#listening to the overwhelming depth of her fear that she is failing him and her devotion and her dedication to finding a way to help him

[carefulfears]

one thing that stands out to me about the IVF arc is the way that, for as much as i make fun of her for asking her coworker if she can have his babies, scully asking mulder to be involved in the biggest process of her life (and the most important thing in the rest of her life) is such a healing and reverent experience. like he says “i’m absolutely flattered,” but it’s so much more than that. it’s like…spending your whole life feeling like you should’ve died at age twelve and then being told someone just wants more of you, more and more and more, in everything.

#it reminds me of 'sixth extinction' / 'amor fati' #when he quite literally was tied down and couldn't speak #and the way we hear him try to SCREAM when his mother just leaves him there #but his mind is Silent from the moment he hears scully in the hall begging to see him #and he couldn't crack a joke or run out the door #he literally just had to lie there and feel it #feel it on his Skin #her hand holding onto him #her tears falling onto his face #listening to the overwhelming depth of her fear that she is failing him and her devotion and her dedication to finding a way to help him #her Pleas for him to just 'hold on' #'i think that...if you know...if you could just find a way to hold on...i need you to hold on...please...' #everybody go listen to the civil wars' cover of 'talking in your sleep' #i don't think it can be overestimated how much of an impact that had on them and the lightness and healing in s7. that he Had to hear it #and then with the baby thing it's like...he CAN'T deny her that. he HAS to say 'yes' #there's no part of him that's capable of denying her something that she desires this badly. enough to ask for outright #and so he HAS to let himself be wanted and be invited into this unimaginably important and personal thing #let himself be a part of something bigger. be SEEN as someone who is valuable in a way that's bigger #and again he can't run from it and he can't deflect it and he can't hide from it. he has to just accept it #txf.txt #per manum

[randomfoggytiger]

Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma In-Depth (Part I): Per Manum, and Waking Up to Miracles

Waking Up to Fatherhood - The Past

Before Mulder's abduction, there were two brief times that Scully almost became a mother.

Both were linked to her stolen ova; but one little girl was born weak and sickly, her only purpose to be a lab rat for her government and to be loved in-between these tests by her adoptive parents. Mulder could not be a father to this hybrid, having failed to be a brother to a clone once already. And, sadly, in spite of all of Scully's training and all of Mulder's attempts, little Emily Sims could not be put back together again.

Later-- we will never know how much later-- he finally told Scully about her other remaining ova, the ones that didn't work. But she wanted to try, anyway.

So, before Mulder's abduction, there was a short period of time where he almost became a father.

It was a simple ask from her partner; and one that Mulder took time to contemplate-- whether by his request or hers or mutual understanding we will never know. But ultimately, he'd made his decision back in Home, Pennsylvania-- "I never saw you as a mother before" (though he'd later covered that intimacy in the motel with a biting "Night, Mom.") The donation was a mere formality.

It's established in a Per Manum script here and here (thanks @dunhamhairograpy and @x-files-scripts) that Scully was rushing into the process faster than Mulder, not having taken the time to think far enough down the road. But her partner-- whose mind was more often engaged elsewhere in the hunt for the Truth-- had. He'd thought about work, and he'd thought about them. But mostly he'd thought about the answer being "yes."

Scully cracked, crumbling in desperate joy and clinging to Mulder in sheer happiness. Her eyebrow popped up as self-preservation and distance engaged, doubts swirling at all the calculations, the changes, the unsaid conversations; but Mulder continued to hold her, luxuriating in the rich satisfaction of granting his partner her greatest wish.

When he was assured that Scully wouldn't step back just yet, Mulder lost his focus in daydreams, a secret contentment spilling out of his beautiful soul. Thrilling hopes and dreams of his own little Mulder-Scully poured from his eyes; and a softer, more paternal smile settled onto his mouth. This is the face of a man who accepted, fully, the anticipation and responsibility of fatherhood-- it's a heartbreakingly tender moment that he treasured to himself, as he had (until Amor Fati) never shared his deepest joys and sharpest pains completely with Scully.

(Side note: This is why I set the IVF arc before S7: Mulder still acted on his trademark guarded manner here, an aspect of himself that is set aside after Amor Fati--another post for another time. That revelation changed his outlook, his life, literally his mind. Here he was still reclusive, reluctant, shy-- all things that were swept away in the aftermath of listening to the world and realizing he only wanted to hear Scully.)

Scully still clung, hoping against hope she was reading this-- him-- right; and finally, finally she stepped back, doing her best to project an air of nonchalance. Anything to keep this-- this IVF this-- as low-key as she could, perhaps so as not to spook Mulder or perhaps not to spook herself; but her delight could not be wholly contained.

Her partner saw right through her, giving a little twist of his lips even as his eyes fixated on her flashing emotions.

To relieve Scully's sudden jitteriness, he quipped "At that part I'm a pro" and dipped, leaving her with the solitude she craved to pull her scrambled pieces back together.

However, despite his overthinking and her underthinking, both are a tad overwhelmed-- Scully noticeably so, though Mulder still shrugged off the moment and released a tense sigh before turning his enthusiastic smile back at his partner. There was no fear or reluctance in his posture, and only heightened reservation in hers; so it's safe to assume Mr. and Mrs. Spooky would have relaxed naturally into their impending parenthood long before Spooky Jr. arrived. Both wanted this, yes; and there would still have been some awkward bumps ahead, but it would have led them closer together. They were partners, after all.

Alas, that was not to be.

In the last IVF flashback, Scully walked back into her apartment, quiet and glum. When Mulder popped up on her couch-- having fallen asleep (and still trying to take up as little space as possible on her little people couch, even when unconscious)-- she is surprised to see him there.

Mulder explained, still a little slurred, "Scully? I must have dozed off. I was waiting for you to get back." Ever the gentleman, he offered a reasonable explanation for his presence in her space: even if he owned (and owns) a key to the place, Mulder wouldn't use it without a good reason or life-saving crisis (see post here.)

Her eyes were red-rimmed with more tears on the way; and the top of her hair was messed and staticky, likely having rested on her car steering wheel as the first onslaught of tears struck (as she'd cried before in Elegy and The End.)

Realizing she'd been irreparably caught, Scully shrugged into an acceptance of her grief, pulling her mouth tight in a shallow attempt to placate her partner's concerns. Tears still barely held back (not having expected Mulder to be there to catch her in the act), she slowly walked forward, stoically (if uncomfortably) willing to give Mulder his fair and equal share in this failure.

Nothing escaped her partner's wild, wide-eyed stare, realization sinking his tentatively celebratory feelings. For a moment he just observed, eyes falling before sweeping back up to ask ,"Didn't take, did it?"

"I guess it was too much to hope for," Scully replied, pain cracking through at Mulder's overt disappointment. Her "Starbuck" guilt rose up to accuse her: when Scully loses, she's "failed"; and this personal failure went deep. Discouraged-- and not strong enough to fully engage with Mulder's pain, though she knew it was there-- Scully gave up hope.

Mulder was having none of that-- the same facial expression, too-- as he swept Scully up in his arms, not allowing her guilt to add to the burdens on her back. It's a zany comfort all Mulder's own: none of that, Scully, of course it wasn't too much to hope for; sure, we might never get that wish, but that didn't mean it was worthless to hope all the same.

But, again, his deeper disappointment cracked through once Scully could no longer see and blame herself for his pain.

"It was my last chance," Scully keened, straining with everything in her not to lose control, not to completely despair.

The brittle brutality gripped the both of them; and Mulder tightened his hold, rocking them into a calm only two souls united in this grief could experience.

His strength and comfort allowing her to settle back into herself, Scully pulled back just before being hit with a fresh wave of hurt; but Mulder settled that, too, with his special brand of soothing: a forehead kiss.

"Never give up on a miracle," he intoned in accents he'd never used before: solid, unshakeable, unwavering faith tempered by fully matured love.

It was almost too much for Scully; but she dodged last minute to plant a kiss on his cheek instead. (Another reason I believe this took place before Amor Fati: Scully had claimed her right to forehead kisses after his dream confession and revelation. Here she is still too tentative and unsure. Another discussion for another time.)

Mulder consumed her like the ouroboros on her back; and the two closed the loop, clinging to each other-- reclaiming their life and future even with the death of their dreams.

Waking Up to Miracles - The Present

Mulder spent the last three months being split open, pulled apart, and screaming for Scully's help.

Then one night, he stopped waking up.

When awareness does slowly return, his eyes open in a hospital, groggy and sluggish... and he can't remember what happened to bring him here. But that isn't unusual in his line of work; and he knows memory will return with time.

As usual, Scully is stationed by his bed, hesitantly blissful in the face of-- what he considered to be-- another of his mundane recoveries.

It's too tempting to take advantage of her eagerness; and his playfulness gets the better of him. "Who... are you?"

After he's deemed she's had the proper reaction-- shock and a possible heart attack-- he mischievously beams back at her, resuming their usual cheerful hospital camaraderie.

But... her reaction is stronger than usual: a sudden whoosh of relief, swept-aside bedside manner leaving room for open, intimate glee. Her haunted eyes almost speak for her-- "Do you have any idea what you've been through?"-- make him more serious, contemplative.

"I know what I see in your face." Feeling cared for, comforted, to the pit of his soul as his partner begins to stroke his hair, he mouths "I love you", lighting her face up with trembling gratitude.

And him knowing her, still, and loving her, still, melts Scully. He watches as she sinks down in weighted grief and heady relief by his side, soaking her tears in his hospital gown. Although he tries to move closer to comfort or cradle her, his body, he finds, is unyielding. His sober mood turns somber, trying to catch at the greater mystery snagged under so much heartache. Despite the sleep of recovery tugging at him, there is no way he can rest without making her feel better.

"Anybody miss me?"

His partner's choked laugh and her sturdier grip assure and relax him more than any reply; and he drifts off, content.

Mulder misses, however, the severity of his injuries, the signs of his partner's advanced pregnancy, and the shadow of her new partner lengthening the doorway.

But those wait, lurking, with his nightmares.

Thank you for reading~

Enjoy!

#txf #Mulder's Alien Baby Baby Trauma #In-Depth #Part I #Per Manum and Waking Up to Miracles #analysis #S8 #PTSD #DeadAlive #Mulder #Scully #IVF #Per Manum #mine #x-files #xfiles #xf meta #meta #the x files

[ikeromantic]

More Than Words and Kisses

This is a commission piece the requestor has kindly allowed me to share here on tumblr. Approx. 1700 words. Angst/comfort for an MC named Athena and her beau Napoleon. TW for depression and self harm.

She was always smiling. Ask anyone in the mansion and they would tell you. Athena was kind, helpful, and always so happy. But Napoleon knew better. He saw the way her lips would twitch up at the corners when she noticed someone was looking. Like a light turning on. And he saw how her smile fell away when she thought she was alone. 

Sorrows moved through the depths of her gaze and Napoleon felt the weight of them on his heart. 

“Nunuche?” His voice shook a little as he used the playful nickname he’d given her when they met. 

They were alone in his tower room, curled up beside each other in the window seat. He’d chosen this spot to talk, but now that he was getting to it, part of him felt afraid. Fear that she would reject him, or worse, that she would open up to him and he would fail her. But he could not let her keep carrying her sadness alone. 

Athena turned her head enough to look over at him. “What is it?” Her smile was firmly in place. The one she wore when they were together. The one that said she wanted to be happy for him, with him. But it didn’t live in her eyes. 

“You can tell me, you know?”

“Tell you what?” Her brow furrowed in confusion. 

Napoleon took her hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. “What is it that makes you look so full of sadness?”

“I’m not-” She began to protest but when he met her gaze she fell silent. “It’s . . . I don’t know.” Athena pulled her hand from his grasp to wipe at her eyes before any tears could fall. “I should be happy, right? Life here is - it’s -” She shook her head, struggling with emotions Napoleon could only guess at.

He tried to take her hand again, but only caught her sleeve, tugging it further back from her wrist. She grabbed for the sleeve, trying to pull it back up quickly, but she wasn’t fast enough to hide her forearm. Her skin was crisscrossed with lines from old cuts and angry red scabs, a patchwork of wounds and scars. 

