the impending invasion from the Ash Empire.

He looked across the sprawling camp, eyes trained on his beautiful kit, striding confidently from one group of fighters to the other, boosting morale and talking strategy.

Gods he was proud of her. His beautiful warrior. His finest treasure, the only one he would ever need.

He told her he’d have her back out on the battlefield, and he meant it. He would do whatever it took to keep her safe, help her protect the Light Realm. He would lay down his life for a chance at keeping her alive.

Amidst all the darkness and doubt swirling around in his head, that warm feeling, the seeds of hope she had planted with her patience, understanding and love, kept pulling at him.

He would die for her, but he hoped that somehow… somehow they’d make it out of this fight alive, and would have a second chance at love and a life together.

A slow, hesitant smile etched Mal’s features. He gazed on at the woman he loved.

“For you, kit, I’ll do anything.”

#blades of light and shadow #mal volari #bolas #playchoices #blades of light and shadow 2 #bolas 2 #mal volari x mc #mal x mc #choices #blades fanfic #choices stories you play #choices fanfiction #pb choices

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i-am-just-a-girli · 6 months

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Valerie's Letter

I know there’s no way I can convince you this is not one of their tricks. But I don’t care. I am me.

My name is Valerie. I don’t think i’ll live much longer, and I wanted to tell someone about my life. This is the only autobiography that i’ll ever write, and – God – i’m writing it on toilet paper.

I was born in Nottingham in 1985. I don’t remember much of those early years. But I do remember the rain. My grandmother owned a farm in Tottlebrook, and she used to tell me that God was in the rain.

I passed my eleven plus, and went to a girl’s grammar. It was at school that I met my first girlfriend. Her name was Sarah. It was her wrists – they were beautiful. I thought we would love each other forever. I remember our teacher telling us that it was an adolescent phase that people outgrew.

Sarah did.

I didn’t.

In 2002 I fell in love with a girl named Christina. That year I came out to my parents. I couldn’t have done it without Chris holding my hand.

My father wouldn’t look at me. He told me to go and never come back. My mother said nothing.

I’d only told them the truth. Was that so selfish? Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all we really have.

It is the very last inch of us.

And within that inch, we are free.

I’d always known what i’d wanted to do with my life, and in 2015 I started my first film: The Salt Flats.

It was the most important role of my life. Not because of my career, but because that was how I met Ruth. The first time we kissed, I knew I never wanted to kiss any other lips but hers again.

We moved to a small flat in London together. She grew scarlet carsons for me in our window box. And our place always smelt of roses.

Those were the best years of my life.

But America’s war grew worse and worse, and eventually came to London.

After that there were no roses anymore. Not for anyone.

I remember how the meaning of words began to change. How unfamiliar words like “collateral” and “rendition” became frightening. When things like norsefire and the articles of allegiance became powerful. I remember how different became dangerous.

I still don’t understand it: why they hate us so much.

They took Ruth while she was out buying food. I’ve never cried so hard in my life. It wasn’t long until they came for me.

It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place.

But for three years I had roses – and apologised to no-one.

I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch.

But one.

An inch.

It is small and it is fragile, and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must never let them take it from us.

I hope that - whoever you are - you escape this place. I hope that the world turns, and that things get better.

But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that even though I do not know you, and even though I may not meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you: I love you.

With all my heart.

I love you.

-Valerie.

#v for vendetta #Valerie's letter #happy 5th of November to the baddest bitches who worship this masterpiece #film quote #graphic novel quote

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scarahours · 2 years

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"how long will it take for you to give up on me?"

- in which you ask him just how long it'll take for your autumn love to completely fall apart. P.1 [ANGST]

CHARACTERS: Diluc, Childe and Xiao (separately) x gn! reader

Being in a relationship with someone who was still grieving over the death of his late father was exhausting. Terribly so. Even now as you find your bodies intertwined, having the sweetest and most passionate night - holding on like it's the last you'll see of each other ever again, you wonder if this was a stroke of luck or the reason for your demise.

Diluc was quite literally, in all aspects - the perfect partner, both in paper and in reality. He often took you out to late night dinners whenever you had overtime, he left you little trinkets all over the house, and he even introduced you to his father as the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. It was all going so well.

But when Crepus Ragnvindr had suddenly died from a heart attack, Diluc didn't take the news well. He began to neglect himself, only ever focusing on you. Who were you with? Why were you home so late? By god, what if you got into a sudden accident?!

It was another night spent shouting and throwing. A pair of strong arms wrap itself around your waist, pulling you closer to him like he was afraid he'll lose you - like you weren't just at each other's throats earlier because apparently, hanging out with your friends and getting home a tad bit late is a crime punishable by death now.

Diluc was obsessive over you and your well being - you must understand, he can't lose the only other person in his life left! Kaeya has long left him and so has Crepus. It was just you and him against this cruel, cruel world.

But it was suffocating you. HE was suffocating you. It was too much. His love isn't passionate and home anymore, it was heavy.

"How long will it take for you to just... Let me go, 'Luc? I can't do this anymore." You laugh, pretending as if you were talking to a conscious person.

He doesn't say anything. But you knew if he'd heard it, he'd call you ungrateful and selfish. And another fight breaks out, the cycle simply repeats.

But Diluc won't back down, no - he will never.

For all he wanted was your safety, don't you see?

Childe was a family oriented man, above all. He made it clear to you from the very first day that before he was your lover - he was a son and an older brother. He treasured his siblings and would often be out with them, leaving you all alone in the house with nothing to do but clean, wait for him and act like a loving spouse - which, you weren't. "Yet," he said, but you aren't so sure if you would stick around long enough.

Most of the time you felt more like a servant rather than his partner, you took up more than half of the responsibilities around the house and you barely even saw each other because he was either out working or with his siblings.

One time, however, when his youngest brother - Teucer, was in the house playing and running around while Childe left you to "bond" with him (when really it was just an excuse for him to leave and go to his work without his brother finding what he did for a living), did things start to go south. He accidentally knocked one of the only portraits you had from your childhood, a competition that you won in which both of your parents were in the frame - from more than a decade ago. It was your father's last gift to you before he accidentally got into a car crash.

Unable to control your anger - you lashed out at the young child, making him cry. You hadn't noticed that Childe was right by the door frame.

He immediately stormed over and kneeled down to console his little brother who was a crying mess, barely stuttering out an "I'm sorry," and "I'll never do it again."

Childe was fuming, but so were you.

"GET OUT." His voice was hard and stern.

"FINE THEN!" You screamed, running up the stairs and hastily grabbing your things.

From the corner of your eye you see Childe rush into the room, he pulls your arm over and asks, "Are you fucking serious [name]? Once you step out of our house it's over."

"YOUR house. Not mine. I'm sick and tired of your bullshit, I'm giving up. You knew how much that portrait meant to me." You spat venom.

"For fucks sakes Teucer is just a child! He makes mistakes, and the picture isn't ruined - look! It's just the frame, stop being so immature [name] it's fixable!" Childe argues.

"I don't give a fuck if it was just the frame, this single thing held much more value to me than you'll ever do." You seethe, grabbing the picture out of his hand and pushing him away to leave.

Loving Xiao was easy, but understanding him was another thing. You thought that with time, the distance between the two of you will slowly disappear - but it never did.

No matter how much he claimed to love you, he refused to tell you anything about what was bothering him and how he felt. Communication was a foreign thing in your relationship, and you knew that continuing on like this would prove to be difficult. So you broke things off, despite loving him with your whole being.

Surprisingly, he took it quite well. No questions asked, no why's and where did it all go wrong. Perhaps he also thought that things were never gonna work out between you two. At least, you thought. The subtle change was there, it began with him slowly avoiding you to openly walking out whenever his eyes met yours. The air between the both of you had taken a nasty turn, for better for him - for worst for you.

Eventually he began meeting someone else, and his world began to light up again. You often pass by the couple enjoying their time together. Seeing Xiao look much more happier with her rather than he was with you was like a jab to your ego, what does she have that you don't? Why is she capable of making him smile that way when you can't? You want to be bitter about how easily he's given up on mending things with you - but you know it yourself that you have no right. Especially when you were the one who had broken up with him first.

Xiao was in the hands of someone better now, better than you'll ever be. So why feel envious? Why feel sour?

You crumble with regret when you realize that had you just given him time - a little more time to feel at ease with you, he would have opened up too. He would've treated you the same as he did her now - hell, possibly even better. He was always capable of change - but you just didn't trust him. Xiao didn't give up on you, you did.

Why am I dogshit with angst I'm gonna cry wtf someone send help I don't like how this turned out

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longlivefanfic-net · 2 years

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Come and Get Your Love

Summary: You come home from work early one night to find your boyfriend, Steve, playing dress up. Steve x fem!reader

Word count: 5.7k

A/N: Smut requested by a friend, heavily inspired by this spotify playlist!!

God, you think to yourself, I cannot wait to go home tonight. You love your job waiting tables at the best burger joint in Hawkins, Indiana—the people are friendly, the menu is limited, and the pay is surprisingly good (and the tips even better)—but all the same, it’s been a long day. The high school basketball team has won another game tonight, edging them a little farther down their path of unforeseen victory, and the crowd of parents, teenagers, and high testosterone’d teenage boys has become entirely too loud, too raucous for your head. Three more minutes, you think, glancing at the clock, three more until I get to go home early. Your friend, famous for her missed shifts, has shown up for once and is graciously allowing you to leave at your assigned time for once. You make your rounds, bringing them change or letting your tables know that someone else will close them out tonight. After a few overly zealous “we’ll see you next time!”s and “have a great night!”s, you are finally free.

In the parking lot, you pull your apron ties from around your waist, exhaustedly tossing it into the empty passenger seat. You’ve got to remember to take it into the apartment with you tonight—when you don’t, it makes the car stink like the grease traps you spend too much time around. That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, honestly, but Steve can’t smell your uniforms after work without immediately getting hungry. There are few things in this world you love more than Steven Harrington, but his constant desire for french fries can be a little exhausting at 7 AM. Speaking of Steve, you told him you’d be off around midnight; it’s only 10 now. Hopefully, he’s still awake and (after you shower) the two of you can crawl into bed together.

These last few weeks have been…lonely. You moved into Steve’s apartment at his insistence. “You’re already over here all the time,” he had laughed, “What’s the difference? Another drawer for your underwear and the half of the closet I already don’t use? Yeah,” he had snorted, “that’s really going to be just terrible for me.” You had grinned, wrapped your arms around his waist, snuggled your face into the side of his neck. Like always, he smelled like a mixture of his leather cologne and hairspray. There was a slight whiff of vanilla in the mix that day, a sure sign one of the Hawkins’ moms who still doted on your boyfriend had made sure he had eaten some homemade baked good that day.

But now you actually lived with Steve, and it was different. When you go home from your job every night, crawl into bed alone, and then go see your boyfriend in the morning, there’s an expectation of isolation. When you live with the man you love and are crawling into a bed where he’s already asleep, it feels like you’re missing someone who’s right next to you. It hurts, you think to yourself, mildly jarred by your own honesty. It’s worse, somehow, to feel alone with Steve than it ever was to be apart from him. But Steve isn’t the kind of guy you say these things to; it would hurt him, unfairly so, to tell him that you’re more lonely sharing his one bedroom, tiny apartment than you were on your own. Steve went out and bought plant stands the day after you agreed to move in and found the corners with the most sunlight because he knew you would have to bring some greenery into the apartment—how can you tell that man that he’s hurt you by…what, exactly? Sticking to a sleep schedule? You feel selfish, suddenly, for these thoughts. You love Steve—you love him so much it physically hurts you sometimes, looking at him while he makes you a cup of coffee first thing in the morning and your heart twists inside of your chest. You’ve never loved anyone like him before; you’ve never been loved by anyone like him before.

The kindness and care he has shown you had shocked you back in the first few months of your relationship. Once, you explained to him that, while you loved your weekly grocery store bouquet, he really didn’t have to get it for you. He also didn’t have to open doors for you. He didn’t need to pay every time you went out, either. You were just mildly shocked that he still hadn’t yelled at you—not once—or raised his hands to you. A week earlier, in the middle of a big fight about his overly close relationship with Robin (a stupid fight, you knew now), he had sighed loudly, pulling his hair, and said in a tense tone “I am very god damn frustrated. Can we take a walk and come back to this conversation in twenty minutes?” You had expected him to hit you the whole time you had been screaming at him, and this sentence disarmed you far more than a man’s hands ever had. But it wasn’t just that Steve was good to you—you loved him for himself too. He constantly brought home books from Robin and stacked them on shelves for her to come back for in a few weeks, and he always brought home a “treat” on Fridays to reward himself for surviving another week, and he had never sung in-tune once in his life, and his eyes lit up when you came home excited from your weekly class at the community college and regurgitated the entire lesson for him. You realize, suddenly, that the radio unit in the console of your car is playing Africa, one of Steve’s favorites. It’s hard not to smile, thinking about all of the times you’ve watched your gorgeous boyfriend slap the steering wheel and flop his high hair back and forth as he sings this song—a song that, notably, does not inspire “head banging” in most people. “Please be awake,” you whisper to yourself as you pull the car into an empty space outside of the apartment building.