Napoleon grabbed her hand and this time, pushed the sleeve even further back to reveal more of the injuries. He felt a surge of hot anger in him at the thought that someone - anyone - would hurt his precious belle. “Who did this,” he asked, the words forced through clenched teeth.

Athena traced themarks with her fingertip, her eyes downcast. “I did.” 

The rage caught in his throat, choking him as it was overcome with a wave of winter-cold fear. “You?” 

She took a slow, shaky breath. “You weren’t supposed to see. No one was.” She tried to pull her hand back, but Napoleon did not let go. 

“Why, nunuche? I don’t understand.” The anger ran out of him like water from a broken pitcher. In its place, there was only confusion and the icy kernel of fear. 

Napoleon wanted to make her look at him, to explain herself, but he knew these things couldn’t be forced. He waited, holding her hand, while she found the words she wanted to say.

The words came slowly at first but built up as if the more she spoke, the more she felt at liberty to speak. “I . . . sometimes I just feel so . . . empty. Like there is no me inside - just this - this stupid smiling face I wear. And I want to feel something and I - I hate myself for being so pathetic when I should be happy! I know I should be . . . but I just can’t and -” She took another trembling breath. “Everyone expects me to smile and be cheerful and I don’t want to let them see me . . . like - like this. To know I’m so - so useless and stupid and -”

Napoleon stroked her hair back from her face, just listening. Letting her pour out her thoughts, her sadness. He did not understand, still, what made her hurt so much, but he understood the feeling. Being overwhelmed. Feeling as if there was nothing real left in you but loneliness. A need for something, the substance of which you could not even guess at. 

“I th-think the first time, I just . . . I wanted to see if it hurt. And it did but . . . but I could feel it and it was something real and it washed out everything else in my head. All the, the thoughts. All the memories of times I said or did something so stupid. So awkward. The times I messed up. The feeling that I am just a waste.” Her voice went quiet, almost a whisper. “Just knowing you would all be better off without me. It goes away when I - when I’m bleeding.”

He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but when she said that, there was only one thing he could do. Napoleon pulled her into his arms and held her close. “Never think that.” His voice was raw and hoarse as he spoke, and he felt his eyes sting with unshed tears. “Ma belle, mon coeur . . . “ He wanted to hold her so tightly that all the love he felt for her would fill those dark places in her heart. 

For him, that something he needed was her. Athena. She’d filled his soul, healing a wound he did not believe could ever be made whole. When she came into his life, everything made sense.For the first time since his death and rebirth in le Comte’s mansion, he had a reason to be - to wake and to feel. And he wanted so much to do the same for her - to be what she needed - someone who could bring a real smile to her lips and her eyes. 

“Please don’t tell anyone?” Her voice was muffled against his chest and thick with tears. 

Napoleon gave a hesitant nod. “I won’t say anything to le Comte but on a condition.” He pulled back from her enough to see her face. “You must come to me when you feel like this. Talk to me.”

Athena bit her lip, brow creased in thought. She shook her head. “Leon, I understand what you’re trying to do but . . . it’s not that easy. I can’t just talk it all away . . .”

He caressed her cheek with his rough palm. “Nunuche, do you think I don’t know that?” His smile was melancholy. “I may not be able to help. But I always want to know how you are feeling. What you are thinking. If you are sad, angry, hurt - I need you to tell me.” 

“Even if it’s 3 in the morning? Even if, after we talk, I sometimes still need to - to do this?” She touched the marks on her arm. 

“Anytime. If I am asleep, wake me. If I am busy, interrupt. Nothing matters to me as much as you.” He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers. “Let me see you. The real you. Always.”

“Even if the real me is so worthless?” Tears hung in her lashes. Her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides.

“Even if you can’t see your worth, yes.” 

Her breath caught in her chest and for a moment, she didn’t move. Then she was holding onto him and crying and he was wiping her tears away and shedding his own. Pressing kisses to her brow and smoothing her hair and just holding her, as if he could tell her by his touch how precious she was to him. 

They held each other until the tears dried, until their breath calmed and their hearts beat together in a slow, steady rhythm. 

Napoleon extricated himself from the tangle of their arms and stood.

“Where are you going?” Athena wiped at her face, trying to smile because old habits are hard to break.

“To fetch alcohol and salve and bandages.” He gave her a tender look. “I know you cannot just stop because I want you to. So until you find your way, I am going to take care of your hurts - the ones I can see, and I hope, the ones I cannot as well. But for the flesh, I’m going to need more than words and kisses, non?”

She gave a nod, too emotional for words. 

Napoleon hurried downstairs to grab the items he needed. He still felt unsure if this was the right thing to do, or if he could really do anything. Give him an enemy he could see and a weapon in hand, and he would prevail. But what Athena faced within was no monster to slay, no general he could defeat. In a way, he thought, it was his love fighting herself and he didn’t want her to lose. 

When he came back, Athena was partially undressed, her sleeves rolled up, her skirt bunched. The skin revealed was riven with the marks of her sorrow. Some were so fresh that they beaded with blood and others old enough to be barely visible. It made his chest ache to see what violence she’d done. 

“You hid this all this time?” His voice came out a barely audible rasp. 

She nodded. 

“Ma belle . . .” Napoleon knelt in front of her and set down the supplies. Then with gentle hands, he cleaned the freshest wounds and rubbed them with salve, bandaging them carefully. 

“Do they . . . do I . . . does it look gross? All the scars?” Her timid question surprised him.

“Nothing about you could ever look gross.” He traced a jagged line along her thigh, wondering when she’d done this and with what. What inner pain had this awful cut eased? 

Athena cleared her throat. “Then why are you making that face?”

“It hurts me that you were suffering all this time and I did not know.” Napoleon kissed the edge of the jagged scar and then rested his head on her leg, looking up at her.

She set a hand atop his head. “I didn’t want you to find out. I thought I would just . . . deal with it. Not burden anyone.”

“Nunuche.” He laughed softly. “I want you to burden me. That is what love is for. Sharing our pain, not just our joy.”

Athena smiled. It was a small, weary thing, a bare twitch of her lips at the corners. But it lived in her eyes too and that meant it was real. For Napoleon, that was enough for right now.

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp napoleon #angst #hurt and comfort #tw depression #tw self harm #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys

[you-can-be-what-you-want-to-be]

Favorite wolf 359 episodes

1) The watch tower

It’s so interesting to see the aliens reasoning and understanding of the universe and why it’s needed, and I love the song that goes with the reveal, and how Doug is both the child and adult in this situation, both asking Bob to give him the kids glove treatment and trying to patiently explain things like an exasperated parent

2) Am I alone now? It’s the episode that made me care about this podcast. We hear from everyone and Heras speech about the solar flair and how she doesn’t know if she’s going to miss them fucking kills me

3) Boléro. Like a better version of team what’s wrong with handcuffs. Effiel is tired, and he hates this, and everyone who’s dead has tried to kill him at least once, but he’ll be fucked if they aren’t going to be people about this, if they aren’t going to treat them as people and loose all control of decency. Heras talk about what the point of this is and why they had to die, and her complicated feelings of getting betrayed by a friend and not knowing how to feel, and Minkowskis feelings of inadequacy…. Girl I am UNWELL

4) Time to kill. Not much to say about this one. It’s a Halloween favorite of mine and the idea of them sitting there for hours after that is chilling. No matter which version it is, there was A Jacobi out there who’s friends let him die. The dread and fear and tragedy in that episode are overwhelming

5) memoria. To feel there is something wrong with you your entire life, to find out the thing tripping you up was your own anxieties? To have to look at that and go “this is a part of me I can’t remove and have to live with, but because I know it’s there now, I can work around it. I’m not okay, but I’m going to be.”

6) Into the depths. Ok listen. The aliens telling Kepler that just because hes violent doesn’t mean he has a say in anything is delicious. Them communicating with Doug who is terrified and has no idea what the fuck they’re saying is delicious. Lovelace saying I’m choosing to be this person? 10/10. Minkowski going even if I think you were wrong you were willing to make a choice? Chef kiss. This episode can do no wrong

7) Wolf 359 live: deep space survival procedure and prodigal. This episode is comedy genius. The voice recording Eiffel going that’s impossible and everyone telling it to shut up, the microwave gag, the role-playing between Effielf and Minkowski? Top teir. Him utterly failing at keeping the meeting cool and immediately giving them away? So good. Loveless being just so fucking pissed and confused? Light of my life

8) Let’s kill Hilbert. Like a diet version of Boléro. Early enough that it could be naïveté but relistening makes you go wow doug really is the moral back bone of the ship, and at the end him offering the different options for Hera and her taking all three gets me every time

9) Mission mishaps: a little night music. 1: it’s funny to hear someone verbally describe that kind of music 2: him having a breakdown midway 3: the fact that hilbert would’ve known about the aliens if he listened to like 10 secs 4: his fake fancy accent

10) Minkowski commanding. Seeing her loose her mind is funny but the revelation that the plant just wanted to not be alone in the dark always got me like 😭🥺🥺🥺

#wolf 359

[brightfancies]

[BETRAYAL] - Tom x Gin (Maybe some flashback action?)

“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Her voice breaks, tugging the sleeve from her cloak to clean away the tears staining her cheeks. Shallow, rapid breaths spill past her lips, as she fails to ease the quickness of her heartbeat. Gods, Ginny Weasley was not a cryer. What had happened to her?! She had never felt this way. Useless. Helpless. Lost.

Her back, her arms, her legs ache as if her weight was suddenly too heavy for her lithe body. Her stomach was in knots, she couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep. Fear and desperation plague each inch of her body, threatening to swallow her whole.

“Tom," she calls to him, a plead on her lips. "I-- it happened again. I-I-I was just at the Great Hall and then I ---I don’t remember how I got here, or why, I-I-I think something is happening to me. I think--I think…”

Bloodshot eyes look up to the tall wizard stepping out of the shadows, relief allowing for a single breath to escape her lungs. It had frightened her, the first time she saw him. That’s why she tried to get rid of her diary; because ghosts are not supposed to be felt. But now that he was back to her, the little witch cannot remember why she felt so scared before. Maybe because it also felt exciting. Maybe because it also felt ancient, magical. Or maybe because there was finally someone who was here, present. Listening to her.

Tom Riddle has been her only friend for the last few months. And lately, when she woke up with headaches, nausea, and exhaustion in the dark corners of the castle, her only peace.

“I think I’m hurting my friends.” The words grate her throat, shivering under the quiet confession. She would’ve fallen to the floor had long fingers not caressed her face so softly she gasped. Tom had never gotten so close to her, the coldness of his skin sharp against warm, moist cheeks. Swallowing hard, her brown eyes searched his face only to meet the striking gray of his eyes, the beat of her rabbit heart increasing for a minute. 

“Shh, shh,” he whispers against her forehead, and she breathes in - the earth and the sea filling her nostrils. Young little Ginny melts into his touch, into the comfort of his embrace, despite the sour taste in her mouth. Shame. She hated being this weak. But if anyone could understand her, it would be him. It was always him. 

“I-I just,” failing to blink away her tears or stop her voice from stammering, “I think I am, Tom. But I don’t want to--I would never do that to them! How could I--why would I-”

“Ah, but you did.”

The world stops. His silent words rang loud and rough against her ears, and vile rises up her throat. Large, wide brown eyes look up at the older wizard. “No, no, I--”

“You did, Ginny. You hurt them. Because I wanted you to.”

She was gonna throw up. Why would he say that!? No, that’s not possible! She tries to push him away, her hands into little fists as she fails to get rid of his hold. “What?! No, that’s not it, I didn’t--”

“You did."

"No, stop, please!"

"You did all I asked of you, you silly little girl. ”

He continues, his voice so soft, calm, almost loving, and terror strikes her. Chills run down her spine and her head spins and spins in chaos. His thumb tenderly caresses her cheek in such a soothing motion it breaks something in the depths of her chest, her tiny body unable to contain the shattering that is happening to her young heart as she can only start to sob, shaking, tears staining her cheeks, her neck, her shirt, his hands. 