Walking down the hallway to your apartment door, keys and apron in hand, you can hear the faint strains of music leaking under someone’s door. Must be a party, you think, if the music is that loud. You recognize the song as one of Steve’s favorites, one of the many he has sung to you after climbing out of bed and putting his underwear back on before walking to the kitchen. You can’t help but remember the way his hips have wiggled—mildly out of time—as he croons for you to “come and get your love,” a giant grin plastered over his face. You’re still replaying this image as you slide the key into the lock on your door and twist it, letting the door swing on its loose hinges. The music hits you in the face like a blast from a fan—it’s coming from your apartment, not someone else’s. Steve’s sound system—one of the few things he said he was willing to invest “big money” in to with Jonathan’s advice—is blasting the song.

However, there’s no Steve in sight. No off-key singing, either. Where the hell is he? you wonder abstractly. You set your apron and keys down next to the door, kicking your shoes off as you do. Scanning the room for Steve, you walk to the stereo and twist the knob to lower the volume. “And you’re mine and you! look so divine!” comes wailing out of the bedroom. With a grin, you turn and call, “Baby, I’m home!” while practically prancing to your bedroom. He’s awake! you think, and he’s in a good mood! At the doorway, you stop. Your eyes can’t make sense of what you’re seeing. That is…your boyfriend, right?

Steve is facing you, eyes wide in horror. “Oh my god,” he says. “Fuck.” His hands are covering his chest—or rather, they’re covering what’s on his chest. Your boyfriend, Steve “the hair” Harrington, “King Steve” when you were in high school together, has wrapped his wildly hairy chest in a sheer, light pink bra. Amidst your shock, you can't help but notice that the sheer fabric is adorned with tiny white flowers, embroidered around the empty cups that lay flat against his pectoral muscles. There’s no lining to what he’s wearing, and you can see his nipples straight through the fabric. Not particularly practical, some part of your brain says. As if the practicality of the bra is why your boyfriend has chosen to wear it.

“You’re not supposed to be home yet,” Steve says, swallowing. “Jennifer showed up for her shift.” Your eyes have not left his chest yet. His hands are trying to cover himself defensively, but he’s clearly unsure if he should be covering the thin straps and sheer cups or if he should be pulling the damn thing off. “I’m just—it’s—“ he stutters. You raise a single hand, silencing him. “Who does that belong to?” you ask. “Me!” he says, quickly. “It’s mine. But it’s not some—“ You interrupt him again. “Are you cheating on me?” you ask, cold and detached already, preparing yourself to remain stoic while he breaks your heart. “No! Jesus christ, no, baby, I love you so much, it’s just…well. It’s just. It’s mine, I swear. It fits me, see? It’s my size.” You’re mildly shocked that he knows his bra size, but your brain accepts that without question.

“If that’s not someone else’s bra, why do you have it?” you ask, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. They are wide, a hint of fear around the edges. His mouth is set in a hard line that you’ve come to recognize as his “oh shit, I’m going to have to fight my way out this time” look. “It’s just…for me. I like the way it feels. On me. So I wear it sometimes.” He says, eyes darting towards the ground at his confession. “Okay,” you say. His eyes shoot up to yours, hopeful and shocked. “Is it…something we need to talk about? I mean, do you want to wear it all the time?” “No,” he says, “it’s just fun. To wear it at night sometimes, and dance a little, and just enjoy it.” “You can wear it all the time,” you say, almost surprising yourself. “We can get you whatever you want to wear. I’m not going to love you less or differently if you change…some things.” As these words come out of your mouth, you realize how true they are—your love for Steve doesn’t depend on his manhood.

“It’s—jesus christ, it’s not like that!” Steve barks, a thick and heavy blush washing over his neck and face. “I didn’t want to tell you for this exact reason. I knew you wouldn’t get it, no one really gets it.” This is the angriest you have ever seen him. He’s not used to sharing things about himself that aren’t already a matter of public knowledge, and his defenses are up. Your heart is racing with the slightest touch of adrenaline as you say “Will you explain it to me?” He takes a deep breath. He takes another, and you can see his pulse throbbing in his throat from across the room. His broad hands are still spread over the bra he’s wearing, and you quickly glance down to assess what else he’s wearing—just his boxers, slung low on his hips. “It’s just…no one expects me to do this.” Steve’s voice has dropped drasticaly as his blush has receded, and his fingers fidget. “I don’t have to be…you know…Steve Harrington when I wear this. I’m not the washed up basketball player, or the fired icecream scooper, or my dads son—I’m just me.” He looks at you cautiously from across the room. You take two steps into the bedroom, stepping into the plush rug. “I think I can understand that,” you say. “I want to understand that.”

Steve is still standing with his hands covering as much of the bra he’s wearing—his bra, you chastise yourself—as possible. “Would you…Could you show me? What you’re wearing?” you ask, voice gentle like you’re approaching a wounded animal. That’s what Steve is right now: wounded. His pride, his presentation of himself has been taken from him in an unexpected moment. Your boyfriend doesn’t do well with being unprepared; he keeps a baseball bat by your bed and a flashlight in the nightstand. Passively, the thought of how difficult this moment must be for him flicks through your brain on a breeze of distraction. Right now, you know, your job is to comfort him and reassure him, no matter how hard your heart is beating or the fact that your stomach has begun to swirl with a warm, molten feeling that’s creeping down between your thighs. Slowly, his hands slip down by his sides, palms out towards you. “It’s a nice bra,” you say. “Is it as soft as it looks?” He nods, his hair flopping against his forehead. Hands now free, he reaches one up to his face and pushes his hair up and to the side—still the slick Steve Harrington move that has made your heart skip more than a few beats since you first met.

The mesh cups of fabric and embroidery laying flat over Steve’s naked torso is, quite possibly, the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen. He’s both pretty and handsome, sexy and sexual in a way you didn’t know you wanted. “So,” you say leadingly, “do you have others? Or is it just this one?” His face flinches, so briefly, like he’s deciding how much of the truth to share right now. “I’m asking,” you say quickly, “because we could get more if you want.” His eyes are still so closely guarded. “I have more.” He says. His tone makes you think of a child getting in trouble with their mother; he’s both resistant to the discipline he’s expecting and defiant about his right to be wrong. “I’d like to see them.” He disappears into the closet, reaching up to the far left of the top shelf, pulling down a shoe box. He sets it on the bed next to you and your fingers brush—this is the most physical contact you’ve had since you came home, and it sends sparks up your nervous system like embers starting a wildfire.

Steve pulls the lid off of the box, pushing aside the crumpled tissue paper. Inside the box—the same box you pushed aside when you moved in to make more space for all of your shoes, not even daring to guess Steve would have anything hidden from you—is a neatly folded stack of underwear and a row of bras laid on top of each other. You look up at him, curiosity lighting your eyes. His face is still guarded, still closed off to you and you pause in your exploration; it’s obvious to you that this is something he’s struggled with for a while. The way he’s crouched slightly since you came in, the way he lashed out earlier, the way he has tried so obviously to make this a private experience: he’s ashamed. Someone has taught him, at some point, that this is not the way Steven Harrington should express himself and he’s taken their word for it. But the thing about shame is that it lies to you; you can’t allow Steve to tell himself his shame is the right thing to feel. God, you think to yourself, my baby has carried this alone for so long.

“Steve,” you start, pulling in a deep breath. “You know this isn’t…something bad, right?” “I’m not supposed to want things like this,” he murmurs. This answer has come too quickly and you know it’s been on a loop in his head. “Who the fuck said that?” you ask. He looks at you, incredulous. “Oh, my God, I don’t know, like everyone with a penis? In a thirty mile radius?” “And that’s who you’re going to let tell you how to live?!” The urge to yell at him is rising in your chest—this is not the time to be a smart ass, not the time to raise your voice. “Baby,” you say, “remember the first time I told you what I wanted? In bed?” He blushes, a light pink sheen trailing over his cheekbones, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Yeah,” he says. “There are people who would tell me I’m not supposed to want that,” you say. “People that think the idea of you telling me what to do and calling me what you do is the worst thing I could want.” Steve begins chewing on his lower lip and you’re keenly aware he’s still standing next to the bed you’ve taken a seat on, wearing nothing but the sheer pink bra and his boxers. This is what intimacy looks like, you think, sharing truths until you’re out. “You and the person you’re with are the only ones who get to tell you what you can and can’t do, Steve,” you say, reaching out to put your fingers on top of his. You wait, breath bated, for the question you hope will come. “And is this…can I do this? With you?” Steve asks, eyes on the floor. “Of course you can, Steve. Do you want to do this with me?” “God,” he says, face radiant, “so badly.”

You return to the shoe box on the bed next to you. Your eyes rove over the neat little scraps of lace, of mesh, of satin. Curiously, you reach out a hand to touch one of the pieces in the box—stilling when you note Steve’s eyes on your fingers. “Can I touch?” you ask. “Yeah,” he says. “Touch away.” There’s one bra in the box unlike the others: where the others have minimal or no padding, this one has well lined cups, covered in a white satin. It looks like the kind of bra your mom had bought you, years ago, when you first started “needing” them according to her. “Why’s this one different?” you ask, tracing your fingernail over the cup. “It’s not mine,” Steve says. “What?!” Your eyes whip up to his.

Your stomach knots suddenly, the exact fear you had felt when you first saw him tonight apparently coming to fruition. “I mean, it’s mine now,” he says, reaching his own long fingers to pluck the brassiere out of its cardboard surroundings. “But it wasn’t mine originally. It was Nancy’s.” Momentarily, you are furious at this betrayal. How could he keep his ex’s underwear? In the home you share together? But you notice the look of reverence on his face as he delicately toys with the too-wide straps and understand that he has more to say. “It was the first one I ever wore,” he says, still looking at the bra in his hands. “She left it in my car,” he pauses at the involuntary noise that escapes the back of your throat, “and the guys found it. They dared me to put it on, as a joke. That’s what it was supposed to be—a joke. But it felt good, and I felt…I don’t know. I understood what it was like to be looked at and desired for more than just your name or whatever, because that’s what it was like for Nancy. She knew guys didn’t want her because she was Nancy Wheeler, they—I—wanted her because of who she is under that. So I just…kept it.” You can understand that, you think, that need to be wanted for yourself rather than what you offer. To be desired for what’s in your heart rather than what people think they know about you.

Steve puts the bra back in the box. It’d be better if it wasn’t Wheeler’s bra, but you understand that he’s kept it for sentimentality rather than some sort of lingering fascination with the person who owned it. Turning to the small stack of neatly folded panties, you begin shifting through the options. Baby blue lace, pale yellow satin, even a cotton cheeky cut pair printed with green leaves and small roses. “Do you buy it yourself?” You can’t imagine Steve Harrington buying underwear and lingerie, asking the sales girl to ring him up in a tiny town like Hawkins. “Robin,” he says, “She buys it all for me.” There’s gratitude in his voice, gratitude for the friend who has been safe for him, and there’s gratitude in you for her too.

There’s a pink, sheer pair in the stack as well, the band embroidered with the same white flowers wrapped around Steve’s nipples right now. Hooking a finger around the band, you pull this pair out and hold it up at your eye level. Steve looks visibly nervous as you study the sheer fabric. “Would you put these on? For me?” You don’t make eye contact as you ask this, giving him the space to feel whatever is going through his mind and body at your words. Wordlessly, he takes them off of the loop of your finger, and nods in the corner of your eye, rich brown hair shining under the bedroom light. “I…I’m going to change in the bathroom.” He disappears without looking at you, softly shutting the door.

For the first time, in the privacy Steve has left you in, you’re able to acknowledge the sheer desire that has been resting in your stomach since you saw him tonight. The warmth that has burned dully in between your legs compels you to stand up, walk back into the living room, and return to the stereo. Steve has a mixtape—something you giggled at the first time you pointed out that he always puts on the same songs as he starts to undress you—full of songs that you suspect he has recorded during Saturday night radio broadcasts. You press play on the rewound tape, letting the strains of ABBA croon through the speakers softly. You turn the volume knob, slowly, and then pad softly back to the bedroom.

You’re feeling…less than clean from work today. While Steve is still in the bathroom, you run a brush through your hair and take off your sweaty clothes, replacing them with the oversized shirt you normally sleep in next to Steve. Sitting back down on the bed, you hear the bathroom door slowly swing open. “You put on my tape?” Steve’s voice is incredulous. Instead of replying, you turn to him, smiling, and are stopped still with a gasp. “Holy shit, Steve.” He blushes, hands immediately covering his pelvis. “I’ll change.” “Please don’t.” The slightest hint of a smile creeps up over his lips, eyes glinting. “Don’t go wasting your emotion,” the speakers croon, “lay all your love on me.” His hands rise up to his hips and rest softly above the light, white scars he calls his “bat bites.” You thought he was joking the first few times he said that, but Robin still blames his moments of confusion on untreated rabies and, at some point, you accepted that the white scars on either side of his hips are from being bit by…something.

Your eyes are focused solely on the sheer size of his package bulging against the panties he’s wearing. The muscles around your ribs feel like they’re tightening, and you can’t stop your mouth from dropping open just slightly. Your tongue pokes out just barely, softly tracing the inner line of your lips as your mouth dries out with desire. Eyes tracing up his torso, following the line of his body hair, you look at Steve’s face. He’s chewing his bottom lip, but the left corner of his mouth is turned up. Once you finally meet his eyes, you see how intently he’s been watching you. “Like what you see?” he asks, the same smirk you’ve seen on his face after he’s made you cum more than once in one round and he’s wildly satisfied with himself. “Very much.”

“Can I feel your panties?” You ask him. His eyebrows meet his hairline, a delighted shock on his face. Wordlessly, he steps closer to where you sit on the bed. You hold your hand out, palm up, and he presses himself against the soft flat of your hand. You push against him ever so slightly—his hips push backwards and your other hands grabs him, pulling him closer and holding him steady. Slowly, delicately, you rub your hand up and down the soft fabric, feeling him swell under your fingers. “Pretty,” you murmur, “so pretty.” His hardness is pushing against the panties now, and your breath is coming a little shallower now. The mix tape clicks over to the song he likes to spend on his knees, head buried between your legs, and your blush at the memories of his tongue in between your lips makes his eyes widen.

Steve places his hand over yours on his crotch. His hips start to wiggle, grinding against your hand slightly, as he whispers always off-key, “turn on my charm, that’s because I’m a Good old fashioned lover boy.” The two of you are grinning at each other and it feels like you’re in on a joke together. He keeps his hand over yours, rubbing your palm over his bulge, and bends down slightly, placing his other hand against your own panties. A gasp escapes his throat and his eyes glint. “Fuck,” he says, “how long have you been soaking your panties for me tonight?” “Since I saw you in that bra,” you whisper. You feel him twitch under your hand at these words, and he starts rubbing against your damp panties. A little moan slips out of your mouth and he looks so proud of himself you can’t help but lean forward and press your lips to his.

Your mouths are warm together, and his tongue fills yours like he’s been starving for you. You trail your lips down the side of his soft jaw, rubbing raw on stubble, and down his neck. Over his collarbones, you lick a soft spot before biting tentatively, delicately. He likes a little pain, but he’s always needed you to be gentle while you hurt him—especially tonight, when he’s been so vulnerable with you. “I want you to fuck me,” you say into the soft skin in the hollow between his collarbone and shoulder. “I will,” he groans. “God, I will.” “With the panties on.” His hand stills against your damp underwear and the hand over yours freezes. “Are you serious?” His voice is incredulous. “Yeah,” you moan, lips tracing down the bra strap over his shoulder to his pectoral muscles. “You are so hot,” he says, radiant joy in his voice. You pull your hand out from under his and off of his waist, reaching up behind him to unhook the bra he’s wearing and slowly pulling it down so you can graze your teeth against his nipple. “Take my underwear off and leave yours on,” you command before biting sharply.

His gasp goes unstifled, and you smile against his hairy chest, one hand pushing the other bra cup up in place over his chest as the straps slide down his wide shoulders. His broad hands find your own shoulders, lightly pushing you on to your back on the soft plush of the bed you’ve shared with him. His hands disappear under the hem of your shirt, grabbing the waist of your underwear and pulling down as you lift your hips up. He pulls your panties over your legs and holds them up, standing up. The dark spot of slick warmth covers most of the cotton fabric and he examines it carefully before locking eyes with you. “You’re such a slut for me,” he says, and you smile, nodding. He starts to slide the pink sheer panties down his thighs and you stop him. “All the way on,” you say, “push them to the side.” He shifts the fabric over to the side, using his hand to pull his thick member out from behind the fragile fabric.

He pushes your shirt up to your waist, leaving you partially exposed, and pins your hips in place with one hand. His other hand rubs down his length, thumb brushing over his tip, before positioning himself at your entrance. Finally you feel his head make contact with your body and sigh in contentment. However, he’s not quite ready to fill you—he teases the very edge of your clit with the head of his dick. You can feel the slight bit of warmth already leaking out of him pressed up and down the sensitive nerve endings. You reach up a hand, grabbing for his thigh. The very edge of the orgasm he’s going to bring you to soon trembles through your legs as he continues to tease your body with his own, and you can foresee the shaking of the earth beneath you when you finish tonight. “Please,” you moan, low and honey voiced, “please, Steve?” With a satisfied grin on his soft features and a slow, frustratingly slow, push, he enters you. The soft panties still on his pelvis are rubbing against your skin as he fills you. Achingly, he pulls back out until just his tip is still inside of you and carefully, carefully slides back in. Your core is physically aching with a lack of him. God, he looks so good. The bra is dangling loose around his torso, one strap half down his swollen bicep, and you start to beg him to go faster, imploring that you’ll “lose it” if he doesn’t start riding you hard and fast.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asks, smirking. He strokes his thumb over your hip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thigh. The motion of his hips slowly begins to speed up, and the friction is driving you wild. You’re writhing on the bed under his hands, rolling like you’re crazed, as you help him find friction amongst your dampness. His hands squeeze your tits under your shirt before he eventually places both hands on your hips, raised high, so that he can keep his rhythm. He keeps one hand on your same hip, fingers tight as he helps support your weight—he has absolutely bruised you with his fingerprints by now—while the fingers of his other hand slide in above where he’s thrusting in and out of you. The rough pads of his fingers rub your clit, hard enough to hurt a little. The heavy, hard strokes are different for Steve, but you can’t stop the small cry of both pleasure and pain that escapes your mouth at the slight hurt. You can’t get words out anymore, and when you try to express how good he’s making you feel all that comes out is a whimper.

He pulls out of you suddenly, making you whine. “I want to cum with you on top,” he says. Steve gets on the bed on his back, adjusting his bra as he settles in. As you straddle his hips, you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. There is something luxurious about the lack of fabric on your body and the small pink patches of it on his. Carefully, his hand holding himself, you slide back on to his dick and he whimpers. You lift yourself a bit, sitting back down as he moans softly, lip in between his teeth. You’re already stretched to him and don’t hesitate before you’re riding him, his soft voice calling your name. Hips grinding against his, the repeated press of the embroidered flowers on his panties under your sensitive skin, you are so close to cumming your vision starts to shimmer. Carefully, you lean down over him and rub your hands over his bra. Your hands rub down to the bat bites, digging your thumbs into the soft skin in between the scars as he gasps. One hand still in place, you take the other and place it over Steve’s throat. There’s a slight line there, practically invisible except when his skin is tanned from too much time by the pool in the summer. Your fingers wrap gently around his throat, squeezing the side softly, and he moans loudly. “I’m—“ he moans, “I’m—“ “Not yet,” you command. His shock distracts him, and you take advantage of the moment to take the hand from his hip to place his fingers back on your clit.

The gift of your release is barreling down your spine suddenly, and you feel your muscles clenching and unclenching over and over. As he cums, you feel the heat deep inside of your body, pulled farther up into you by your muscles as he twitches. “Jesus,” he cries, hips bucking up into you with the force of his orgasm. He keeps pushing himself up into you as you rub over him until your orgasm has finished and he has started to soften slightly still inside of you. You sit up straighter, pushing up off his flat stomach as you pull him out of you. The trail of his cum that flushes out of you as you move drips onto his panties and you smile at the idea of leaving a slight stain on his lingerie. Falling on to your back next to him, out of breath, you ask, “Good?” “Jesus,” he says again. You sit up a little, rolling over to your side so you can lightly finger the thin strap still hooked over his shoulder. “I like your underwear,” you say. “But I think, maybe next time, I want to see you in lace.” His eyes meet yours. “Maybe you can let me pick something out for you,” you say, biting his shoulder lightly with a smile. “Maybe we could match even.”

“I’m so glad I get to love you,” Steve says, wrapping his arm around you. You burrow into his armpit, the smell of his sweat mixing with his cologne and filling your senses. “I love you too,” you say with a smile. For the first time in weeks, you feel connected to Steve. Maybe it’s just the lightheadedness of your orgasm, but you want to spend the rest of your life with him. You’re so grateful for his vulnerability tonight, and you’re also grateful for how good he looks in his matching set. “Hey Steve?” you murmur, starting to feel sleepy. “Yes, baby?” “Just don’t change your chest hair, okay?” “I’d never dream of it.”

#Spotify #steve stranger things #steve x fem!reader #steve harrington #fem steve harrington #fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fan fiction #i HC that this man does not have a thought in his head

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sanss-trashh-42 · 1 year

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Tsh analysis(*holds a magnifying glass and looks through the text with deep scrutiny*):

I have this little theory that made me sit up in bed like a thunderbolt and go oh! oh! oh!

"For, if the modern mind is whimsical and discursive, the classical mind is narrow, unhesitating, relentless."

Richard's description of a classical mind fits Henry ever so perfectly. He was unhesitant with his actions of taking down Hampden with six men, ruthless and relentless in killing Bunny and narrow-minded in the way he immediately denied the fact that people walked on the moon. He made himself an ancient, lived as such, completely denying the world infront of him to the extent of making himself totally isolated from it. He lived in the past, liked it that way. Ever only acknowledged the ancient world, learnt it's languages, believed deeply in their beliefs and relied solely on their resources.

"It was why I admired Julian, and Henry in particular. Their reason, their very eyes and ears were fixed irrevocably in the confines of those stern and ancient rhythms—the world, in fact, was not their home, at least not the world as I knew it—and far from being occasional visitors to this land which I myself knew only as an admiring tourist, they were pretty much its permanent residents, as permanent as I suppose it was possible for them to be."

To dwell deeper, he was more of an ancient Roman than of an ancient Greek. An opportunist who was deeply obsessed with greek ideas, strangely superstitious and idealized about wild enthusiasms. An orderly man and a pragmatist to begin with.

There's this paragraph where Julian talks about the Romans:

“The Roman genius, and perhaps the Roman flaw,” he said, “was an obsession with order. One sees it in their architecture, their literature, their laws—this fierce denial of darkness, unreason, chaos.” He laughed. “Easy to see why the Romans, usually so tolerant of foreign religions, persecuted the Christians mercilessly—how absurd to think a common criminal had risen from the dead, how appalling that his followers celebrated him by drinking his blood. The illogic of it frightened them and they did everything they could to crush it. In fact, I think the reason they took such drastic steps was because they were not only frightened but also terribly attracted to it. Pragmatists are often strangely superstitious. For all their logic, who lived in more abject terror of the supernatural than the Romans?"

“The Greeks were different. They had a passion for order and symmetry, much like the Romans, but they knew how foolish it was to deny the unseen world, the old gods. Emotion, darkness, barbarism.”

By bellowing Dionysus, Henry foolishly denied himself of the darkness and barbarism that would follow. He was thoroughly influenced and manipulated by Jillian into the beautiful illusion of loosing oneself, into throwing off the chains of being for an instant. He was so deeply fantasized by it that he turned a big blind eye towards the whole disaster that was to be ensued after. In a way, this was his, as well as the ancient Romans', tragic flaw, they had underestimated the powers of the mighty Gods. One had to know, Dionysus, The God of wine, theatre, worship and importantly, the God of letting go, had the ultimate power that allowed humans to let go of their troubles through wine, let go of their identities through theatre, and let go of their individuality through worship.

However, this letting go also had dark aspects as Dionysus himself, there was no inherent limits to the powers of bellowing him. Festivity could turn into destruction, without self control, his powers were capable of driving humans to let go of their sanity, to let go of their judgement and finally to let go of their very humanity!

During his lecture about telestic madness, Julian talks about the idea and the temptation of losing control over oneself and the terrible seduction of Dionysiac ritual, but he purposefully chooses to neglect mentioning the supreme importance of self-control, which is embodied by none other than Dionysus himself. In the play, Bacchae, Dionysus in the guise of a mysterious foreigner, was able to sting other men with madness while he himself was the picture of sanity. Hence, the tragedy befalls!

(Parallelly, while Julian himself was able to infect and influence the group into wild enthusiasms, he however stood there by the side calm and aloof as though all this had nothing to do with him. We shall discuss about this in detail later, this post is already too big!)

#tsh #the secret history #henry winter #dark acamedia #look what i found #tsh spoilers #dionysus #ancient rome

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livelaughlovenikeiyomiuri · 1 year

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So I ended up hyperfixating on the new post Linuj made so I translated the entire thing.