“And now as you grow weaker, I’ll grow stronger. Thank you, Miss Weasley, I no longer have use for you. ”

Darkness clouds her sight, her body, and her heart. It is endless. It is infinite. It overwhelms. But in the corners of her mind, in the shadows in a whisper, a sole feeling exists - hate. For the monster she thought she loved.

#&. girl almighty / general #&. girl almighty / drabble #&. girl almighty / tom riddle

[angelamajiki]

PAIRINGS: Father! Yandere! Enji Todoroki x Daughter! Reader

CW: yandere, incest, soulmate AU, fluff, slight angst, nsfw, kissing, praise kink, virginity kink, size kink, bathroom sex

A BNHarem Collab!

AN: my longest piece to date! the prompt this month was sex work, so i decided to stretch the prompt and do sexual slavery. wanted to go for a softer version of daddy endeavor, so please enjoy <3

5.2k words

The mark on his wrist was one that was shared with yours. Enji had given up on finding his soulmate, deciding that his career and legacy were far more important than some silly marking on another’s body. Love was something he thought he could go without. But when he saw your bright eyes gaze up at him, your chubby hand wrapped around his index finger, his heart had fallen hard—such a sweet, gentle thing. No traces of fear, of disdain, of disgust for him as a human being. Just pure curiosity and unconditional love. His heart leaped for his little girl.

Enji was determined, then and there, that he would never fail you, not like he forgot the others.

Oh, what plans he had for you, his precious princess. He couldn’t wait to spoil you, to marry you and start a new family once you were old enough. Rei realized this as well. Her youngest daughter, her last hope at salvaging her broken family, was to be had by her husband. The thought frightened her, especially after seeing the adoring look in her husband's eyes when she saw him cradle you for the first time. It was so unlike the stoic nature he held for the other children when they were born, only caring to see that they were healthy before leaving off back to his agency, never giving them more than a fleeting touch. It was nothing like when he held you, snarling at any nurse who dared to take his soulmate from the grips of his arms.

Something that had Enji’s conviction more so than his career was something to be feared. Your mother swore to herself that she would not let her husband ruin you.

Once he fell asleep with you tucked in the crook of his arm, a social worker came and collected you to be sent to a foster home and be set up for adoption. It was better than falling into the hands of the monster of a husband.

After the death of Touya, the pair decided to have one more child in hopes of fixing their broken family, but Rei now knew it was for naught. Nothing could save them know, especially now that Enji had nearly burned the building down when he discovered that his little girl was gone, just hours after he had finally found you.

Rei alerted the commission as well for your protection, that utter bitch of a woman. They very well couldn't have the number two hero caught in an incestuous bond with his daughter, now could they. All information of your whereabouts was hidden from him, blacklisting him from working with any foster children, lest he loses his hero license. Enji may have lost you for the time being, but his patience grew as he did. They couldn't keep him from you forever. You'd be reunited one day; he knows it.

The first time he saw you again was when you were fifteen. It was your birthday and the day he had become the number one hero officially, plenty of reason to celebrate. Usually, he would have taken the time to sit near the rose bush he planted in your honor in his courtyard on your birthday, renewing his vows to find and love you to the best of his ability. Enji took great pride in keeping your memory alive with the bush for his beautiful little rose gone too soon from his grasp. But there you were, mere meters from him.

The foster home you stayed at took you out for dinner when he was meeting with Hawks after the billboard awards. Your eyes were unmistakable, a perfect cerulean just like his own. He was so close, yet so far. My, how you had grown since he saw you. Unlike him, you bore your mark proudly on your wrist, not ashamed to admit to the world who your soulmate was. Not like you actually knew who it was anyway.

Enji was prepared to leave Hawks at the table; a new flame lit under his ass, one far more exhilarating than the thought of being the number one hero. He was up and on his way to speak to you before Nomu attacked him. Damn villains, they'd pay for separating the two of you once again. But his conviction only grew stronger. It wasn’t hard to find you after that; he knew what city you were living in. Instincts lashed out at him, demanding that he go sweep you up and hide you away. No, no. That would make you frightened; he can't have that. He’ll watch from the sidelines, waiting until you were of age to make a move. He was curious to see just how life as a foster child was treating you.

Growing up in the foster system had been a nightmare from hell for you. A cursed child is what they saw you as when your skin sprouted flames every time it was touched by the human hand, burning everything and everyone who came in contact with it. From the moment your quirk manifested, you were an outcast, an untouchable, unlovable freak. Someone destined never to feel the touch of their new parents, their lover, their soulmate.

It wasn't long before you realized that you would remain in the foster system until you aged out. Who would adopt a child they couldn't hug when they cried, hold their hand when they crossed the street, snuggle up to when it was chilly outside? Any potential parent was taken aback by your quirk once you reached for the warm touch of mommy and daddy, only to singe their hand or burn a hole in their shirt.

You learned quickly that your touch was something to be feared, that you were something to be feared. You supposed that’s why you looked up to him so much. So much so that you thought about him late at night when the loneliness seemed to drown you in the sea of your insecurities.

Endeavor was the only one who could understand you, understand your quirk. If only your soulmate mark could match him, maybe you feel the warmth of another human being without hurting or mauling them with your power. Abrasive he may be with the media, but there something about him that was so comforting and endearing to you. In your eyes, he was simply misunderstood, a gentle giant amongst the mass personalities of the other pro heroes.

Watching his interviews brought you comfort when you were lonely, his merchandise made you swell with pride and confidence, and his posters on the wall reminded you that you were never alone. It was a silly crush, but it made you feel better about your miserable life.

You even got to see him on your birthday! Well, not exactly. You happened to be in the same restaurant when your foster parents took you out for your birthday. It was apparent that they just felt bad for you, having looked after you for 15 years only to still have custody of your sorry ass. You were almost certain that they were going to kick you to the curb the morning of your 18th birthday.

Too bad they never had the chance. That fate would have been much kinder than the reality you faced now.

Once the Paranormal Liberation Front had effectively ripped society up by the roots and let the tree of life rot for the world to see, your foster parents packed their shit and left the country while you were at school. You’d been alone in the world ever since and were snatched off the streets, ready to be sold into slavery by the villains of the world. Your quirk was the only thing keeping you from being bought like a bitch from the auction floor.

Enji, on the other hand, was more than eager to do just that. After his public smear campaign by his allegedly dead son, he was dead to the world, finally abandoning his family for good in hopes of finding his beloved daughter. His life was dedicated to searching for you, having managed to track you down through his vigilante work. He likes to lie to himself and say that he’s continuing to fight for the greater good, but Enji does it just to have the chance to see your sweet face again. There wasn’t much to go off of, but he’d rather see his fiery end than to give up. That's how he found you at the auction.

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

Another auction night was approaching, which meant another night of humiliation and being displayed like a slab of meat for a crowd of degenerate wolves. Your quirk was the only thing keeping you from being sold; no one wants a fucktoy they can’t touch. It reduced you to physical labor for your captors, but you were better fed because of it. That didn’t mean they still didn’t try to sell you.

After being stripped down into nothing but a collar, leash, and a muzzle, you were brought to the stage and shoved in front of the ravenous, roaring crowd. You could feel their stares seep into your bones, the grime from the floor on your bare feet only adding to the overwhelming sensation of disgust you couldn’t even begin to describe.

The crowd’s excitement was raucous, jeers and shouts echoing off the halls of the underground auditorium. Masks covered their faces for the sake of privacy lest a vigilante break-in and hunt them all down. Even in the lawlessness of the world, heroes were still crawling everywhere to trail after even the slightest scent of villainy. Doesn't mean they’ll win, but hey, the death of a hero is just the same as the auction was to them.

“Up next, a darling girl with a fiery quirk!”

That was your cue. A handler had a fierce grip on your leash, giving it a few tugs for good measure as the crowd laughed at your stumbling. The auctioneer began to list your qualities and physical attributes, including your quirk.

“And she’s a virgin!”

Added for good measure, the crowd fell silent after listening to the abilities of your quirk. You couldn't hate it anymore; it's what was keeping you from being someone’s onahole until the day you kicked the bucket.

“Can I get $10,000?”

Ah the starting bid. The silence was relieving. Just a few more moments and you'd be off that damn stage.

“No? Going once, going twice, going-”

“One million.”

A booming voice came from the back row, the depths of the shadows to further hide the masked man who just bought your life. Why did it sound so familiar?

“Outstanding! One million dollars for the young lady!”

“Going once.”

It couldn't be.

“Going twice.”

This can't be happening.

“Sold for one million!”

No!

You were supposed to be unwanted, just like you have been your entire life! Yet some mysteriously familiar man outbid the entire auction for little ol’ you.

“Off the stage, bitch.”

The handler snarled, yanking you off the stage and causing you the fall and bruise yourself in the process.

“Watch it!” He spat, picking you up by the roots of your hair. “The merchandise needs to be handled carefully before reaching the customer. Let's hope he doesn't mind some bumps and bruises. For your sake.”

“That won't be necessary; I'll be taking her as is. Immediately, if you will.”

The mysterious man stood had already made his way backstage and behind you, standing formidably over your stark form. Your hair was released, dropping you back to the floor.

“Excellent, sir! I’m more than happy to get this welp off my hands.”

A brief exchange was made while you recovered on the floor, shaking in fear as the situation weighed heavily on your already broken self. The handler took the money and returned to the back room, leaving the two of you alone together.

The stranger crouched down to you and extended a hand to brush the stray hair out of your face, touch remaining tender and gentle when you flinched harshly.

“My poor girl, what has the world done to you?”

His coat enveloped your body as he scooped you up in his arms. The scent of him comforted you more than you would have liked to admit. Teakwood and coffee grounds filled your senses as he held you flush against his chest, leaving the auction house with a renewed sense of vigor.

You were placed in the backseat of a car before he dressed you in simple pajamas.

“Rest. You deserve it.”

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

At some point in the car ride, you let yourself fall asleep only to wake up in a cozy king-size bed wrapped up in a soft blanket next to a warm fireplace. The false sense of comfort lulled you for a few moments before your situation hit you like a ton of bricks. The anxiety you'd had known your whole life had finally kicked back into gear, forcing you out of bed and into the rest of the house.

It was daybreak, the sunlight slowly trickling in through heavily curtained windows as you walked through the halls and into the kitchen. The man was standing over the stove, sans mask, dressed in a wife-beater and his pajama bottoms. It couldn't be-

“Come in; breakfast will be on the table in a moment.”

Now you were certain.

“Who are you?” Your voice barely above a whisper. “Why did you buy me at the auction?”

A deep, rumbling chuckle flowed from the man.

“I think you know the answer to that, little one.”

His focus was retained on the meal in front of him. “I’ll explain myself over breakfast. Now sit.”

You couldn't help but feel compelled to obey him. While sitting, you took the time to honestly look him over for the first time in your life. Never did you think you would be so close to your childhood crush in such a domestic setting.

He had noticeably greyed but still possessed a majority of his red hair. Muscles were still taught and budging, but he had grown a little bit of a belly. Endeavor was as handsome as ever, aged like a fine wine that you couldn't wait to sip on.

The food was placed in front of you as he took the test next to you.

“Eat and have some water. Then we’ll talk.”

Once again, you obeyed him without question and refrained from eating like a rabid animal. It wasn't even a question, so much so that it is evident that you hadn't had a decent meal in a long time. You were still muscular from the labor you did for your handlers, though.

And Enji liked that about you. How resilient you were, he loved that you inherited his strength but still possessed Rei’s gentle nature. Not that he wanted to credit that woman for anything, but he couldn't deny the obvious. You were his strong, beautiful little girl who had to endure so much because his bitch of a wife decided to separate you from him.

But he was here now, ready to give all his love and protection to his only love. It took everything in his power not to swoop you up from your seat and hold you in his arms until his last breath.

Enji watched you eat, pride swelling in his chest at the thought that you liked his cooking. He couldn't help but wonder what your favorite meals were as well. There's certainly all the time in the world to get to know his little girl now that he had you. And he was never going to let you go.

Your breakfast was devoured quickly, both out of desperation for a real meal and answers to your questions.

“Why did you buy me from the auction?”

It was a complicated question, but you wanted a simple answer.