I do need to preface this by saying I don't speak Korean at all and everything I have written is based on Google Translate and vibes! Syobai is cussing a lot more than he probably should in this unofficial translation because of it.

I am also sorry if some sentences don't make too much sense, I'm trying with my limited English grammar knowledge.

Without further ado, here is the first Omake story, Queen of Despair, in a format that is probably going to be akin to that of the other Omake stories!

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

I love despair.

It's good to see people suffering. Hearing yells and screams makes me unbearably happy.

To someone like me, the "Ultimate Despair" was a god-like being.

Over the past few years, the incidents connected to the Ultimate Despair have made me madly excited.

It was the first excitement and pleasure I felt in my boring life, and so I continued to savor it.

But there is no such thing as 'forever'.

In the end, Ultimate Despair was defeated by Ultimate Hope and the biggest, most awful, most tragic event in all of human history was almost over.

Humanity overcame despair and moved towards the future with newfound hope.

It was… it was despair for me.

My name is Taro Watanabe.

There are Remnants who love despair and live for it.

Despair is hard to survive these days.

Ultimate Despair was annihilated, and most of the remaining Remnants were either killed or imprisoned.

In recent years, since the world has regained hope, and the judiciary has been completely revived, not only are the Foundation guys roaming around, but also those government dogs.

For the Remnants who worship despair, the current situation could only be called 'despair-inducing'.

Taro: …It's here.

However, even in this hopeless situation, hope existed.

After much searching, I finally got to her.

To the Queen of Despair.

Taro: Three blocks northwest of the garbage dump, 15 steps in the direction of the church with a broken payphone…

Taro: !!!

No way… the information was real.

My heart started to tremble with excitement.

The person I am about to meet is so important, a mere plebian like me couldn't even dare to look her in the eye.

Rumors that have been floating around for months…

The rumors that there is a new "Symbol of Despair for the Next Generation" that erodes all hopes and calmly commits crimes that would shock even the Gods…

Taro: …Let's go inside.

A dark, dusty old staircase.

It was a ruin that ordinary people would not even pay attention to, but the atmosphere was somehow reassuring to me.

It was the energy of despair.

After passing through several stairs and corridors, I found a door that exudes unusual energy.

I took several deep breaths and knocked on the door with trembling hands.

Taro: …

???: …Come on in.

Taro: Ah…!!!

The air feels agitated.

At first glance, it sounds like a cute child's voice, but there is a terrible energy of despair hidden inside.

Just by hearing this voice, I knew that I had come to the right place.

I grab hold of my heart that is beating like crazy, without thinking about stopping…

Soon, carefully, very carefully, I opened the door.

The inside of the room was in much better condition than expected, compared to the door on the outside.

The dust of the ruins was still hanging in the air, but there was no time to worry about that in this room.

A feeling of intimidation filled the small room.

The moment that person came into my sight…

…I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed.

Iroha: …are you Watanabe Taro?

On the outside, she looks like an ordinary girl.

However, from her shady face and her unusual appearance, I could tell that she was absolutely not a normal human being.

She had the composure of a veteran who had gone through all kinds of battles.

I could tell by the way the leisurely laughed.

Taro: Ah…!!!

Taro:T-That's right! This is Watanabe, the one that contacted you!

For a moment, I had forgotten that she had called my name and just blankly stared at her.

This person is the "Symbol of Despair of the Next Generation" Iroha Nijiue.

A person who, at some point, became a legend among Remnants.

"Queen of Despair" "Enoshima Junko the 3rd" and "Next Generation Despair" were all names for her.

If you were to look at her actions, she was a member of an organization that kidnapped and killed the symbols of Hope for the next generation, she killed a member of the Kisaragi Foundation and…

She even has on her record swindling and murdering the broker "H", whose identity has recently begun to emerge to the surface.

Moreover, even after committing all of these actions, the government or foundations did not catch her, and her work is still ongoing.

And even though this must be Iroha, who is actually being chased by the world, she is still facing me so boldly.

To be honest, her appearance was a little different from what I expected, but…

Thinking that the Queen of Despair, who had committed such great feats, was right in front of my eyes, I started to get goosebumps all over my body.

Iroha: Yes, I received the letter and the aid money you sent.

Iroha: I heard you have brought more gifts…?

Taro: Yes! Yes! You're right! Here…

After saying that, I took out a small box from my bag and handed it to the Queen.

Iroha: …this?

Taro: Yes, actually, there was a bit of a scuffle with the Kisaragi Foundation guys all the way here.

Taro: After a fierce chase, one of them was decapitated. I wanted to show my spirit to the Queen…

Iroha: Deca…!?

Taro: Yes, he was a young boy.

Iroha: …you-

Iroha: you idiot!! Who asked for something like this!?

Taro: Hee! I'm- I'm sorry.

Iroha: Uh- hmm, besides, there was trouble with the Kisaragi Foundation, you said…

Iroha: Are you insane? To come all the way here in that state… what would you have done, if you had been tracked down by the agency?

Taro: That's…

Taro: I'm- sorry. I didn't think that far ahead.

That was definitely true. I did not think about that.

I was busy thinking about my meeting with the Queen of Despair, I ended up almost causing her a lot of trouble…

Iroha: If you truly are sorry, shouldn't you show it sincerely?

Taro: Sincerely… you mean?

Iroha: Get three more cheques ready. In addition to the funds sent today.

Taro: Three- three checks!?

Iroha: Can't you? If you can't do that much, would you rather I turn you into my servant?

Taro: Oh no- it's possible! Consider it done!

Iroha: …we prepared a SUV in the back of the building. Get on it and move it.

Iroha: First of all, we'll take you to the hideout. A detailed explanation will be provided by the officer there.

Taro: That- that means!

Iroha: …you just have to make up for your mistakes.

Iroha: Welcome. You are now an Ultimate Despair.

…I did it.

In this bleak world where hope swallows despair, I finally met the mother of despair and became a child of despair.

The hard life of the past is now over.

It wasn't until today that I became a member of the 'Ultimate Despair'...!!!

Iroha: Mr. Hashimoto!!

Iroha: What's with that guy!? Isn't he crazy!?!?

As soon as Watanabe Taro left.

There, the "Queen of Despair" started screaming and running around.

Iroha: No, why the heck would you give a person's head as a gift!?

Iroha: Who in the world would love receiving something like that…

Syobai: Well, if he was a normal person, would he come to people like us?

Syobai: Have you never seen a person with a severed head?

Iroha: Like once or twice!! Why would I want to see something like a human neck!

Syobai Hashimoto.

A broker operating only in the shadows.

After the Utsuroshima incident, his identity was revealed to the light, and his actions shocked many people.

But.

The public thinks that he died when the bridge collapsed while escaping from the Kisaragi Foundation.

As it turns out, it was Iroha Nijiue, who was with him, that managed to escape by disguising a corpse under the bridge as her own.

That's the truth known to the public.

Somehow, people seem to believe that Iroha Nijiue killed him…

That's the only truth that was known. Until now.

Syobai: Hey, bubblehead. Shut up… what the hell were those poor conditions earlier?

Iroha: Wh- what?

Syobai: Why the fuck only three? Three. These are bastards who would risk their lives in order to enter the "New Ultimate Despair".

Syobai: Even if you were to tell them ten, those are fuckers that would make the money by selling all their organs or some other shit.

Syobai: And you only asked for three cheques…? You've forgotten everything I taught you.

Iroha: W-well, but he seemed to be having a hard time already when I told him to give me three more cheques…

Syobai: And since when did you start caring about the "fish"?

Syobai: Those guys are all fucked in the head. Getting the money out of them is all that matters.

Syobai: We are just "baiting" them.

Iroha: …

Syobai: If you understand, prepare to move. I am going to take care of that guy from earlier.

Iroha: Yeah? But, uh… the three cheques?

Syobai: Didn't you hear what he said earlier? There was a scuffle with the Foundation guys.

Syobai: If even one of the chaser comes, it's game over for us. We received the aid anyway, so the goal was achieved.

Syobai: It's just three cheques, and it's better to deal with this guy here as soon as possible.

Iroha: Well, then this hiding place…?

Syobai: We most definitely need to move.

Iroha: Uh, but… this place was pretty good out of all the ones we've had so far…

Syobai: Hey, the way that guy grimaced over all the dust when he first arrived here tells us everything we need to know.

Syobai: Hey, I'll be back soon, so stay still here.

Iroha: …

Iroha: Hey… Mr. Hashimoto…

Syobai: What?

Iroha: How long do we have to keep living like this…?

Syobai: …

Iroha: "Queen of Despair" this, "Enoshima Junko the 3rd" that…

Iroha: By promoting non-existent fantasies like the "New Generation Despair"...

Iroha: This life of extracting dirty money using this fish and bait method…

Iroha: Are you really satisfied with this, Mr. Hashimoto?

Syobai: …

Iroha: O-of course, I know that we have no choice but to do this if we want to earn a living.

Iroha: That there is no other way for us as long as the judicial system is revived and the Kisaragi Foundation's power is so strong.

Iroha: But, well… we survived!

Iroha: We survived that hellish killing game!

Iroha: So, someday, this life of escape will end, and we will be able to return to our daily lives as decent members of society…

Iroha: So? How long do we have to continue like this…?

Iroha: If it's Mr. Hashimoto, you'll end up using a more daring method…

Syobai: Hey.

Syobai: What the hell do you think I am?

Iroha: Huh?

Iroha: You are… the world's greatest villain, who even stabbed Mr. Sannoji himself in the back… is that wrong?

Syobai: …Jeez.

Syobai: Hey, you. Listen carefully.

Syobai: I don't know what kind of fantasies you have made up about the person known as "Syobai Hashimoto"...

Syobai: But this is how I've always lived.

Syobai: Do you think that trash like me has lived a wonderful life?

Syobai: Trash lives by doing trash things.

Iroha: …

Syobai: If you're sick of this, then our deal is gonna be over starting today.

Iroha: Huh!?

Syobai: I've earned enough money to now be able to comfortably live in the shadows while doing other businesses.

Syobai: You can stop playing the villain that you hate so much.

Iroha: No! That's not what I meant…

Syobai: I have no interest in working with someone that still has lingering feelings for society.

Iroha: Okay you are right! All right, but if you disappear, I…

Syobai: Why are you clinging to me like that?

Syobai: You still have your "Divine Luck".

Iroha: That, but that's…

Syobai: You saw that on the bridge at the time, right?

Syobai: Maeda Yuki is alive, somehow, thanks to Divine Luck.

Syobai: Just like you used to look for Utsuro, why don't you look for him?

Iroha: Mmm, what… how can I…?

Syobai: Jesus, do I have to sit you down and spell things out for you?

Syobai: This conversation is over. It's a waste of time.

Syobai: I'm going to take care of that guy and disappear, so now you either live or die on your own.

Iroha: Ah, Mr. Hashimoto-! Sorry!! Please don't leave me…

*Siren starts playing*

Iroha: Wait, what is this noise…?

Syobai: …Ah, fuck.

Syobai: It's that thing that the guy from earlier came with.

Syobai: Those are the Foundation guys.

Iroha: Huh!?

Syobai: Judging by how loud it is, it's already too late to go to the SUV.

Syobai: I should have left right away without making any noise… shit.

Iroha: Ooh, what should I do!? What now!?

Syobai: …

Syobai: What to do, what to do…

Syobai: No matter what you do, you have to get out.

Syobai: Go, come with me!

…A disgusting story about disgusting people.

To begin with the conclusion of this short anecdote, those two managed to escape somehow.

However, did the chase last long, or did Hashimoto prepare safety measures for this type of situation?

Did he even establish the deal with Iroha Nijiue again…?

"Queen of Despair" would continue to appear after that.

With a minion in a suit wearing a crow mask.

It seems their deal isn't over yet…

#sdra2 #iroha nijiue #syobai hashimoto #honestly this was a lot to take in #i hope it's understandable enough!#i am gonna make a follow up post with my own opinions after this

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itsclydebitches · 2 years

Text

OFMD Party Drabble #5

Prompt: AUs

Warnings: Izzy's use of reclaimed slurs, allusions to the AIDS crisis

A/N: I had so much fun writing this AU yesterday, I simply had to continue it :D

Some young poof had been staring at him since he got on the tube.

Izzy grit his teeth and bore it, well used to people tracing him with their eyes like he’d fucking begged them to. Sometimes it was due to his style: leather, piercings, tattoos, a sharp undercut that had been getting shorter as the years went by, his hair no longer keeping its shape even with the fuck-ton of product he put in it. There were all types in London, but not as many who exuded his level of ‘Fuck You’ into their fifties. Sometimes though it was the burn scars on his right arm. The prominent ‘X’ on his cheek. The way he scowled out at the entire world, apparently tempting others to catch his eye and offer an insincere smile, like humoring him was their good deed for the day.

Or maybe it was the SILENCE = DEATH patch on his jacket.

The boy wasn’t shy about his own identity and no, it wasn’t just because of his god-awful outfit that Izzy knew he would have once worn the same earrings. He would have pegged the boy for a fellow queer based on the crop top, neon shorts, and—fucking hell, were those light-up sneakers?—alone, but Fang had drilled it into his admittedly thick skull that this was a new world they were living in, one where anyone could wear anything without it having a whole fucking code built into it. On the days when Izzy wasn’t seething over the terrible passage of time he was internally, privately rejoicing that none of these kids had to go through the shit he had. Or at least, they had their own, slightly less deadly brand of shit to deal with, but what was progress if it wasn’t some guy showing off enough skin for the strip club, all but sitting in another guy’s lap, on an otherwise average Tuesday morning with no one batting an eye? The staring was as cathartic as it was annoying, though Izzy was inclined to let it pass just this once. Provided the fucking kid didn’t try to tell him off for a pink triangle, or the massive QUEER stitched into his collar. It was too early to deal with babies telling him his identity was ‘problematic’ after four fucking decades of fighting for the confidence to claim it.

You’re being pessimistic again, Fang’s voice whispered and Izzy grumbled into his phone.

He’d just resigned himself to the unwanted, but ultimately harmless attention when the boy stood. He kissed his partner, all but sauntered down the car... and ended up leaning on the pole above Izzy, twiddling his fingers in a ‘hello.’

No, no, no, absolutely fucking not.

“Whatever you’re selling,” he growled, “or preaching, or offering—” Izzy looked up then, making contact with a lazy smirk and glossed lips. “—or think you want to say to me: don’t.”

Impossibly, that smirk got wider. Izzy really was losing his touch if he couldn’t even intimidate the youngins anymore.

“My, my, aren’t we feisty.” The boy jutted out his hip, fiddling with a small scarf like someone had paid him for it, and Izzy prayed that they would crash, freeing him of whatever the hell this morning had become. What the fuck was up with him meeting weirdos lately?

The reminder of Stede brought a pang of disappointment. Izzy ruthlessly shoved it aside.

“You know,” the boy continued, entirely undaunted by Izzy’s glare, “I am tempted to offer you something now. I know Pete wouldn’t mind,” and he jerked his head towards the bald man in a ripped jean vest, smiling at them and—fucking shit—taking a picture. Izzy was halfway out of his seat to confront him when a manicured hand nudged his shoulder. “Easy, easy. You’re Izzy Hands, right?”

Izzy blinked.

These tube rides were getting too fucking surreal.

“...How the hell do you know my name?”

The boy just grinned. “Bingo! Hell yeah, I win the prize. Ah, sorry. I guess that did come across a bit stalker-ish, huh? I’m Lucius, intern at the V&A.” He said that as if it cleared up a goddamn thing. At Izzy’s blank look he said, “The Victoria and Albert Museum?”

“I know what ‘V&A’ stands for, you absolute twat.”

“Okay, jeez, cool your jets. It’s just... that’s where Stede works?” Lucius glanced back at Pete who shrugged, looking lost. “You’re... friends?”

Izzy’s brain had ground to a halt. It was too early. Too little coffee. Too many confusing fuckers with bright clothes and enticing smiles. He was friends with Stede Bonnet? The nosy guy who’d given him a disconnected number?

Yet Lucius was still talking. About how much Stede had gushed about Not A Sailor Izzy during their work hours, to the annoyance of everyone within earshot, to the point where his leather-clad, goatee, “Leave her, Johnny” appearance was pretty distinctive to anyone who’d suffered through Stede’s need to fill the silence. Such an interesting man! So confident! I do hope he’ll call! Except Izzy hadn’t called and now here Lucius was, sharing the same car and considering whether he needed to exact vengeance for his boss.

“Except,” Lucius said slowly, eyeing him up and down, “you don’t look like a guy who flirted and ditched.”

Yeah, because he hadn’t. He wasn’t. Izzy had called that number for a solid two weeks, despite the dead beeping on the other end, because Stede’s stupid, genuine smile had haunted him and Edward was up in arms over meeting the ‘fancy man’ Izzy had found. They’d come closest to being the stalkers, scouring the web for any mention of a Stede Bonnet, but if the man had a social media life, it was too damn deep for them to find. Edward had demanded that they keep trying though, sure that anyone who caught Izzy’s attention, even for a moment, was well worth the effort.

Which was why Izzy still had that stupid strip of paper in his wallet, now creased and sweat-stained. He tore it out and shoved it under Lucius’ nose.

“This Stede Bonnet?” he hissed.

Lucius stared.

“...oh for fuck’s sake. Pete!”

And he was running off, pawing at his boyfriend, eventually coming up with a pen and laboriously writing on the back of the paper, using Pete’s shoulder for leverage. When Lucius returned he looked as if he’d swallowed a spike-laden lemon.

“Did you know,” he grit out, “that Stede’s handwriting makes the clumsiest doctor’s look like perfect print?”

The paper reappeared in Izzy’s hand, Lucius’ looping script now under Stede’s—yes—horrendous chicken scratch. That number, apparently, was a four. And that was a six?

“Fuck off,” Izzy whispered.

“I know.”

“Fuck him.”

“I know!”

They pulled into the next station and with a sudden curse Lucius was scrambling, Pete grabbing their bags and tugging him towards the door. He waved and called out as he was leaving,

“Please fuck him. Or don’t. Just call and put us all out of our misery. And if you decide to go with the not fucking option, feel free to call us instead!”

“Call—?” Izzy stared at Lucius blowing him a kiss, Pete grinning ear-to-ear. “Lucius, I don’t have your fucking number!”

But the doors had already closed.

Half the car was looking at them now. Izzy flipped off the majority before pulling out his phone and taking a picture of the now legible number—just in case. He considered calling Stede now... but no. Best wait until he wasn’t fit to bite the fool’s head off.

Instead, Izzy brought Ed’s messages back up, thumb tracing all those stupid heart emojis.

Good news, Boss—your ‘Project Fancy Man’ is back on track.

#OFMD #Our Flag Means Death #GentleHands #SteddyHands #Izzy Hands #Stede Bonnet #OFMD Party #OFMDfic #might do a whole series #of poor Izzy meeting people on the tube #slowly trying to make the SteddyHands work lol

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farfromstrange · 1 year

Text

Foreigner's God | m.m

Matt Murdock x avenger!OFC

Chapter twenty-five: For Real This Time

Read part XXIV here ° masterlist

Summary: The Avengers head back to Matt’s apartment to get some much needed rest before continuing with their plan to stop Hydra. Even though Eliza decided not to hold grudges, the familiar environment mixed with her old friends brings her to her breaking point and she lets go of all her pent-up anger and disappointment, causing a series of revelations that no one was quite prepared for. Her and Matt’s relationship also reaches a heated breaking point and that might just be the last time.

Warnings: SMUT, unprotected sex, fingering, sad sex (yes that’s a warning), ANGST, so much angst, mentions of drug use and suicide attempt, language, hurt/comfort, brief panic attack, Matt Murdock (yes that’s a warning), also Eliza comes as her own warning too

Other characters: Team Cap, Foggy

a/n: Does it help when I said I cried too? No? Okay.

The unexpected team headed to Matt’s apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. He made sure no one was following them on the road to their newest safe house. To Eliza, it was an old one. A place she had grown to love over the past couple of days. She lived with Matt and somehow got used to the domesticity of it all. She wanted it back, the carefree comfort, the emotional conversations in the middle of the night, and the sex. The mind-blowing, intimate sex they shared. She wanted to go back to two hours ago when everything was less terrible, Matt was still by her side and she could bask in the comfort of his presence without having to worry about a thing.

That was over though, thanks to her inability to love someone the way they deserved to be loved.

To appear less suspicious, they all entered through the rooftop access door. A whole bunk of people appeared as if they had no business even being there. And the truth was, they didn’t. They weren’t supposed to be there, but they were, despite everything, and they would stay that way for as long as they deemed necessary.

Sam was the first one to bluntly state the obvious. “Well, damn,” he said, “This place is a shithole.”

“For the first time, I agree with you, Wilson,” said Natasha. “You live here?”

Matt scoffed. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” he grumbled.

“Because it’s true. This place sucks.”

“Why don’t we have a tour of your apartment next, Natasha? If you keep criticizing mine, yours probably looks much better, right?”

He opened the fridge, retrieving a bottle of wine, and he didn’t waste a second breaking the cap off with his bare hands.

Natasha circled back in surprise at his bold sarcasm. For someone who knew she didn’t like him very much, he certainly had the balls to push her further. She was almost impressed.

“I don’t have an apartment,” she said. “I’m a fugitive. I stay where I need to stay, and my place in Budapest kind of blew up thanks to Black Widow assassins suffering from chemical subjugation ‘cause my sister brought the antidote right to my doorstep in Norway and they wanted it back to prevent more Widows to escape the dirty hands of their keeper, Dreykov, a man who is known for kidnapping little girls to turn them into world-class assassins doing all the dirty work for him.”

Matt stopped sipping his beer. His sightless eyes focused on somewhere beside her, his head slightly tilted to the side so he could listen closely to the sound of her voice.

He regained composure. “Forget I asked,” he said.

“Wait,” Natasha’s answer caught Eliza’s attention, “What exactly happened the past few months?” she asked.

The Black Widow shrugged. She pushed past Matt who scowled at her rough handling, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer for herself. “German piss,” she commented. “That’s disgusting.”

“You sound like this guy I know.”

“Do I? What’s he like? Drop-dead gorgeous? Badass? Superhero?”

“No, he’s just a dick.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Okay, what the hell is your problem with me?”

“I don’t have a problem. Do you have a problem?”

“I’m gonna have a problem if you keep talking to me like that.”

“What, can’t take a little fire?”

“That’s not fire, that’s pettiness.”

“And you guys have both,” Eliza cut in. She sounded exhausted, not just physically but mentally. “Though the latter seems to be a lot stronger. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re having a cock fight.”

“Well, I do think mine’s bigger than his,” Natasha said, sipping her beer casually.

Eliza rolled her eyes. “I doubt that,” she said.

Matt chuckled. Natasha shot him a glare.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Matthew. What you’re doing right now takes away about nine inches.”

“What?” he pouted.

That was about all of it and a little more.

“This isn’t about honor, this is about your ego. You, Nat, can’t stand the thought of someone like Daredevil caring for me ‘cause you think he spells trouble. And Matt, you’re being petty because you don’t like it that she’s stronger or smarter than you’ll ever be,” she said. “That makes you two very annoying people who should never have met. Now put your dicks away and act like normal fucking people.”

Natasha stayed quiet this time, staring guiltily down the throat of the bottle. “This beer still tastes disgusting,” she muttered.

Matt sighed, “Yeah, I know.”

“If I liked you, I’d buy you better beer.”

“If you liked me, I’d be flattered.”

“But I don’t.”

“But you don’t.”

Eliza propped her hands on her hips. Foggy noted that she looked almost like Matt when she did that, copying his stance down to even the slightest detail.

“You done?” she asked.

She handed her beer to Matt. “Now I’m done.”

He slapped the glass down on the counter, his smirk sour as he listened to her step out of the kitchen and into the living room, throwing herself down on the leather sofa.

Eliza followed her. “Can you answer my question now? About what happened the last couple of weeks?”

Natasha sighed. She propped her arm up on one of the cushions, playing with the threads that stood from the fabric. “I didn’t kill Dreykov or his daughter back then in Budapest,” she told her. “A couple of weeks ago, my sister Yelena dropped the solution to chemical subjugation in Black Widows on the doorstep of my safe house in Norway…”

“Wait, you have a sister? Why didn’t I know about that?”

“‘Cause she’s not my biological sister and more of a we were in a spy family together for three years sister.”

“Still, that is a huge deal!” she claimed.

“Yeah, not so much when you find out that I just left her behind and never checked back in with her,” Natasha said.

Eliza’s eyes widened. She had never taken her to do something like this, not when both of them knew what it was like to be abandoned.

“You had your reasons, right?”

The redhead-turned-blonde chuckled. “I find it nice you think that, but I don’t think I had. I guess I was just scared.”

“That’s a reason,” Eliza tried to tell herself. “I do shit out of fear all the time.”

“If you say so. Anyway, I returned to Budapest to find out the Red Room was still pretty much existent,” she continued the retelling. “We spent days trying to stop Dreykov and we almost died doing it, but we managed. All of the girls are safe now and no more Dreykov. No more him and no more Black Widows. They can make their own decisions now, like us.”

She nodded. “That’s nice to hear. At least something that went right.”

“Yeah… What happened to you?”

Eliza knew they would circle back to that. “Other than finding out that my whole life has been a lie concocted by the people I thought I could trust, nothing much,” she answered.

“Eliza, we told you, we were just trying to keep you safe,” said Natasha.