“I’m your soulmate.” His wrist was on display as he reached across the table to hold your hand.

For the first time in your life, you felt safe. Your one, shining hope was meant to yours and he wanted to be yours. You didn't even question how he knew at all.

His touch was warm and slightly rough, but it was welcome all the same. Even though your skin was lit aflame at his flesh against your, he paid it no mind. He was built to take your quirk, to take you.

“Endeavor…”

“Please, call me Enji.” His thumb rubbed over the palm of your hand. “I’m sure you feel better after having something to eat.”

“Why don't you go take a bath? It’ll help you relax, I can take care of your dishes.”

It was strange how insistent he was on taking care of you, but you can't say you don't enjoy the attention. He seemed to care for you in a way that went beyond caring for a partner, or in your case, a soulmate. But who were you to judge? It wasn't like you had a lot of experiences to use as a comparison.

Making your way back to the bedroom, you took the time to study the house you were in. A traditional, well-kept home, it practically looked like it was untouched. And maybe it was; buildings and homes fully intact were hard to come by these days, let alone ones that were clean and warm.

Enji seemed to lull you into an instinctual sense of safety, even though he bought you out of slavery. Just because he was your soulmate didn't mean that he had good intentions for you, but somehow, his presence alone filled a void in your heart that you had forgotten was even there.

Once you made it to the bathroom connected to the master bedroom, you drew yourself a bath just like Enji had instructed you to do. It wasn't the wisest decision to let your guard down like this, but the man already had plenty of opportunities to fuck you up by this point.

The water was warm and inviting when you sank yourself into it; you couldn't remember the last time you had warm water to clean yourself with. It made you feel light and hazy, slipping into a headspace you had long forgotten—a place of safety and comfort.

Three raps on the door pulled you from your haze as Enji entered the bathroom with fresh towels. Despite the fact that he had already seen you naked, the intimacy of the situation only left you feeling more vulnerable than ever.

“Let me help you.”

He kneeled next to you outside of the tub and pulled a lavender chamomile shampoo from the tub’s shelf. There was room to protest, but you couldn't find yourself willing to do so.

Water was poured over your head before he started a lather in your hair, gently scrubbing your scalp for a while. Even this simple touch made you shudder, it was a long time since you last felt the warmth of someone’s touch. And everything about this man was warm, for you at least. His words, his touch, his heart.

Conditioner was added to your hair as well before he moved onto washing your body. The scrub was gentle across your skin, his hand following after it to help keep the suds from rising too much. Strong hands massaged your back and your neck, both of which needed the much-deserved relief.

“So tense.” He murmured, mostly to himself.

There was a comfortable silence shared between the two of you as he massaged out all the knots and kinks that had built up over the years with your handlers. His touch should have made you flinch but you found yourself pressing into it. A small moan escaped your lips as he worked through a particularly tender spot on your neck.

“Are you enjoying this?”

His lips ghosted your ear as warm breath tickled your cheek and neck.

Your face flushed with a fiery warmth from a combination of the steam, your embarrassment, and the man whispering sweet nothings in your ear as his hands worked at your tired skin.

“Let me help you relax, sweet thing.”

Enji picked you up momentarily to slot himself behind you in the tub. Placed on his lap, you gasped when you could feel his erection hard against your back. Fear started to trickle into your veins as you squirmed slightly, attempting to get out of his grasp.

“Shhh, it's alright, you're okay.” His hand made its way to your throat and rested there gently, stroking over your artery with his thumb. “I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart. Let me show you how much I've missed you.”

His touch made you feel alive, feel wanted for the first time in your life. You couldn't help but whine when his other hand made its way down your body, gently groping your breast as his lips were pressed to your ear.

“Do you trust me to take care of you?”

His fingers toyed with your nipples, obviously skilled.

“Do you trust me to make the sweetest love to you?”

Another whine caught in your throat as his hand went further, cupping your sex in his much larger hand. He kneaded gently, pressing a soft kiss to your temple when you writhed in his grip.

“Please! Enji-”

Shushing you gently, Enji’s thumb made its way to your clit to stroke in small circles.

“How does that feel, sweetheart?”

You were used to touching yourself, but oh God it never felt like this.

“Good!” You managed to choke out in a wanton moan. “So good! Enji, please, I need-”

A warm pair of lips sealed over yours, silencing you once again. Enji knew how wrong this was, to take advantage of you like this without revealing the truth. But he wanted at least to just once to have you in his arms willingly and eagerly. He wanted to kiss you breathless, listen to your cries and feel your nails dig into his skin as he gave you all of himself without a fight from you. He can worry about revealing himself to you later.

The rough pads of his large fingers started to apply pressure to your clit as his middle finger slipped into your tight hole under the water.

“Don't worry, little one. I'll give you what you need.”

Soft kisses were trailed along your cheek and hand that was on his that was still holding your throat tenderly. Finger pumping in and out of you, Enji whispered sweet praises to you as he felt your hole clench around him.

“Doing so well for me, sweetheart.”

Your breathy moans and whines only served to harden his cock. He felt like a teenager all over again, closing to cumming just from the sound of your voice.

Another finger slipped into your tight core, careful not to overwhelm you too fast. It was obvious you'd hadn't been touched before, not even by yourself. You felt full but greedy for more of his touch.

“Deeper, Enji! Please, can you?”

You were babbling at this point, writhing in his lap as he fingered you nice and slow with thick digits. Enji hummed as he pressed further into, curling his fingers into your G-spot.

Your cry was loud as he began to abuse your most sensitive spot, fully squirming in his arms as tears of pleasure breached your eyes. The sensation was too overpowering for you, making you thrash and arch in his arms.

“Shh, you're okay, sweetheart. You're okay; I'm right here.”

His fingers continued to stroke in a curled fashion, thumb still circling over your twitching clit. Enji kissed you again, deeper and more fierce as he began to fuck you earnestly with his fingers.

“Cum for me, darling.”

Squealing, you gripped his forearm and cried helplessly into his mouth. The build was slow and intense, allowing your orgasm to wash over you in waves of pleasure rather than a blinding, quick light.

“E-Enji!” You wailed. “Enji!”

You shook in his arms, holding onto the larger man for dear life as you experienced your first orgasm. It seemed like Enji knew your body better than you did.

No words were exchanged between the pair of you, but you could feel the tension of your desired hanging thick in the air. This man was going to take your virginity, here and now.

Enji removed his hand from your throat and between your legs in order to maneuver you to sit facing forward in his lap.

“Are you ready for me?”

His honesty made you flush even more. Biting your lip nervously, you hesitated to answer. Were you ready? It wasn’t like you had much of choice; the man could very well take you by force if he so chose to. But you felt safe in his arms, safe with him.

“Let me help you, my love.”

Warm, large hands gripped your backside as he held you steady above his cock. Your hand reached down to line yourself up with his throbbing sex, lowering yourself down on it slowly.

It burned in the best way, stretching you out fully as you pressed your forehead against his chin.

“Good girl, taking my cock so well, darling.”

A pitiful whine left your throat at the praise, hands gripping the forearms that held you in place.

“Can...Can you hold me?” You whimpered. “Please?”

Enji’s arms enveloped you and pulled you flush against his, tucking your head into the crook of his neck as you continued to lower yourself onto his cock. Your breath tickled his ears, making him groan lowly once he bottomed out inside of you.

“Such a sweet girl you are, taking all of me on your first try.”

Another whine responded for you as you ground your hips down on his.

“E-Enji.” You whimpered his name over and over again like a prayer. “Enji!”

“Be still, little one.” Hands back on your hips, holding you in place near the tip of his girthy length. “Let me take care of you.”

Hips in place, the man began to thrust up into you slowly, holding you tight as he stood up from the water. You only gripped and nuzzled yourself into him further, letting out sweet whines and whimpers into his ear while he thrust into you.

Your back was placed against the cool tile of the wall when he tilted your chin up to meet his gaze. Even in this position, he was still at least another head taller than you.

“Look at me when I make love to you.”

Through wet eyelashes, you gazed up at his eyes and let your mouth hang open as he rolled his hips into yours. His eyes shut briefly when he moaned, hissing at the feeling of your wet cunt hugging his cock so well.

“You were made to take my cock, little one.”

Arms reached up to wrap around his neck as he thrust into you, taking his time to make his strokes slow and deep. His hips were flush against yours when you asked him, “Kiss me, please? I want all of you Enji.”

Your bold proclamation stunned him for a moment before yielding, placing a deep kiss and a hot tongue against your lips.

His thrusts became faster as he kissed you with more passion and vitality. For an old man, he certainly had his stamina up to par. Your fingers thread through his red and grey tresses, tugging him closer to you gently as you moaned shamelessly into his mouth.

The pleasure in your core was more intense, fiercer this time around as his thrusts became hard and fast. The sounds of both of your moans and skin slapping against skin echoed off the tiled bathroom walls as the both of you felt your orgasms coming.

“Enji, fuck!” You whined, beginning to squirt on his fast-paced cock. “I-I’m cumming; I’m cumming!”

“Cum for me, princess.”

With a choked sob, you creamed yourself all over his cock, which continued to pound into your hole before he groaned your name and came deep inside you.

Nothing but the sounds of the water sloshing and your labored breathing could be heard as you both came down from your highs.

After a moment of rest, Enji pulled out and wrapped you in a towel before laying you gently on the bed. A towel was wrapped around his own waist as he looked at you fondly, brushing stray hairs out of your eye sight as he sat next to you on the bed.

“I must ask, how did you end up at the auction site?”

What a loaded question, but the intimacy you two shared allowed for it.

“I was kidnapped off the streets after my parents abandoned me when the prison break happened.”

He sighed gruffly and took your hand in his.

“What utter fools, tossing aside a beautiful rose such as yourself.”

His thumb traced over your soulmate mark. You still had yet to know how he knew before ever meeting you.

“It's alright; I never considered them my family. I just wish I could have met mine, but at least I met my soulmate.”

A crinkled smile adorned his face.

“You've done more than meet them.”

What could that have meant?

“I’m your father and your soulmate, little one.”

A rock hit the pit of your stomach as you retracted your hand from his.

“That isn't a funny joke, I'm serious.”

“So am I.” His hand was quick to snatch your back. “What could I possibly gain from lying to you?”

“P-Prove it.”

“Our soulmate marks, I saw yours the moment you were born in the Hosu hospital before my wife separated us all those years ago. I can recite your birthday if you'd like me to, for good measure.”

Fuck, he really wasn't lying. A lump formed in your throat as tears sprung in your eyes.

“Why would you do this to me?” You whispered, barely even able to hear yourself.

“Because I love you. I love you so much, sweetheart. Ever since I saw you for the first time in the hospital, my entire life has changed because of you. All I ever wanted was you.”

Enji was quick to shush your cries, using his free hand to wipe your tears away.

“Will you forgive me for being selfish?”

The disgust and horror filled everyone of your senses, especially when you came to a realization that he was everything you've ever wanted.

What came out of your mouth next stunned the both of you.

“You can apologize by begging on your knees and cleaning me up with your tongue, Daddy.”

TAGLIST: @tomurasprincess @bonesoftheimpala @sightoru @cxnicalsweetheart

#yandere endeavor #yandere endeavor x reader #endeavor x reader #endeavor #enji todoroki x reader #yandere enji x reader #yandere enji todoroki #yandere enji todoroki x reader #yandere my hero academia #my hero academia #my hero academy fanfiction #my hero x reader #yandere boku no hero academia

[bau-baby]

the ultimate loss. 2/?

aaron hotchner x gn!reader

Summary: While you and Aaron are grieving the loss of Haley, an untimely realization comes up on your part after a night of consolation. Will anything come of it?

word count: 3k

warnings: grief, loss

A/N: Holy cannoli I am so sorry for how long this second installment took me!! Also the ending seems kind of rushed and it’s not the greatest, sorry! Now, onward with the story! 

read part one here

It has only been a few months since Haley’s service, and you have been at a loss. Ever since the time you and Aaron had together on that patio, something changed. Something that you couldn’t really put a finger on. Neither of you addressed it for fear of messing with things you weren’t ready to face. So you both did what you do best: ignore it.