Their sense of a normal family reunion went straight out of the window. The hostility kicked back in.

“How can hurting me possibly keep me safe?”

Steve entered the conversation in all of his defensive nature. “If you had known about your identity earlier, Hydra might have been able to find you before we even got the chance to get ahead of them,” he said. “You remember what they did to Bucky, how they searched for him after he ran away. You remember what he told us.”

“Don’t drag Bucky in this,” she said.

“Why not? If he were here, he would tell you the exact same thing.”

“I don’t think so. Barnes the only one who truly understands what Hydra does to people like us, those they experimented on.“

“You can’t know that.”

“I do because we’re both the same person!” Eliza snapped. Her voice jumped an octave, raising the audacity. “We both went through the same hell. He’d be much better at this than you.“

“Bucky is just a super soldier with a metal arm, your powers are stronger and more unique,” Natasha shot back. “You’re extremely powerful and they could end worlds if you learned how to control them. Hydra wants your blood to recreate the powers of the Reality Stone and teach their test subjects to actually end the world. They want to make more of you and once they manage that, they will kill you.”

“You could have at least told me my father was alive and that I’m not an orphan,” she argued. “You made me believe I was alone. You made me drown in that feeling with no one there to catch me. I was so alone. You knew the one thing that could have given me at least a little bit of closure and you didn’t even consider telling me.”

“I did!” Natasha didn’t raise her voice often. She only did it when she was upset. “I considered, but Tony told me not to.”

“Since when do you listen to Tony?”

“Since the truth could have killed you! It almost did several times in the past few days. The only reason you’re still alive is that you have someone who constantly jumps in the line of fire for you.” She pointed at Matt. “He’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

Eliza shook her head. “No, we could have solved this the second you got that file. Nick surely wouldn’t have kept this from me.”

“Nick would have destroyed your file the second he got his hands on it.”

“Maybe that would have been better. Maybe you should have just erased the truth of my existence altogether because knowing I killed my mother doesn’t sit right with me.”

“Eliza, you didn’t kill your mother,” Clint said. He stepped forward carefully. “She died because the stone was slowly poisoning her. If anything, you kept her alive. She felt good up until the point she gave birth to you. You blocked the poison of the stone with your DNA because the stone is protecting you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it should have killed me along with her.”

“Eliza, stop it!” Matt roared from the kitchen. “Stop talking as if your death would be convenient to everyone else.”

She sneered. “You don’t get a say in this!”

“Why? Because I told you I loved you? Because I was willing to sacrifice my life for you over and over and over again? Because I don’t care who you were, I just care about you?”

“Oh, my God.” Eliza shook her head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“None of you do. No one ever understands.”

“Enlighten me then!”

“I’m not human, Matt! And because I’m not human, I am not the person you met on that godforsaken rooftop. I am not the SHIELD Agent that took down an army of soldiers before Natasha saved me,” she said, diverting her attention to the four Avengers occupying the living room. “I am not the Avenger Tony recruited after he saw my potential during the battle of New York. And I am not the kid you wanted me to be. I’m none of those things. You wanna know what I think? I think part of you didn’t want me to find out because then you would’ve had to erase whatever perfect, golden picture you had of me and replace it with whatever this is.”

Her eyes glowed bright red. Her fingers tingled. The veins traveling up to her eyes erupted in a terrifying glow, so red it slowly faded into shades of maroon. It was the this that had been unspoken for so long, she never recognized that part of her. That was her self-control, she realized. The not-knowing, the inability to use all of her powers, and feeling like a stranger in her own body. The process of learning who she was had been disrupted and only as an adult picked up again. It wasn’t fair.

“I have one of the most powerful elemental crystals running through my blood and no one knew until a few years ago when my father snitched up on me,” she continued.

The salt on her tongue reminded her of the almost human vulnerability she still carried inside of her, and how prone to tears she was whenever she got angry or upset. She had to hold onto the little things, as hard as it seemed.

“The powers I have are getting worse ever every day,” she said. “Ever since I first got a taste of what they can do; if I had known before, I could have learned how to control them, but I don’t. I don’t know how. I almost killed someone with my bare hands, without having to touch them, and it’s all your fault! Not mine, not my mother’s, not my father’s, yours! You could have told me but you didn’t and the way I am right now is on you. I’m broken because of you. I took drugs to stop this indescribable ache in my chest, and then I had sex with men who only saw me as a fucktoy, and I let it happen because I wanted to feel something, anything, that didn’t remind me of this pain in my chest. The unknown possessed me, so I kept taking those pills until I was too numb to care, and when that wasn’t enough, I willingly pushed myself over the edge. The overdose was never just an accident,” she turned to Natasha, her friend’s eyes bloodshot and fighting back tears as she slapped a hand in front of her mouth, “I did it on purpose. I took the drugs, hoping I would drown in the bathtub or choke on my own vomit. I wanted my heart to stop. I wanted to die.”

She let out a strangled sob. “Eliza,” she cried quietly. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I felt lonely and useless and a stranger in my own body,” she replied with a distant shrug.

“You could have just told me…”

She groaned. “I did! I tried to tell you, but you were all so caught up in the person you wanted me to be, you didn’t want to listen. You didn’t want to lose me, so you pretended that nothing was wrong with me until there was, and then you acted like I was this- this fragile little thing that couldn’t take care of herself. Sure, it got me the attention I wanted, but I thought it’d help me find myself and not make everything so much worse.”

“Okay, maybe we should just-” Steve prompted.

Eliza slammed her hand down on the dining table. “No! We shouldn’t just stop. That’s what you wanted to say, right? Stop and calm down, talk about this like civilized people. Well, guess what,” she said, “I’m done talking. I’m done being your therapist, I’m done trying to fit in and I’m done being seen as the villain whenever I can’t reciprocate feelings that were sprung on me! I’m done being the golden child, the one who has to fix everything, and I’m done living for everyone but myself because I’m fucking tired of it. I’m tired and it’s all your fault. You each dug your own grave and now it’s time to lie in it.”

The milky glass of the sliding door almost broke at how hard she pulled at the handle to close it. Matt flinched at the harsh sound and even the others had a hard time keeping their composure.

He sighed, setting down his beer bottle, and out of instinct, took fast steps toward the bedroom. He could hear her elevated heartbeat, the struggle for breath - she was trapped in a full-on panic attack and he couldn’t help her.

“No,” Foggy said. He pressed a hand to his chest, stopping him. “If you go in there, you’re gonna make this so much worse. I’m sorry, but you’re the last person she needs right now.”

“Let me through,” he demanded.

He shook his head. “Absolutely not. Neither of you,” he took a look around, “Is going in there. She doesn’t need to be reminded of all this.”

“Her heart is beating out of her chest and she’s barely breathing. She needs someone to ground her. I know what to do, she trusts me-“

“Not right now, she doesn’t.”

“Christ, Foggy, just let me through.”

“No, take a step back, take a breather and let me be a friend to her. You guys seem to really suck at it.”

Matt lifted his arm in defense. Foggy took a step back, making sure he wasn’t following. It took every last ounce of self-control for him not to break the door down and take her into his arms. Instead, his friend entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and the second he was inside, he knew he was doing a much better job than he ever could.

“You told her you loved her and then stormed off?” Natasha piped up. He could smell the anger radiating off of her. “Are you serious right now?”

“You don’t get to judge,” Matt said.

“I do ‘cause she’s my friend!”

“Just shut up. I can’t do this right now.” He grabbed his mask and his gloves from the kitchen counter. “I’ll be outside when you need me.”

He disappeared through the rooftop access the same way he came in.

Foggy found Eliza on the floor, face pressed into the mattress of Matt’s bed, pathetically trying to muffle her gut-wrenching sobs. Her hands clawed at the comforter. It smelled like Matt and traces of her, and it made her cry even more. Everything was gone now. Her life lay in shambles.

She choked on her sobs, constricting her lungs from regaining full function. She hiccuped. Too much pain in her chest applied pressure to her heart. She felt like she was having a heart attack, but she knew better. Her mind sent warning signals, causing her whole body to lock up. Fight or flight, it was as easy as that.

Stroking her back gently, Foggy fell to his knees next to her. She flinched, her skin on fire from the lack of oxygen. “Liz, I know you’re not okay,” he said. “Can you try to breathe for me?”

She shook her head. He pulled her up by the shoulders, one of his arms wrapped tightly around her front while the other pressed down on her heart. He felt it thudding underneath his palm.

“Feel that? I’m here.”

She sobbed.

“I’m here. Focus on that.” Foggy tapped a steady rhythm against her skin. The other hand rubbed her shoulder, applying just a little more pressure to get her out of her head.

She sucked in a sharp breath, still crying violently, but breathing got a little easier with the cold palm of his hand pressing into her heated skin. The temperature change knocked her senses back into high gear, and she could feel reality seep back into her bones.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered into her ear. “Not anymore. You have friends, you have Matt, you have me. I know it might not seem like it, but they love you. I know it hurts, but you heard them. You know they had to make a choice. I think they regret not telling you, but as far as I’m concerned, there was no other way. They care about you. The things they did, they did it out of love for you. Deep down, I think you know they made the right call. That doesn’t mean it’s okay how they handled it.

“You have every right to feel all of your emotions right now, as long as you get back up again and go back to being your badass self. ‘Cause I know you can survive this. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Eliza,” he told her. “If anyone can survive this, it’s you.”

His gentle, yet truthful words slowly coaxed her back into reality. Her breathing calmed, and her cries died down. She slacked in his arms, enjoying the hug he gave her. He offered her a small bubble to escape into, and she took it gladly. His arms protected her from the harsh world, even if only for a little while.

Eliza exhaled. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course. That’s what friends do for each other,” said Foggy.

“I’m not used to having normal friends.”

“Well, then it’s about damn time you learned.”

“Thank you,” she nodded. “I mean it.”

He rubbed her shoulder again before releasing her. She slumped against the bed. He sat down next to her. Eliza placed her head on his shoulder, too tired, and worked up to keep her neck straight. She felt like a newborn baby with absolutely no control over her body.

“I’m just so angry all the time,” she said quietly into the comfortable silence. “I don’t want to be mad at them, but it feels like my whole life was a lie. Eliza Bennett has always been just an alias, but knowing I could have learned about my real identity much sooner makes me feel like… like I’m a stranger? I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense. I’m angry, even when I don’t want to be, and that makes me sad. So sad, I only feel for myself, and since my emotions are something I cannot control, I have to suffer through it, even when the pain gets worse.”

“We all get angry. Life makes us angry. And someone with your level of trauma is granted that anger for as long as she wants to,” Foggy said. “Until you’re ready to work through it, which you should. You should work through it.”

“I know, I’m trying, but it’s just a lot right now.”

“You can start when this is over. Right now, be as angry as you want. We can handle it.”

“I don’t want to be angry. I want to forgive them. I want my life back.”

“You’re gonna get it back,” he reassured her. “Maybe not now or tomorrow, but soon.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Liz. Hey, have I ever told you about how my mom wanted me to become a butcher?”

She chuckled weakly. “You did mention it.”

“Yeah, but I never told you the whole story.”

“That you did not.”

“Well, I come from a family of butchers. My mom and dad own a shop here in Hell’s Kitchen, not the one you destroyed, of course. We have the freshest meat in the city. And my brother, he joined the business while I wanted to go to law school. My parents planned for me to take over the shop when they retire, but I had other plans. They pleaded for me to come back home, but I told them ‘no, I want to help people. And I want to make a shit ton of money’. And I almost had it with the internship at Landman and Zack. Of course, Matt had to wreak havoc on my plans to become rich and famous. I love him, but he’s an idiot. Starting our practice was the best and stupidest idea he’s ever had. Or what do you think?”

She didn’t answer. He peeked down to find her eyes closed. She was dead asleep.

Foggy sighed. “Wow. Didn’t think the story would be this boring.”

He picked her up, lying her down on the bed. He shuffled the comforter aside and wrapped the blanket around her sleeping frame. She yawned, turned around, and hugged Matt’s pillow to her chest.

“Sweet dreams.” He turned the lights off, shutting the curtains, then exited the bedroom as stealthy as he could.

The Avengers all jumped from their seats.

“How is she?” Natasha asked first.

He placed a finger on his lips. “Shh. She’s finally down. If you wake her, I’m gonna kill you. I know I don’t look like I can, but I will.”

“Oh, thank God. I didn’t mean for this to escalate.”

“Yeah, well, it did. You have to deal with the consequences now.”

“Thank you,” Clint said. “We appreciate your help.”

“Since I’m the only one with common sense, I don’t have a choice.” Foggy took a look around. “Where’s Matt?”

“He said he’s outside if we need him,” Sam told him. “Grabbed his helmet and gloves, so maybe he’s out being Daredevil or whatever. Getting rid of his anger issues.”

“Yeah, he can’t get rid of that. Excuse me, I’m gonna check the roof. Feel free to eat or drink anything you need to, as long as you don’t wake the dragon.”

He jogged up the stairs, through the door. For a second, he considered staying to check on Eliza like a baby monitor, but he figured she would come if she needed him or anyone else. She was exhausted, she would certainly stay asleep for a couple of hours.

The night air slapped him across the face. Shuffling his sleeves back down over his arms, he crossed them. As expected, Matt stood on the ledge, still in his Daredevil suit minus the mask and the gloves, which lay beside him on the bricks. He turned his head slightly, recognizing his footsteps, heartbeat, and breathing.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Foggy scoffed, “You’re an idiot.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Eliza. You’re an idiot.”

“How am I the idiot? She’s the one who pushed me away.”

“Yeah, because you sprung the truth on her like it meant absolutely nothing,” he said. “You don’t just randomly blurt out I love you and then hope the other person says it back.”

“How do you think I should have handled it, Foggy? If you’re so much smarter than me.”

“I would have waited until this whole shitshow was over. Eliza has other things to worry about than your feelings for her. If you had waited, maybe she would have said it back.”

“She told me she can’t. I don’t think if I had waited a couple more weeks her answer would have been different. At least I know now that she doesn’t feel that way,” he said.

“Oh, my God,” Foggy threw his hands up, “Of course she does! She loves you, she just can’t sort out the feeling. She struggles with emotions, which is ironic, really, but she does. She struggles because she’s never experienced this before. She’s never been so emotionally involved with a person as she is with you and that scares her. Just give her time, Matt. That’s all she needs.”

He scoffed, “When have you become the Eliza-whisperer?”

“Since I’m the only friend she can count on right now. I’m the only unbiased one and that’s what she needs. A shoulder to cry on. She feels betrayed and alone and while I know this isn’t your fault, you’re playing a huge part in the guilt she’s feeling, and that makes her angry, so she says things she doesn’t mean. Just try to see this from her perspective, please. Just once.”

“I can’t see shit,” he retorted.

“You know I meant that in a metaphorical sense.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Can you come back inside now or do you want to keep sulking on the roof?”

“I like sulking on the roof.”

“You just like sulking, period. It’s not a good look on you.”

Foggy turned on his heels, making his way back to the door.

“Foggy,” Matt called out, “Why do you always have to try and fix everything?”

He shrugged. “Because usually, I can.”

That made Matt chuckle, another small victory for him. He could be surrounded by a million soldiers - when it came to being a normal person who took care of his friends, he would always be better than them.

Matt returned to his apartment only a couple of minutes later. “You’re back,” Natasha stated.

“Congratulations,” he retorted, “You have functioning eyes.”

“That’s not something you can relate to, can you?”

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

Every time he opened his mouth, she liked him a little less.

Steve, the good soul he was, tried not to let the bad mood drag him down. “Hey man,” he walked up to matt as he spoke, “I just want to say I appreciate you doing this for us. Open your doors, let us stay here. It means a lot. And even though they can’t show it,” he said, motioning to the rest of his team, “They’re grateful too.”

Matt scoffed, which sounded more like a broken chuckle. “Natasha doesn’t seem to think that way,” he said.

“Natasha is a complicated character. She loves Eliza. She’s like a sister to her. When she cares so deeply for someone, she gets suspicious. And she’s been getting into a lot of trouble with you by her side. Natasha doesn’t see the difference between Eliza being Eliza and getting in trouble, and you fighting with Eliza while she’s getting in trouble. The past couple of weeks have been hard, so you gotta cut her some slack.”

“I’m not the one insulting her, Steve.”

“I know, just… give her some time.”

“They’re very much alike,” he realized. “Aren’t they?”

“More than you think,” Steve agreed.

“Alright, I guess I can stand down. You’re welcome, for letting you stay, by the way. And thank you for coming here and, you know, helping her. She needed some hope.”

He patted his shoulder. “Family doesn’t let each other down.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Clint rummaged through the fridge, ignoring all the deep talks and instead checking for sustenance in Matt’s kitchen. He was majorly disappointed. “Don’t you have anything to eat around here?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

Sam poked the Braille printer he had seated on his desk in the corner. His fingers brushed over the documents next to it, the legal files imprinted with the Braille that came out of the printer. “How does this work, exactly?” he questioned.

Matt wasn’t sure what question to answer first. The Avengers were the nosiest bunch of people he had ever met.

“Is this your bathroom?” Natasha toyed with the handle of what was, in fact, his bathroom. She opened it without waiting for his permission, taking in the small space, the shower, and the bathtub. “Hm, looks better than the outside.”

“Guys,” Steve warned.

“It’s okay,” Matt assured him. “They’re just curious.” He hated that they were infiltrating his personal space, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Eliza trusted them, so he did too.

“I have a Braille typewriter, but I also have a program on my laptop that makes it possible for me to print all of my files,” he told Sam.

The Falcon nodded. “Cool. Can I print something?”

“Please don’t.”

“Okay.” He removed his finger. “How long did it take you to learn how to read?”

“I haven’t been blind since birth. I was nine when it happened,” he said. “I went to a school for blind people, took me a while but it’s not as hard as it seems. I read a lot as a kid, which helped improve my skills. There was not much more to do at the orphanage.”

“You’re a very interesting person. An interesting person with obvious trauma. I like you.”

“Thanks. About the food,” Matt continued and turned to Clint, “I don’t keep much around since I don’t spend much time at home, let alone cooking. There is a Thai place around the corner though, you can get takeout from there.”

“Or we could just order pizza,” he suggested.

“And call Hydra straight to our doorstep?” Captain America interjected.

“Yeah,” Clint decided, “That’s not gonna work.”

“If you’re starving, I’m sure Foggy can get us some food,” Matt said.

Foggy sighed, “I suppose I can.”

“Natasha,” Matt called out to her. “Yes, that is the bathroom. Yes, you can use it. And no, I do not know what it looks like.”

She raised her arms. “Alright, I was just checking.”

“Oh!” Clint’s happy cheer got him the attention he needed. “I found bread,” he smirked triumphantly.

“Yeah, that’s moldy.”

“How did you-”

Matt shrugged. “I can smell it.”

“Great, now we don’t even have bread. I think Matt’s right. The team needs fuel, Foggy can get it for us.”

“Why me?” Foggy asked.

“‘Cause you’re the only one of us Hydra or the law doesn’t want,” he said. “No offense.”

“None taken. Okay, make me a list, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Spring rolls and fried rice,” Natasha stated. “That’s what Eliza likes.”

Matt said it at the same time she did, “That’s what Eliza likes.”

They exchanged a look. The fire in her stomach burned even brighter. Perhaps it was stupid, thinking she had some territorial claim over her, but Eliza was like a sister to her and Matt was going to hurt her, she just knew it.

“Okay, wow,” Foggy sighed, exasperated.

Clint stood beside him, voicing what he thought. “They’re gonna kill each other before Hydra can,” he said.

“You said it, not me.”

“Oh, and for the food, I want whatever has the most spice.” He bumped his shoulder. “Thanks, bud.”

“Sure, unload everything on me. I’m your personal delivery guy. It’s not like I have a job or anything.”

“What’d you say?” Sam asked.

He waved him off. “Oh, nothing. I’d be glad to take your orders.”

“Great, so as a starter I want…”

This group of unlikely allies was going to be the death of him, literally.

She had blood on her hands.

Her ledger was dripping; wiping out this much red was a near impossibility. The nightmares were the worst part. Not her constant doubts, they didn’t matter. The person she saw in the mirror was nothing compared to what she saw when she closed her eyes.

Perhaps she’d had it coming. Blood was resistant. Even with bleach, she couldn’t clean it off her hands. She scrubbed them every night until her knuckles started bleeding. Her skin was dry, tearing apart. The blood was still there—the Devil in disguise.

Eliza stared at her bloody hands. The blood was dark red, fresh, dripping from her fingers. She found herself in a dark room with white tiles, the neon lights above her head merely flickering.

Blood painted the walls. She stood in it.

Her hands shook. She followed the trail, she had to. The lifeless frame of the body had its back turned to her. She could only make out the red suit, and a head full of brown hair. The blood didn’t stop. A whole river pooled at her feet.

“No,” she whispered.

She rolled the unconscious man over. His brown eyes were empty, glossy, and staring straight at her. Blood came out of his eyes and nose, his chest ripped apart and the dagger embedded deep in his chest.

She choked. “Oh, God!”

Matt lay there, eyes dead, body swimming in his blood. Her weapons littered his torso. Her hands were full of blood. Eliza didn’t have to be conscious to put one and two together.

“No, Matt,” she choked out. “Hey, wake up. You’re okay.” She shook him. He didn’t wake up. “Please, wake up!” She cradled his head in her lap. “I can’t do this without you.”

What exactly was it? Her bloodied hands grabbed at his torso desperately.

“I didn’t do this,” she denied, but she knew better. Her daggers, his body, the blood on her hands – she wasn’t a genius, but she didn’t have to be.

“I didn’t do this!” she said, loud and clear. Her voice jumped off the walls. “I would never hurt you. I couldn’t. You can’t be dead. You can’t, please. Don’t die, you hear me? Don’t!”

His already opened eyes shot wide awake. He grabbed her by the throat. It seemed like he could see her eyes. He stared at her, blankly ahead, and his white lips parted.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Why would you do this to me?” he asked. “Why would you kill me?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “You said you loved me, remember? You know I would never do something like this. I would never hurt you. Never.”

“I could never love a killer. You kill everything around you and refuse to take responsibility. It’s your hand on the knife, Eliza. I could never love a person like you. You deserve nothing. You don’t deserve to be loved, and you don’t deserve to live. I wish they finally killed you.”

His eyes fell shut.

“No!”

She shot up in bed. Sweat coated her forehead and every last inch of skin. The clothes she wore stuck clad to her body. The silk sheets were stained wet. She threw the blanket off her body, suddenly too hot to be wrapped up in it. Eliza hugged her knees to her chest, head hung between them, catching her breath. She swayed back and forth. It was just a dream, she kept telling herself. It wasn’t real.

“You okay?”

She gasped loudly, scooting back against the headboard. When she saw the familiar face staring back at her from the closet, she lowered her defensive arms. “Jesus!” she cursed. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that.”

“Okay one, I live here, and two, I was just getting dressed,” Matt said cooly, pointing at the clothes in his hand. “You said my name. What were you dreaming about?”

“Don’t act as if you care.”

“I do.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Nightmare again?”

She eyed him, trying to ignore the burning desire in her chest to check if he was alive, but the second his fingers brushed her bare thigh, she was done for.

Eliza grabbed his face forcefully, pressing her lips to his. He kissed her back almost instantly. She swung her leg over his lap and he pulled her closer with a bruising grip around her waist. They were both desperate. Their lips moved together in a fiery dance for dominance, sloppy in the way they moved against each other. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling and tearing at the strands, not sure whether to pull him closer or push him away. He struggled with the same issue. He wanted to keep her like this, in his lap, but being close to her hurt. She turned the tables and now the connection was hurting him more than her. He hated that he felt that way, and how good that pain felt because he wanted to be angry at her, but he couldn’t. He wanted to stay away from her for his own sake, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t spend a second without her. It hurt even more than being close to her.

They forgot the world in each other’s arms. His hands slipped under her shirt, pulling it over her head. She sighed into his mouth. Her hips ground down on his, eliciting a delicious groan from him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt due to his plans to get dressed, but he had his pants still on. Pyjama pants. He must have slept on the couch. At least one promise he kept. The “We are done!” from before was completely forgotten the second she kissed him.

He opened the clasp of her bra with two skilled fingers. It fell to the floor. They didn’t share any words, only hot and heavy breaths and sounds that got swallowed by lips and skin. He tightened his hold on her, flipping them around so she was on her back and he could tower over her.

His hand landed over her mouth when a lewd moan built up in the back of her throat. He muffled the sound, though to his ears it was still incredibly loud, and the sound of her ruined voice shot straight to his groin.

He smashed his lips against hers again. He forced his tongue into her mouth, exploring the land as if he had never been there before. One hand slipped beyond the waistband of her pants, right into her panties. He cupped her desperate cunt, using two fingers to expertly part her folds. She threw her head back on the pillows, yet his lips didn’t stop assaulting hers. He kept them both quiet with the magic of his very skilled tongue.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he panted.

She nodded feverishly. “Of course not.”

He dipped one finger in first, testing the waters. She was desperate and wet, just how he liked it. He didn’t waste any time sliding in another. The palm of his hand rubbed against her clit with every thrust of his digits, and her pussy squelched each time her walls clenched around him. She moaned into his mouth, hooking one arm around his neck as if that would get him any closer.

Just when her muscles started contracting harder around him, he pulled out. She didn’t have time to protest before he pulled down her pants completely, lowering his just enough to pull out his cock. He used her wetness on his hand to give himself a few good pumps, enough to get his cock completely hard.