You’ve filled your time with hours on the job, Aaron has been doing the same. You both merely dance around one another, not allowing your colleagues to pinpoint or figure out what happened. And if you were honest with yourself, you weren’t either. Hell, you weren’t sure Aaron knew what was going on, and he is one of the best profilers you have the pleasure of knowing. 

It’s another late night, early morning at Quantico. You’re burning the candle at both ends, losing sleep by the day. You blame it wholly on losing a friend, and sure that was the big, main reason, but you also know it’s a ploy to throw whatever it is that’s happening with you and Aaron out the window for a time.

After-action reports fill your time as the coffee keeps getting brewed and your pen isn’t running out of ink anytime soon. And you always love to think that this is your time away from Aaron, when in reality he’s right up the stairs, hunched over his desk just as you are. You saved your glances for when your hand got cramped or you needed a refill on coffee. What you don’t see was the glances he’d send your way while you were engrossed in the paperwork. 

You normally end up staying late at the office since you have a tendency to take some of the extra files from Aaron as well as the team so they could get home quicker.

You finish up a majority of your reports just before midnight, opting to take the unfinished ones home. You gather your finished files, making the short walk up to Aaron’s office before knocking. You hear him faintly say “It’s open,” and open the door.

“Hey Aaron, just wanted to drop these files off before heading home for the night. If you-” Your words die in your throat as you finally look at Aaron much closer. His eye bags were getting worse, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. “Are the nightmares still happening, Aaron?”

He knows there’s no use in lying, especially to you. He nods as he presses his pointer and middle finger to his temple, trying to alleviate the dull headache that hasn’t left him in so long. It was one of the only constant things in his life, outside of Jack and you.  With the headaches and the nightmares saddled on top of the grief, he hasn’t had true peace in months.

You tentatively take a seat at his desk and wait him out. You know that once he feels like talking, he will. He takes his time, twiddling his pen in between his thumb and pointer finger.

“I miss her. I left her at home with Jack almost every day, I was never there for his appointments or for his big milestones. I forced her to be a single mom when I could have easily just been there. I-” He stops, and you can see his eyes are brimmed with tears. You swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“Aaron, she loved you-” He scoffs, “-No, she really loved you. It tore her to pieces when she left, she just reached a point where she had to put Jack’s needs first. She still cared for you. The call I got the day you were admitted into the hospital told me enough,” You look down at your hands, trying to find the words, “You’re a great dad, Aaron. You do your best and right now that’s all anyone can ask for.” 

Aaron lets out a huff of breath and leans back in his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to lessen the pulsing headache still fully present. You only hope that your words made a difference, and you start to get up to leave.

“Wait. Please don’t go. I- I can’t stand being alone here anymore,” The admission makes your heart swell while simultaneously hurting for the broken man, and you settle back into your seat. Maybe finishing up the rest of your reports in the company of a friend wouldn’t be so bad after all.

-----

The late nights you and Aaron were pulling to keep each other company quickly transitioned to going home early to see Jack, still keeping each other’s grief at bay. Didn’t help that Jack was the sweetest kid on the planet, and one you definitely couldn’t say no to.

There were days where Aaron would just break down away from the watchful eyes of his son. He wanted to remain strong and not worry the young boy, but he knew Jack was hurting too, just as you were. Even if he was vulnerable with you at times, he still kept some walls up and held some feelings to his chest.

And Aaron would never tell you, but some days it was hard to even be in that apartment. The wall has been long since repaired, the bloodstains lifted from the carpet. But that didn’t remove the nightmares that haunted him every time he came home.

He could never forget the acrid smell of Foyet’s breath as he continuously taunted him, the knife driving into his abdomen. He couldn’t forget the fleeting memories that he surrounded himself with, a hopeful yet useless distraction as he was bleeding out on his apartment floor.

He couldn’t forget Foyet’s smile, his laugh that haunted Aaron’s deepest nightmares. 

Foyet’s words would come to him in flashes, always coming back to remind him of everything he lost.

“Do you know how much you have to study the human body to stab yourself repeatedly and not die? I don’t want to brag but I’m somewhat of an expert.”

The humor Foyet found in what he was saying was not ever lost on Aaron.

He always felt the ghost of the knife, cold metal gracing his abdomen that was slowly losing heat due to the blood blossoming around his still body.

“Do you wanna see my scars?”

The image of Foyet’s mangled abdomen was stamped into his brain, a fateful image that spoiled his sleep every night.

“Yours are gonna look just the same.”

And that they did. Aaron hated the scars that riddled his chest, the raised, gnarled skin always a reminder of his failure. He not only failed Haley, but his son that he swore to protect and give a good life. He ripped the life away from both of them. Haley would never see what Jack would become, and Jack would never remember the woman who gave her life to protect him.

No matter how much he trusted you, there was still that wall that held him back from telling you all of this. His rational brain told him that you’d help him work through it, but his trauma-riddled brain told him that he’d end up overwhelming you, even though you both lost the same person, she just had different emotional ties to both of you.

That call that you listened in on while racing to Fairfax was imprinted in your brain. You’d continually tried to tell yourself that you couldn’t change anything that happened, that you couldn’t save Haley. You couldn’t give Jack his mom back, and you couldn’t bring back Aaron’s closest friend. 

You knew it wasn’t right to blame yourself. You knew that Foyet had fooled all of you. That didn’t stop you from taking the blame, forcing yourself to relive the worst moment in your career, just to subject yourself to something you felt you could have prevented.

Jack wouldn’t have any memories of his own mother. You would just plant four years’ worth of stories as he grew up, telling him tales of how strong his mother was, and how she was the best thing that happened to his father.

Maybe these similar trains of thought are what led you to be knocking on Aaron’s door late at night. And maybe, that’s what led him to answer.

“Y/N? It’s so late, what’re you doing here?” The opened door revealed a distraught yet cozy Aaron, floppy hair and eye bags in all.

“Can I, uh, can I come in?” You remain composed, trying to regulate your breathing before you possibly could fly off the handle.

“Yeah, of course. Are you alright?” 

Now isn’t that the question of the hour, Aaron Hotchner? You aren’t really sure what you feel, so instead of answering, you walk over to his couch and sit. 

Aaron trails in behind you, two cups of coffee in his hand. You accept the cup, the ceramic mug already bringing life back into your hands. Aaron sits on the other side of the couch assuming the same position you are: a blank, grief-filled stare aimed at the table in front of you. The only sign of either of you being cognizant is your periodic sniffles. You don’t even realize you’re crying.

“I just miss her, you know?” The sentence comes through a wavered tone, and you hiccup through the tears. 

Aaron’s in a similar state, his red-rimmed eyes giving way to a tear-filled, “I know. I miss her too,”

A watery laugh leaves you, “Y’know, one time when I visited Haley, told me about how you two used to be. Before Jack, before…”

Before the divorce. Before she died.

“-just, before. She even gave me a little insight on your stint as Pirate #4 in Pirates of the Penzance,” A watery smile makes its way onto your face, and you hear Aaron huff out a sad laugh, shaking his head as he does so.

“I swore her to secrecy on that. She liked you, honestly. She loved how you were with Jack, and I can’t say that I don’t either. You being here, for us, is something we’ll always be grateful for. Thank you,” The sentence makes your heart swell, as more tears fall down your face. They’re full of grief, sadness, and a love you don’t catch onto right away, but when you do, you force that back down to whatever depths it came from.

You hear the feet padding across the floor before you see him.

“Y/N? Why are you crying?” Jack asks as he clambers up next to you and into your arms.

“Hey, bud, what’re you doing up? Your dad and I were just talking about your mom, and how much we miss her,” You say, rocking the boy as you hold him.

“I miss my mom too. Do you think we could talk to her?” He asks. You could hear how tired he is, and you look at Aaron.

Go ahead, his look says, and you stand up with Jack still in your arms. You pick up the candle and lighter on the way.

You lay Jack back in his bed, grabbing the picture of Haley off his dresser. You light the candle and hand it to him.

“Hi, momma. Y/N is here, and I miss you. I love you,” You continue to listen to the boy, but you can feel the tears pressing at the back of your eyes again. You can’t imagine what this four-year-old boy is going through, trying to understand why his mom isn’t coming home anymore.

You feel a certain pair of eyes on you from the doorway of Jack’s room, and you see Aaron watching you and Jack. He’s got this soft, sullen smile on his face as he hears Jack recount his days since he’s last talked to Haley. Soon enough, the four-year-old runs out of steam and says goodbye, blowing out the candle. You reach over, tucking the covers up to his chin, and tell him goodnight.

You walk out to see Aaron sitting on the couch again, his elbows resting on his knees, hands covering his face. You sit with him until the early morning light washes over the DC skyline, sunlight peeking into the windows. You both laugh, cry, and sit in silence as you talk about whatever, but the topic keeps coming back to Haley.

“Well, if I want to make it to the building on time, I better go back to my apartment and change,” You say as you get up to grab your shoes that have long since been forgotten, as well as your keys and such. “Oh, I didn’t even notice the time. See you at work,” He says, getting up off the couch too.

“Bye, Aaron. See you at work,” You give him a soft smile, and make your exit.

Aaron doesn’t make light of this, but seeing you leave after the night he spent commiserating with you, made him miss it more than he thought he would. The freshness of it all, the connection you shared with mutual grief, was something he never thought he’d get out of his job.

-----

When you step into the bullpen, you’re the first one there for once. Fresh clothes and a rejuvenated heart puts a small pep in your step, even on no sleep.  After the night of vulnerability you shared with Aaron, you felt refreshed, if only a little tired. 

For the sake of making sure you actually stay awake, you make two cups of coffee. Made one cup just how you like it, leaving the other one black. You set your cup down at your desk, climbing the stairs up to Aaron’s dark office. You turn on his desk lamp, setting the coffee down. You knew he wasn’t too far behind you when coming to the office, it was only a matter of time before he walked out of the elevator. 

When Aaron finally makes it to the bullpen, he sees you already cutting into the reports he left on everyone’s desks the night before. He practically floats to his office, his lack of sleep starting to catch up to him. When he opens the door, he sees the coffee mug at his desk, a sticky note attached to it. Very familiar handwriting fills the note. 

Thought we could both use some coffee after our late night. 

You know where I am if you need anything, old man. 

Sincerely, 

A very concerned friend :)

Aaron just shakes his head at the note, a smile he’s not used to filling his face. He looks through the window out into the bullpen to find you with an equally facetious smile on your face. 

That’s when it all comes crumbling down for you. The realization hits you as you turn back to your work, and you have to slow your breathing so as to not worry anyone else making their way to their desks. 

Fuck. 

You’re in love with your boss. 

You’re in love with Aaron Hotchner. 

You could not have worse timing, you realize. He just lost his wife, you just lost a friend. Neither of you should be open to dating. He isn’t open to dating, and you’d be damned if you were too.

You were never known for your timeliness, but this is a whole other level of bad.

 What are you supposed to do? There’s no handbook, nothing to tell you what you’re supposed to fall in love with your divorced boss who just lost his ex-wife. And there shouldn’t be, you’re being careless. 

It’s normal for people in grief to come together, and after a loss people make strides to fill that gap. That’s all you're doing. You don’t actually feel this way about him. 

That’s what your profiling tells you, but you don’t try to reason with it. No amount of reasoning can fix this. You’re screwed, and you know it.

That’s why you make a vow to yourself- right there in the bullpen. 

You are not going to let this get too far too fast, and you are not going to scare this man away. He is your boss first, friend second, and lover will never make that list if you keep up this fast train of realizations and possible confessions.

You get saved from your rabbit hole as you hear Reid and Morgan walk into the bullpen, talking about whatever those two can talk about at 8 AM. You just shake your head at their antics.

Those two really are like brothers.

Slowly, the rest of the team trickles in, and you’re expected for a day of paperwork when JJ flashes a file at you. Seems like you won’t your day of reprieve, but if you’re honest with yourself, you’re glad.

On top of the Aaron Revelations™, It’s been really hard these past few weeks without Haley. You usually went over to see Jack and her often, talking and laughing over some glasses of wine. Now, you just... don’t have that.

But, all that aside, you have a case.

So you put the pieces of yourself back together, compose yourself, and take a breath.

You can do this.

-----

You can’t do this.

You did fine on the case, and you know that. You remained composed, and kept your head on straight. That doesn’t change your realization, nor does it settle your feelings. Professionalism is at the forefront of your mind as you settle into your seat on the jet. Aaron sits next to you like always, and you school your expression for most of the flight, but that didn’t stop your brain from going faster than light.

You lean your head against the window, and hope against hope that everything- every feeling, every thought- would just leave you. They didn’t, but you welcome the sleep that comes like an unknown force.

When you wake, you smell Aaron’s cologne. You’re groggy, and it takes you a minute to realize that his suit jacket rests across your upper body. 

“You looked cold, just thought I’d help,” Aaron says, not looking up from his file.

That man never stops working.

“Thanks, Hotch,” You say, sleep still laced through your words. You get lost in the moment, the familiarity of it all sinking into your bones. You smile blissfully, sleep consuming your conscious again

You just miss the small smile Aaron gives you after your eyes close, sleep taking your body again.

#the ultimate loss #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader fluff #aaron hotchner angst #soft hotch #it’s a sad fic #but it’s also cute

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Guess what, guys? IT’S WEDNESDAY! >:D You know what that means~!

TIME TO SHARE!

I’m excited because I finally, finally found the inspiration and motivation to write chapter 13 of my main fic! And I used the good old, ‘And he returned...’ technique! X’D

Time to talk about mages and templars everybody!

“Ma halla,” Cyfrin’s voice came forward, laced with tiredness and unusually serious as his eyes fell upon his sister, “the Chantry has not had control over either side for years. If they had, the Chantry in Kirkwall wouldn't have met the fate that it did.” He picked up the stick they had been using to tend the fire, giving the logs a gentle poke and sending sizzling embers upwards, “Now, it is merely a war of endurance; who can last the longest and who can end it with the most spite, the most damage. Blood will run for many moons as it has for several years now. Except this time, light is being shone on those crimson puddles rather than being mopped up with a," A finger rose to slender lips, a pantomime of silence and secrecy.

Fane sighed, grimacing a bit when Mhairi shifted against his side and watching those embers rise and then blink out of existence. Cyfrin was right. This was a war without end, and each side was merely swinging at whatever happened to move now. Power corrupted, and it had done so in this instance; mages overwhelmed by the taste of air, magic responding with giddy excitement; templars breaking the chains that held their hands and feet in place, as well as their swords. Both had never known what it meant to be free, and now that they had it in aces, they couldn’t cope with it.  All the common folk, them included, could do was wait it out, like a parent waiting for their child, who refused to listen, to settle down. That was all there was to it.

Fane slowly rubbed his palms together, wringing his fingers a bit as he spoke, “Whatever it is now, it doesn’t matter. It’s a mess made for a different rag,” With a tired movement, he let his head roll to the side a bit to rest atop his sister’s, relishing in its silkiness. To think, he had almost abandoned that comfort for fear. He continued with another sigh, “All that matters is staying away from it. It isn’t our fight; it never has been.”

Silence passed between them all after his words had fallen, the crackling of the fire and the drone of crickets and cicadas the only sounds to fill the air. Cyfrin only gave him a nod that said, 'I agree' before going back to idly poking at the fire. However, Fane could feel something like a tense ripple from Mhairi, her body suddenly rigid where it rested against him.

Shit, Fane thought, growling a bit as he recognized this rolling wave exuding off Mhairi. He should have kept his mouth shut.

A few more moments of silence passed before the words he had been dreadfully waiting for passed lips gingerly being bitten into.

"Is it really not our fight, though?," Mhairi asked in a sheepish whisper. Fane watched from over his nose as delicate hands appeared from under fur and cotton, pink with Fereldan chill and palms up, "Or at least, my fight? I mean, I'm a mage, so really--"

"Mhairi," Fane cut off his sister's words, voice dropping low in warning, "Whatever's going through your head right now, end it."

Fane caught the flicker of amber from across the way, their owner knowing where this was going as much as he did, but he was more focused on ice as it hardened before him. He was not going to entertain this ridiculous train of thought! Was his sister mad!?

"But, brother--!"

"Enough," Fane snapped with a harshness he rarely used with her, "Do you want a templar on your heels!? Do you want to be silenced again!?"

Nostrils flared as he brandished a glare downwards, but his irritation cooled as Mhairi's icy gaze melted and turned downwards, guilt and pain in turquoise. Fane frowned deeply at that. Shit, he hadn't meant to…! Damn it all! This was why he should have left on his own! All he did was pull down, down, down! He could never find the right words!

"Of course I don't want those things, brother. You know that," Mhairi said with tightness, voice like a taut cord before letting out a tiny sigh, down-turned eyes staring pointedly at her hands--the tools for which another tool could be wielded in, "It just...feels wrong to turn away and let not only the mages and templars suffer, but innocent people, too. The people on farms and in villages didn't ask to be involved, but they are." A gentle blue glow enshrouded slender fingers and smooth palms, making Fane's nose twitch in irritation and his stomach roll uncomfortably, but he watched it same as her, "I guess I just want to help them, to show them that it doesn't have to end in flames. Magic is beautiful, and it hurts to know no one but the Dalish recognize that."

Fane listened, rapt and attentive even though he knew his face showed otherwise. Mhairi had vocalized these thoughts before to him, and while he understood where she was coming from, that still didn't mean this was their fight. What was there to gain from throwing themselves into the pan? Nothing but an early grave, that's what. Or worse yet, tranquility. The very idea of that happening to his sister made him sick. How such a practice came to be was beyond him, and yet, it made his mind prickle and pull with those odd feelings of ‘wrongness’. Obviously, stripping a person of their emotions was vile and grotesque and disgusting, but it felt like something more to him. It always felt like more with so little.

Fane let out a long sigh through his nose at himself and his sister, the air condensing in front of him, "It's not your job to present that to the world, Mhairi." He shifted a bit, the fur lining of his cloak brushing against the bottom of his cheeks as he did so. He was starting to get warm, uncomfortably warm.

"Isn't it?," his sister forwarded, pressed, pushed, sparkling eyes slowly rolling upwards to look at him; the glow of her hands fading away to let firelight take center stage again, "I’m a--”

Fane growled, his chest rattling from the depth of it. “Yes, you’re a mage, My, but that’s more likely to get you killed, or worse, made tranquil than understood,” He met her slowly narrowing gaze unflinchingly before sighing tiredly, shoulders slumping and voice softening at the look of hurt in icy blue, “Listen: stop chasing after trouble. No good can come from involving yourself in this mess,” His tired eyes shifted to the fire once more, watching it dance and consume both air and forest wood, “This continent is engulfed in war, and it’s not your job to fix the mistakes of others just because of what you are. That type of blind thinking is exactly why all that’s happened, happened.”

He felt his fists ball up against where his hands were resting between his thighs from anxiety and frustration, the skin along his arms pinching to where he could finally feel his scars start to act up. Great. Just what he needed alongside all this ridiculousness. Why did his sister always have to play this card? Yes, she was a mage, but there were a thousand more who could, but wouldn’t do what his sister wished to. And why? Because they knew it was pointless as narrow perspectives were set in the stone of ages.

Time and time again mages had tried and failed to show the world the intended use for magic. Time and time again restrictions were set ever tighter because of those harmless displays, the Chantry crying, ‘Demon, demon! Blood magic, blood magic!’, and a single, single show of defense against such accusations was treated as a literal felony. Now, the Fade touched were doing the only thing they could think to do after so many disappointments; fight. A caged animal was bound to break the door holding it back, and that was exactly what had happened to every Circle; they broke.

They went silent, voices stolen straight from their throats, emotions ripped away so as to be unable to defend themselves any longer, and the beauty his sister desperately wished to show no longer relevant as it had no place in war, in a world where beauty was a stranger. Fane didn’t have much allegiance to either side, both were foolish and pathetic and tiring, and despite his personal experience with magic, he didn’t detest it. It had its uses, just not on him and that was because he didn’t relish getting uncontrollably ill. He was open minded enough to know magic hadn’t been the true culprit, it had only been like the innocents in this pointless war; used against its will. It had been the blade that carved the stone of his body, but it hadn’t been the hand to wield it.

So, he would admit he felt sorry for the endlessly warring factions, even the templars despite his personal feelings regarding them. To be played like a fiddle by a bunch of tottering zealots, zealots that used ‘faith’ as their bargaining chip to garner influence and power while declaring, ‘It is the Maker’s will’. Sadly, despite how thin the veil of deceit was, the people fell for it like raindrops during a heavy downpour, fast and hard. Was it the humans’ ‘god’s’ will to rip away independent thought? To sunder the minds of those who broke the leash long having held them back?

To indiscriminately kill another on the basis of ‘you’re a mage’ or ‘you’re a templar’ or ‘you’re a threat to our power’? Apparently so. Tragic, but there was nothing to be done about it now and Mhairi needed to understand that.

She needed to understand there was no ‘beauty’ in war.

Mhairi let out a disgruntled huff before her form shifted away from him to sit up. Fane squeezed his already tight fists tighter, the leather of his gloves creaking from the force as he watched his sister rise up from the log, her action calm, but her eyes and face held frustration in delicate edges and firelit ice. He felt his expression go hard as he sat up straight, silently mourning the loss of momentary comfort. Again, he should have kept his mouth shut. Why did he even try using words?

“I think I can see perfectly well, brother. I saw the corpses mutilated beyond recognition, the burnt buildings and the sacked ones, the people crying over what they lost, children wailing as their parents wouldn’t wake up. I saw,” Mhairi said, lilt strained and lips twitching with the urge to bend downwards as a forlorn mutter came after, “I wish you would stop treating me like I don’t, like a child.”

With that, Fane watched his sister quickly stride away towards where they had pitched tents, darkened cloak fluttering behind her and kicking up the dusting of snow with her partially bare feet. It was only when Mhairi completely disappeared from his sight, safely burrowing into her tent, did he let out a sigh, the exhalation hard and long.

“Damn it all,” Fane cursed out under his breath, bringing hand out and up from his cloak to rub at his face. He felt ten years older all of a sudden. Scratch that, a thousand years older. How much older could he potentially feel at this rate?

“Tactful as always, ma falon.”

----

Fane can be incredibly harsh, and a downright jerk sometimes. He doesn’t mince words or give platitudes. He says it how he sees it. 

Tagging: @noire-pandora @oxygenforthewicked @varric-tethras-editor @dreadfutures @the-dreadful-canine @drag-on-age @a-drama-addict @little-lightning-lavellan @whataboutbugs @blueheaded @aymayzing @rosella-writes @1000generations and anyone else that’d like to share! (no pressure! <3)

#wip wednesday #my writing #oc: fane lavellan #oc: mhairi lavellan #oc: cyfrin azurel #cyfrin's baaaack~ >:3 #and mhairi just wants to help #fane wants to STAY AWAY #you can guess how that works out~ >:3 #although. it IS fane's fault when it happens ehehe~ :3 #i'm so happy to be working on this again! X3 #*bonks the unknown dragon on the head* STAHP. BE NICE. #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #writing

[bluegarners]

For the bingo card, I'd like to request the "tortured for information" square with Dick being the one who's tortured (sorry Dick alskjda). You can include any other batfam member(s) that you want, I'm not picky 😁.

Oooo, that’s a good one! I was super excited to see your request, I hope this does the prompt right~ @hood-ex

Tortured for Information

The room they’re being contained in is small, perhaps eight foot by eight, and the ceiling barely crests at seven. It’s cramped and hot, the stone bricks that surround them leaving no room for air ventilation or any sort of moisture except their own sweat. They know there’s a door somewhere off to the right, but the enclosing darkness leaves most of it to the imagination. Pitch black inks the area, not a single source of light filtering through its void. They only know there’s a door in the darkness because there used to be four of them where three now sit in anticipation. A few inches rest between each of the three remaining figures, all trying their best to breathe through the heat and not inhale the stench of their own gross fluids.