“Don’t make a single fucking sound.” With that warning, he lined himself up with her entrance and buried his cock deep inside of her with a forceful thrust. He clammed his hand over her mouth to muffle the scream.

He wasn’t a complete heathen though. He gave her time to adjust to his size, which took only a few seconds this time before her nails dug into his back and he pulled out and bottomed out again only moments later. He continued with the same brutal pace that almost had the bed shaking. This wasn’t about her, she realized. He was desperately chasing his orgasm. He hooked one of her legs around his waist to get deeper.

Eliza pushed his hand away from her mouth, replacing it with his lips. “I dreamt you died,” she breathed into the kiss. “I dreamt you died and it was my fault.”

His cock hit her g-spot. “What?” he choked out. She was so tight, clenching around him like a vice.

“I couldn’t- fuck!” her teeth sunk into her bottom lip when he reached for her clit, rubbing it with the same intensity and speed as his cock kept penetrating her walls. “I couldn’t save you,” she cried out. “I couldn’t save you and it was my fault.”

Tears shot into his eyes. “Stop talking, please.”

“Please, Matty. Don’t leave me again.”

“I can’t do this,” he breathed back. “Not when you don’t feel the same way. It hurts. It hurts to love you.” He bit down on her shoulder to hide the guttural moan of pain and pleasure that spilled from his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He grabbed onto the headboard, his thrusts faltering. She gasped quietly, his fingers rubbing harder, knowing she was close to coming undone around him. He wouldn’t be able to last much longer and he didn’t want to be the first. No matter how upset he was, he would never come first.

“I wish I could-”

He shushed her, kissing her lovingly. He lingered just a little bit longer, just a little bit more. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “All you need to do right now is cum so I can fill you up.”

“Oh, God!”

Her legs locked around his waist, walls clenching as she came all over his cock. He felt every last drop of her wetness coating him, her muscles contract, and her skin burn under his mere touch. He grunted into the crook of her neck, almost breaking the headboard with his grip.

“Fuck!”

He came right after her, spurting his cum into her cunt. Every time he finished inside of her, he marked her. He marked her to be his, to show he owned her inside and out. Though this time felt different. This time, filling her up with his seed made him sad in a way he had never been before.

Eliza bit her lip. She knew he was crying. His tears pearled off her skin. The hold he had on her was inhuman. He didn’t want her to leave. He held onto her as if she was his world, which apparently, she was, and it made her chest contract with pure agony. She reached for his head, wanting to hold him and make him stop crying, but the second she touched him, he pulled out and fell on the mattress next to her.

She clenched her thighs together as if that would change anything, as if that would get him back to stay inside of her and the clock to turn back to zero just so they could start again. She wanted the world to end and build itself up again for them to get a second chance.

But second chances don’t come to everyone. They come to hardly anyone. Hoping for a second chance only hurts you more than accepting that there might never be a second chance in this one life you have.

Eliza learned a good few life lessons over the time she knew Matt, some of those pleasant, the others the most painful things she ever had to experience.

“Matt,” she called for him softly.

He wiped his cheeks. “Don’t apologize, not again. I can’t hear it anymore.”

“But I am sorry.” She reached out for him, stroking his bicep. He flinched under her touch. This was the first time he did. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting him go, and he slipped away into the void. “I wish I could tell you anything different,” she whispered, “but I can’t. I know sorry doesn’t even cut it close, but I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”

“This is not something you need to ask forgiveness for, Eliza.” He pulled the covers up and over their naked bodies. He didn’t call her sweetheart, not anymore. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I get it. You don’t feel the same way and that’s okay. I have to accept that. And I’m sorry for walking away like that, I… I was angry, not at you, but also at you, I just… I don’t know. I’m sorry for making you feel smaller than you are.”

“But you still want us to be over,” Eliza said. The words he was too afraid to say. “We’re not gonna try, we’re just over. That’s what you want?”

Matt nodded, once again wiping his cheeks to get rid of the annoying tears escaping his eyes. “Yeah, I think it’s the best choice.” One of the tears ran down his chest. “For the both of us, I think it’s better if we stop. So neither of us get hurt any more than we already are. I think that would be wise.”

She shivered. Her own tears weren’t so far away. “You’re right,” she admitted quietly. “That’s a wise choice to make.”

“Yeah.”

“So this is it?”

“I…”

“We’re over?”

“Yeah, I guess we are.”

“Okay.” She stared up at the ceiling the same way he did, trying to fight the tears of heartbreak. “Okay.”

He picked up on the slide of the door too late. “Do you guys want eggs or ba-aaaah, oh my God!” Foggy immediately turned around once he saw the tangled bodies on the bed. “Nope, nuh-uh. I didn’t see anything. I’m leaving. Okay. Never walking into your bedroom ever again. Got it!”

Matt scrambled to get his clothes back on, as did Eliza. The conversation between them died down, and it probably would never come back to life. Standing across from each other, she looked at him and he listened to her. This hurt. He didn’t want it to hurt. Neither did she, but they knew this was inevitable. They had to stop or it would only hurt more in the end.

He reached out for her hand but stopped himself mid-way. Her breath shuddered. Still, before he turned to leave, he leaned forward to press an almost too gentle kiss to her heated forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

She nodded. “Me too.”

He slid the door open enough for him to fit through. No one else had to see her like this. He wished he could just bury himself in sand and die, but he knew there was no time for that. She knew that, too. They had to put on a show, live through this hurt with the reminder of what happened more than present each fleeting second, and they would have to do so until Hydra was gone and their lives could return back to normal.

The sound of the wood falling back in place broke the dam. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks and her body. Eliza didn’t sob, she just quietly cried into her hands.

Well done, Eliza. Breaking everything you touch since the day you were born.

When she looked up next, her eyes were empty. She stared at the wall, wiping her tears, and then she stared some more because, for the first time since she escaped Hydra, she shut her emotions off completely. She knew as soon as she did that, there was no going back. She would feel nothing until she would feel everything, but when that time came, she would already be dead.

Now that she had nothing left to live for, she could focus on dismembering Hydra and not care about what happened to her. The promise she made was worthless without Matt by her side. If it meant she had to die, as Robert Pfeiffer said, she would do so in a heartbeat.

Because that’s what heroes do.

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feedingtheflockministry · 1 year

Text

2 Ways to Shipwreck Your Faith

By Jennifer Waddle

“This charge I commit to you, son Timothy, according to the prophecies previously made concerning you, that by them you may wage the good warfare, having faith and a good conscience, which some having rejected, concerning the faith have suffered shipwreck.” - (1 Timothy 1:18-19 NKJV)

To experience an actual shipwreck would be one of the scariest experiences a person could go through. When we hear of cruise ships being stranded at sea, starting to sink, or having mechanical issues, we hold our breaths until people are safely rescued.

The apostle Paul knew the experience of shipwreck probably better than anyone.

“Three times I was beaten with rods, once I was pelted with stones, three times I was shipwrecked, I spent a night and a day in the open sea…” (2 Corinthians 11:25 NIV)

Three times he was shipwrecked! And yet, he survived to tell the story.

While most of us can only imagine such an ordeal, I’m afraid others of us may end up going through something just as terrible—the shipwreck of faith.

For it is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have tasted the heavenly gift, and have become partakers of the Holy Spirit, and have tasted the good word of God and the powers of the age to come, if they fall away, to renew them again to repentance, since they crucify again for themselves the Son of God, and put Him to an open shame.

(Hebrews 6:4-6 NKJV)

There is an interesting line, in 1 Timothy 1:20, that mentions a couple of men by the names of Hymenaeus and Alexander—men to whom Paul “handed over to Satan.” Now, I don’t know about you, but I never want to be “handed over” to Satan! The context of the passage is that Paul recognized two grave things that these men had allowed to happen—two things that basically shipwrecked their faith. When Paul warned Timothy to "fight the good fight with faith and a good conscience,” he was outlining two necessary things for the Christian walk. Unfortunately, Hymenaeus and Alexander had rejected these and been expelled from Paul’s leadership in order that they would learn a hard lesson.

Following the example of these men, here are 2 ways to shipwreck your faith:

1. Reject

In a world where everyone is encouraged to embrace “whatever feels right,” there is an extreme danger of being mislead toward ideas that are contrary to the Scriptures. These ideas plague our culture, our homes, and even our churches. Eventually, they may lead a person to outright reject faith in Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior.

He who hears you hears Me, he who rejects you rejects Me, and he who rejects Me rejects Him who sent Me.” (Luke 10:16 NKJV)

Belief and the acceptance of Jesus as the only true God is foundational to the Christian faith. Any other ideas that try to distort this truth are ideas that can lead to shipwreck. It is crucial to our faith that we trust in the finished work of Christ on the cross and not try to add or take away from it.

2. Ignore

When our conscience becomes hardened to the point that we no longer hear or heed the voice of the Holy Spirit, our faith becomes like a splintered ship, tossed against the rocky shore, useless and abandoned.

The Holy Spirit’s role is “God in us.” When we enter into a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, His Spirit comes to reside. He guards, guides, and directs us in the way we should go. Without His navigation, our faith will surely be shipwrecked. It is of utmost importance that we remain in step with Him and listen to His still, small voice.

If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit. (Galatians 5:25 NKJV)

Paul’s charge to Timothy was to remain strong in the battle, steady on the open seas, and faithful in the Lord. He knew that temptations would come—temptations to reject and ignore the only God and Savior, thereby risking the shipwreck of his faith.

For to this end we both labor and suffer reproach, because we trust in the living God, who is the Savior of all men, especially of those who believe. (1Timothy 4:10 NKJV)

#scriptures #bible teaching

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thelustybraavosimaid · 2 years

Text

Sorrow reached for him in a dark whisper, speaking of tales previously unknown to mortal ears. Its blackness curled around his heart and snuck into his very soul until all Guthwulf could do was helplessly weep.

This was not how it was supposed to be.

He was to stand tall beside his dear friend, his closest friend, hacking down enemies and revelling in the beauty of the fight, a hunt of its own, warring to live another day. And to keep the man he loved on the Dragonbone Chair, his crown resting with ease atop his dark head. To see him sitting unbent on the throne made of the bones of a great dragon.

These were not words he'd dare say out loud, but it seemed as if the darkness knew, haunting and taunting him, showing him images he could only dream of.

And images he never would.

It was the latter that made him weep so terribly.

"Now you understand," a man's voice cut through the wall of sadness that choked him, crossing the gap as if he himself were a part of it. Gaunt hands were on either side of Guthwulf's face, and soon Elias was before him, black locks loose and spilling to his sides. He looked every bit the king he was meant to be, but a sad yet sinister smile was twisting his lips, his dark eyes seemingly blacker than polished jet. He kneeled, leaning in so close that their noses were nearly touching. "Now you understand what is at stake if I lose. If we lose."

"It isn't right, Elias," he groaned. "That sword is—"

"Enough." The word sliced like a knife, but his hands were gentle when he swept away Guthwulf's tears. "I have the sword because I alone have the power to do what must be done. I will have Miriamele back, I will keep my crown, and I will keep the Hayholt, and the very world itself will bend to me."

His words were soft, even if they were painful, cruel.

"And I will rule with an iron fist, with or without you."

Guthwulf couldn't stop his lips from trembling. What did that thrice-damned red rat Pryrates do to him? How could Elias let it get this bad?

Where was his friend when he needed him the most? He moves and speaks as if afflicted with a terrible case of madness, as if he turned against the Lord Usires. Against God the Almighty.

Against, even, his own sense of self.

It was a pitiful, sad sight.

"Though I would prefer if it were with you." Elias sheathed his sword—Jingizu, he called it—in a soft rush of metal in scabbard, and waved a hand as if to dispel the miasma of darkness. "I wanted to make you understand, Guthwulf. Do you?"

No, he thought, and I will never understand you again, my friend. My dearest friend.

"Yes," he instead replied, loyalty pouring from his mouth in fervent waves. He could feel his soul calling out to those damnable swords even still, begging to be whole. Though Guthwulf wished to rise from the stone floor, he was at the mercy of Elias's hands, and his eyes besides. They pulled him in deeper, murky seas of green—shining with moonlight, shadowed with unchecked darkness.

He half looked like the younger man he was once, less distrustful and without Pryrates whispering lies in his ear.

How he missed his bright-eyed king...

Guthwulf continued kneeling, solid as a statue.

"In due time, you truly will, my friend, you will." His fingers graced Guthwulf's shoulders like long spider legs. "But now, I need your loyalty. I need you. I have a task for you. Sharpen your sword. You will have need of it."

He was still a hair's breadth away, lips close to his. Guthwulf listened, disentangled himself from Elias, pushed himself to his feet, and left without a word.

#mst fanfiction #elias #guthwulf #for a good friend :)#memory sorrow and thorn

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