Time is hard to tell in the dark, minds so used to constant movement that stillness is unexpected and dangerous. What they do know is that, before there were just three, they awoke one by one, feeling out for one another in the darkness, checking supplies (they had none), and trying their best to figure out how to escape. The door was the obvious solution at first, the largest of them using his shoulder as a battering ram against the heavy wood. There’s no give, no weakness, and the eldest stops the biggest before there’s unnecessary hurt inflicted. There are no hinges or door knobs or anything obvious through the touch of careful fingers, so other than hopelessly banging against the door, there’s no way to open it.

All of them were still on the cusp of disoriented when they realized there’s no air flow and that, if they’re as trapped as they believe themselves to be, conserving oxygen was the next priority after a failed escape. Suggestions of being underground were thrown around, all failing to recall how they ended up in the small room in the first place or who took them. The underground theory is plausible, being that there’s no light, but the sweltering heat doesn’t match the coolness of deep earth. Being in a basement was also likely, but seeing as their prison isn’t much of a room for a house or other building also leaves the hypothesis flimsy. They compared notes from what they could remember.

“Patrol,” Tim started, a small voice in the black, “in the West portion of Gotham. I was alone though.”

“Spoiler accompanied me in the South,” Damian said.

“Last I remembered, I was in the Cave with B,” Dick chimed in. “We were going over logs. Hood?”

“Drunk,” was the muttered reply. “Still nursing a headache actually so if you guys could shut up and think, that’d be great.”

They’re still on rickety terms with the estranged brother. Things have gotten better over the years, but the progress only graduated from ‘shoot on sight’ to ‘stay the hell away’. Progress is progress though. They’re getting there, slowly, and one day Alfred will coax him into a Manor dinner.

Silence fell on them, more out of nothing else to say rather than to comply with the command, and the only sound was their breaths filtering through the stagnant air. The heat isn’t unbearable. No, far from it, they’ve all endured worse, but the closeness of their bodies provided little relief. There’s hardly enough room to stand and take a few steps before accidentally smashing someone’s hand and soon enough, agitation was brewing. Britsling words, huffs, tuts, an occasional snap; none of them did well in dark, small, and claustrophobic situations.

The hard part about residing in shadow is that one cannot tell when eyes are open or closed, seeing darkness or dreaming in black. When Jason awakes for the second time, a fierce pounding building behind his ears, he realizes that someone is missing. Someone is gone from their eight by eight confinement. A stutter of breath is absent among the shallow patterns. His fingers fumble loosely against the hard flooring, rough in texture and covered in cracks and pebbles, until he finds a body.

He shakes them. “Wake up. Wake up now.”

It’s Damian. He’s up and alert in an instant, grasping at Jason’s wrist in a move meant to harm the older man. It merely pinches him. “What’s going on?” the boy hisses, grip frightfully tight.

Jason ignores him. Feels around for another body. His hand barely moves a foot before he feels something loose and soft. He tugs at it and a startled yell answers. “What the hell?” Tim growls, low enough to be a whisper but quick enough to be panicked.

A snake of oil and water falls into his stomach as Jason confirms it. It twists around in his gut even as he crawls over to where he thinks the door is, slamming a fist into it over and over again as he feels his own panic settle coolly into his feet. They took him. Dick is gone.

That was, in their best estimate, an hour ago. Now they all sit within reaching distance, careful to watch for the signs of induced slumber, periodically calling out to reassure one another. Tim thinks it was gas. Damian thinks drugs. Jason doesn’t know what to think, just that it happened and now Nightwing is gone. He does not voice his more sinister thoughts aloud on what happened to the man in blue, what might be happening right now, but he does not console the younger vigilantes. Order would dictate that it was now his job to look after them, as the second eldest, but he’s been on his own for years and doesn’t know how to.

Dick is gone and they can only sit and wait.

~oOo~

The vapor takes him last. He’s wedged himself into a corner, straining his eyes to make out even an outline of his brothers, when he hears a body slump to the floor, followed by two after. The noise is alarming because, well, those were bodies hitting the stone floor, his brothers, and Dick prepares himself for something as he holds his breath, clasping a hand over his nose.

The door suddenly opens and white light pours into the small room like an ocean hell bent on taking everything with it. It washes over everything, and for a moment, Dick is completely blinded and overwhelmed with the sudden contrast. Just as quickly as the light burst in, there are hands scraping and clawing against his shoulders and Dick is tempted to shout, but the vapors have finally reached his lungs and he feels the lull of sleep drag at his insides until his eyes weigh a thousand pounds and he is forced to close them.

When he blinks them open, he has to bite back a scream because there’s a masked face in front of him, a ghastly brown mask with gaping holes that peer into the depths. Dick is more than a little startled but finds it within himself to evaluate. His mask is still firmly in place, he can feel the spirit gum sucking at his skin, and he is still fully garbed in his Nightwing suit. A quick glance is easy enough to prove he is no longer in that dark prison he and his brothers had been held in, and another glance confirms that he is the only one out.

His brothers are still trapped.

He, too, is trapped, secured against what feels like a metal cot with leather and metal chains and straps tying his feet and arms to the corners of the cot. The masked face moves away from him, decidedly once it's confirmed he is in fact awake, and retreats back. Dick strains to see where they go but they disappear out his peripherals and is instead replaced with the sight of an old woman, gray, almost silver, hair falling in front of her eyes. There’s bright pink lipstick on her mouth, a dull blue shimmer shade smearing her eyelids, and a coral pink blush struggling to lift up the saggy flesh in what might be an attempt at youth. She smiles down at him. Her teeth are plastic.

“Good evening, Nightwing,” she simpers, reaching out a gnarled hand to stroke at his face. “Did you sleep well?”

Dick says nothing, trying to piece together the woman’s motives. He doesn’t recognize her. She’s new. But old. Perhaps an underground leader then. The masked person from earlier would indicate some sort of dramatic cult. Dick doesn’t know if the concealment of their identity means they intend to release him later, or if the showing of the old woman’s face is a move of power, as if to say that they have the means to keep him stationary and have little fear in doing so. The woman could be anyone from a simple grandmother to an “immortal” mortal, striving for some elixir of youth like the League of Assassins. Really, this could be anything. They, whoever it was that took Dick and his brothers, were clearly very capable.

Just as Dick begins to consider the idea of magic being involved, the old woman snaps her fingers and the wooden face from earlier reappears. The blow is quick, a metal stick coming down to strike at his abdomen, and Dick has little time to brace as metal meets his thin flesh and pain lights a fire inside his stomach. He bites back a scream.

“Now, you listen here young man,” the woman berates, a shaking finger pointing accusingly at him. “When you are asked a question, you answer. Where are your manners?”

Dick is too busy catching his breath to form a coherent response, and the woman snaps her fingers again, another blow striking at his stomach again. Dick relaxes as fully as he can despite the panic that’s quickly taking hold of his limbs, and the metal collides with his side this time with bruising force against one of his kidneys. A huff of hurt escapes his mouth and Dick instinctually begins to curl up into himself, only stopped by the straps that hold him down.

“Do you understand?” the old woman asks, raising her hand threateningly as if to snap again.

“Yes,” Dick wheezes out, breathing through the pain. “Yes, I get it.”

She drops her hand, a pleased and rather pleasant smile marring her face once more. “Good. Lovely. I’m sure you have many questions, Nightwing, but I am not obliged to answer any. However, I want you to answer some questions for me. How does that sound?”

Dick isn’t sure if a head nod is enough to placate her inquiry, so he manages another verbal affirmation.

“Excellent,” the old woman crows. “I’ll begin then. Oh drat, I almost forgot. You arrived with your brothers, yes?”

Dick feels the blood in his face drain. She notices.

“Oh, not to worry!” she reassures, a wrinkled hand coming up to pat his cheek. “No harm will come to them. I would never hurt a child, Nightwing, no sir. Family is very important after all. That’s why you’re here! So, to make sure that you answer truthfully, I would like to propose a bargain.”

“Bargain?” Dick questions. His side winces, still struggling to adapt to the injuries. He’ll have to deal with it later. Later.

“Quite so,” the woman agrees. “If you answer my questions with complete honesty, and I mean that young man, I will grant a few privileges to your brothers. I don’t like shutting them away in their room, but I know otherwise they wouldn’t behave. You can help them though. Here, I’ll show you.”

A screen flickers to life above his head, a monitor illuminating the ceiling.

“If you answer my question, I will turn on one light for them,” the woman says, shakily motioning to the pitch black screen. “That is how this will work. I will tell you what privileges can be earned for your brothers, and then ask you a question. Answering truthfully is the only way to give them those rewards though. Do you understand?”

“And if I don’t?” Dick questions back, the situation finally settling into his head. Rule number something that Bruce had always instilled in him was to never bargain with your captor, especially when others were involved. Innocents.

“Then I snap my fingers,” the woman responds coldly, “and Burtrum will do his best to force the truth out of you.”

Burtrum. The hulking figure in the wooden mask. Burtrum. Okay. Okay. Not the weirdest but- okay, fine. Burtrum.

“We’ll start easy, just so you understand that I am truthful in my promises. Are you ready, Nightwing?”

He can say no. He can say no and get beaten for it, but if he says no, then there’s the chance that his brothers will suffer for it. The old woman promised not to hurt them, she said she wouldn’t hurt children, but he can’t take anything she says as absolute fact. If he says yes, that he’s willing to answer her, there’s no telling what kind of questions she might want to pry an answer for out of him. She could ask about anything: identities, the Justice League, the Titans, Batman, codes, locations, anything. And if he doesn’t answer the way she wants, he’ll get beaten for it. Tortured, more like it, and he really doesn’t want to put himself through that if he doesn’t have to.

“I don’t know how you were raised, but I don’t accept silence as an answer. You will use your words.”

Tell that to Bruce, Dick thinks ruefully, mulling over his options once again. “Fine,” he settles on, “I’m ready.”

“Splendid. Burtrum, do please fetch me a chair. My knees are brittle and it’s cold in here.”

The massive figure of Burtrum, dear lord that sounds like a name Alfred would know somehow, lumbers away and Dick, admittedly, feels a little tension ease out of him now that the immediate threat is gone. Well, the immediate physical threat.

“Now, I promised you that I would turn a light on for your brothers. I understand that children can be afraid of the dark, and it is not my intention to frighten them like this. So, tell me, Nightwing, what is your favorite color?”

“My favorite color?” he repeats back dumbly.

“Yes, indeed. Answer that and I will lighten the room. It’s not a trick question. Everyone’s got a favorite color.”

Dick can’t think of how his favorite color might be used against someone, and he certainly doesn’t use it as his own password or anything, so he says, “I like blue.”

The old woman laughs, a vibrant blue fingernail tapping against the emblem spread across his chest. “I do as well,” she titters excitedly. “Lapis is such a beautiful color, wouldn’t you agree? Such a darling, delicate shade.”

Dick doesn’t know if it’s a question he actually has to answer, it seems rhetorical, but he doesn’t want to take any chances. The fewer bruises, the better as always. “Yeah, it’s-”

“As promised,” the old woman interrupts, talking over him, “I will turn on the light. I am an honest person, Nightwing, so I hope this show of good faith will inspire you.”

Immediately, Dick’s eyes snap to the screen above him, holding his breath in anticipation as he stares into the darkness. A few seconds later and a calm yellow washes over the dark screen, the slumped figures of his brothers finally in view. It appears to be a live feed, something Dick had originally been worried about, but as he sees Jason stand up at the new lightness and Tim’s head whipping around in astonishment, Dick feels his heart sigh.

Burtrum re-enters the room, rumbling with a newer heaviness in his arms as he carries a padded wooden chair. He gently places it onto the ground and the old woman sinks into it with a gratefulness that reminds Dick that this is literally an old woman he’s dealing with. Not some crime lord, not some super villain, not some drugged out meta human. She is, quite literally, just an eighty something year old lady with a singular, large butler like henchman at her service. It all feels quite ridiculous now that he thinks about it, and for a moment, Dick wonders if he’s hallucinating or dreaming.

The smarting ache in his stomach reminds him that, no, neither of those things are true and this is truly a dangerous situation with so many unknown variables. He needs to be careful. Needs to be smart about things.

“Now that we have established my honesty, it is time to establish yours. Let’s begin, shall we?”

~oOo~

The darkness retreats suddenly and unexpectedly. Damian does not jolt, any Robin to a respectable Batman never jolts, but he will admit the sudden brightness leaves him feeling antsy. The lights meant a few things. One, someone was watching them. Two, the room was far more complex than a few bricks and an immovable door. Three, something was going to happen soon with this new development or something already did.

Todd is swearing left and right, making for the door again. Drake is peering around the room skeptically, angling his head this way and that in an attempt to understand the new light sources. And he? Damian is staring a hole into the rough ground, thinking hard. About what, he can’t quite put to words, but somehow, the light does not comfort him. It only reassures him that there was something, rather someone, crucial missing from this entire situation, the darkness having hidden that blatant fact beforehand.

The illumination does not heat the room any further than it already feels, but Damian supposes time will change that. By itself, even before the brightness, the small prison was near sweltering and Damian could feel the back of his suit becoming soaked in his own sweat. Perhaps three hours, maybe a bit more, has passed since the first time they awoke to be trapped in this confinement. Dehydration was inevitable. Escape, by all means, was still a quandary that would not be answered for the foreseeable future. There was no telling if anyone was looking for them currently, no way to communicate a location with all of their materials stripped from their persons, and being trapped inside such a tiny space with two of his least favorite people in the world only worsened that fact.

To top it all off, Richard was still gone. Still missing. Captured. Elsewhere.

The heat must be making him light headed because suddenly his neck feels too weak to support his thoughts. He rests his face in between his knees and continues to think. There is little else to do.

~oOo~

“I have a list of necessities here. Every question you answer is one of them given to your brothers. When I have run through the entire list, of which there are only three elements, I will have Burtrum deliver the items you answered to. Is that clear, Nightwing?”

It’s insane is what it is, is all Dick can think, but his voice says otherwise. “Crystal.”

“We’ll start with hygiene. How often do you patrol in Bludhaven?”

“Whenever I have time to.”

The old woman frowns and taps two fingers against the metal cot. Burtrum and his dark brown mask loom forward and Dick can feel hands rest against his ankles. Dick has the sudden realization that his boots are gone. He has nothing but thick socks and a few band-aids on his feet.

“Do not be coy, young man,” the woman carps. “Answer properly. A schedule will do.”

Will giving away specific days be too much? Yes, likely so. Though it’s true he patrols whenever he has time to, those are for extra patrols when he has the opportunity to do so with a friend or fellow vigilante. Every second month on the third Tuesday, he patrols in Gotham with Batman and Robin. On a ‘regular’ schedule, he takes every chance he can get to go out on the streets of Bludhaven. Even then, if someone watches closely enough, he does have a pattern in the how/when/where he patrols. It’s a bit too far reaching to truly connect dots, but he can’t be sure. He also had to consider that there was hygiene on the line, whatever that meant. It could be a bathroom, a shower, medical supplies, medication. It could be many things, so was he willing to pass over that for his brothers? No, not truly, but he doesn’t really know how far he can push vagueness in order to appease the lady.

He’s taking too long. The grip around his ankles is tightening and though he’s almost sure Burtrum isn’t a meta-human, he certainly looks strong enough to do some serious damage.

“I don’t have a schedule but-”

The twists are sudden, efficient and ruthless, and the sickening snap that echoes in Dick’s ears takes a moment to register. Adrenaline keeps his brain from processing the sight of both of his feet and the tops of his toes pointing straight at him, but the bulge that shines through his socks is enough to jerk his thoughts to a screeching halt. Then the pain comes. It’s blinding. Bones grinding against each other, snapped unnaturally and grating against his muscles, creating a euphoria of fire and cold, cold ice that spreads to the very tips of his toenails. On instinct, he flails and immediately, immensely, regrets it as tears spring into his eyes and his lips contort in a half snarl, half gag of anguish.

“Your brothers have lost toilet privileges,” the old woman mutters unkindly, dull eyes unfeeling for his pain, “and Burtrum has done exactly as I warned. You are a selfish man, Nightwing. Selfish and unwise. I pray this has been a lesson for you on the consequences of being dishonest.”

Dick can hardly hear her over the roar of blood in his ears, heart beating faster and faster as the pain only continues to torment him. It’s crazy, he knows he can’t actually feel the bones touching one another, it’s not something he’s aware of on a daily basis, but right now it feels like his bones are singing and his nerves are their opera house. A raging cacophony of violence and crackling misery. He sucks in a breath. Slowly pushes it out. Repeats. In. Out. In. Out.

“Let’s try again. Water, three twelve ounce bottles. Do you work with the BPD often?”

Even in his agony induced haze, Dick understands that this is something he must answer. Water is important, essential, and he doesn’t know how much longer they’ll be captured here. The offer of water is much too tempting to pass up and he knows that the room the others are cornered in is already hot. Dehydration would take hold of them soon and he only has the flimsy word of his captor that his brothers will not be harmed. He has to have some trust that the bottles of water will remain un-tampered with.

“No,” he manages, words thick like sludge on his tongue, “not officially. Sometimes, I’ll help them with drug factions or serial killers.” Dick closes his eyes and breathes deeply again. Speaking is difficult when he wants to bite through his lip to distract himself from his broken bones. “I don’t have a working relationship like Batman does with the GCPD.”

The old woman hums, clapping her hands together. “I am happy you’ve come to your senses. Your honesty has earned your brothers some water.”

She reaches out to brush some of the sweat slicked strands of hair from his face, cooing in an odd motherly way. He hates the tenderness in her touch, as if she hadn’t just ordered someone to break his ankles. This woman wasn’t just dangerous, she was psychotic. Unpredictable. To further worsen a bad situation, he still can’t figure out what the purpose in all of this was. What the ultimate goal is. She seems interested in him, Nightwing, rather than his secret identity. She’s neglected to pry about Batman, of which all villains do when they’ve got a bird in their grasps, and the soothing motions of her hands juxtapose her violence.

Dick’s head is spinning from it all, the fire licking at his feet worsening the vertigo. He doesn’t understand anything at all and the circulation in his legs is thrumming in the worst way. His feet will turn blue soon, but before that, the flesh will balloon into something almost unrecognizable with the swelling that is sure to come. How long does it take for ankles to heal? Two months? Three? That’s ignoring physical therapy and if all goes according to plan. The breaks look bad, not exactly clean, and Dick is scaring himself with the possibility of never walking properly again.

“Let’s proceed with the final item on the necessities list. Three granola bars, all high in calorie. A real treat with chocolate chips, ho ho. I know children just love sweet things.”

He’s tempted to drown her out, just focus solely on the monitor still hanging over his head and watch his brothers, but once again he evaluates that food is indeed essential too and that he still doesn’t know when rescue or escape will be. His best estimate on timing is that they’ve been captured for the better part of four, maybe five hours. Possibly more. They’re nearing the timing in which someone will notice all four of them gone. Help will come soon, but he’s got to compensate for that large if in all of this. If help arrives. If they escape. Those snacks could end up being a saving grace depending on all of those ifs.

“What do you know about the Anaconda Killer?”

The moniker is familiar. An early 2000s serial killer in Bludhaven that strangled his victims after kidnapping and holding them for a week. Most of his victims were young girls, high-schoolers and undergraduates in college, and all were blonde with blue eyes. The killer was never caught and it haunts the BPD as their first major cold case, a total of seven known victims staining the profiles.

He tells her as much, paraphrasing, and she frowns. For a moment, Dick fears that he wasn’t specific enough despite his little knowledge on the subject. His eyes dart to Burtrum, still stationary at his feet and mask staring at nothing and everything, and Dick waits for confirmation as the old woman closes her eyes.

“You worked on the case?” she asks slowly, hands crawling up to rest lightly against the metal cot. “You know of the victims?”

“Yes,” he answers, careful to keep his tone steady. A jolt of doubt strikes through him though as the old woman’s eyes snap open, a feverish excitement taking hold of her.

“Oh that’s good,” she whispers. “Very, very good.”

~oOo~

They pass out for the third time.

Knocked out is probably the more correct term, but Tim can’t find it within himself to actually care because that was the third fucking time. He can’t figure out how they do it. He’s almost completely sure it’s some sort of gas agent that leaks in through the bricks, but he can’t find any gaps or seams where the gas would invade from. He’s looked, double checked, and he can’t find any discrepancies between the bricks and stones. It’s driving him crazy because if it’s that easy to take them out, why hasn’t anything been done to them yet?

And furthermore, why leave water and food in its place?

He’s holding one of the bottled waters in his hands, inspecting the seal to make absolutely certain it hasn’t been opened. Tim knows there are other ways to tamper with water other than actually unscrewing the cap, but honestly he feels a little desperate for a bit of relief for his thirst. He’s sweat through his uniform, having unclasped his cape about an hour into their confinement. He’s sure his face is a little clammy looking and breathing through his nose feels like he’s sucking in sand, so the water was like some sort of hallucination when he first saw it. The others weren’t sure what to make of it at first either, Damian suspicious that it was poisoned and Jason not really giving a fuck.

Tim’s thirst is winning over his skepticism though, the more he turns the bottle around in his hands, the more appealing the slosh of water looks. “They wouldn’t give this to us just to poison us,” he suggests, trying to reason his way into feeling less guilty about drinking. “It just wouldn’t make sense. Why give us drugged food and water when they’ve already shown they can do that with the air? It would be-”

“Holy shit, just shut up and drink it,” Jason mutters, uncapping his own bottle and taking a large swig. Both of the younger boys turn to him with large eyes, clearly watching to see if there are any immediate, negative side effects. Jason will admit he’s a little nervous to find out as well but his defiance on the subject merely just makes him take another sip.

Ten minutes go by and Tim’s tongue is feeling tacky and borderline dry. He gives in and drinks half of the bottle, swishing the lukewarm water around in his mouth. It’s a huge relief.

“Imbeciles,” Damian says, watching with ill-concealed fascination and disgust. “You are both foolish to accept that from the enemy.”

“Maybe,” Jason tosses back, lying down. His feet almost touch the other side. “Or maybe not. It could be from Nightwing.”

Damian's head snaps up. “What do you mean by that?”

Jason hums. “Well he was taken, what, a few hours ago?”

“Four.”

“Yeah? Huh, no shit. Either way, that leaves time for negotiations. A deal. Goldie just loves making deals.”

“You’re implying that Nightwing is speaking with the enemy about our treatment?” Damian says slowly.

“Speaking, screaming, dying, who knows. But sure. He’s talking to them about our treatment.”

Tim throws a small glare to Jason’s slouched form, irritated that he’s being so casual in such a potentially dangerous situation. A small part is also starting to get more worried though because the older man does make a point. Dick is probably speaking with their captors but it’s a far reach to say it’s voluntary. There’s about a seventy-three percent chance Dick is being tortured at the moment, tortured for information or otherwise. In terms of stubbornness and resistance to torture, Dick was only second to Bruce when it came to that sort of thing, be it threat of pain or mental anguish. His eldest brother has a hard head and an even tougher mindset, but his weak spot is his heart.

If Tim and the others were being used as bargaining chips, well, there wasn’t much Dick wouldn’t agree to. Suddenly, the bottle of water doesn’t feel so much like relief as it does guilt.

~oOo~

“We’re moving on from necessities,” the old woman proclaims, anticipation now tainting her voice. “I have no intention of keeping you and your brothers here forever; children should be allowed to frolic and such. So, Nightwing, this is your chance to earn them their freedom.”

He’s never been offered something like this before. Typically, the go-to style of his torturers always involved a threat of ‘You tell me what I wanna know and I won’t kill you and your loved ones,’ or ‘You’ll eventually talk if I keep you here long enough,’. Dick can’t remember a time where he’s been offered his freedom in exchange for information. It’s just not how these things work.

“I am willing to give your brothers their supplies back as a first exchange, excluding their weapons of course. Such a prize, however, can only be earned through truth and if you lie, I will know and your punishment for lying will be severe. I do not like hurting you, you know,” the woman simpers, “but I will order Burtrum to do so. This is very important to me. Do you understand?”

The stakes are climbing higher and higher with each minute that ticks by. Dick can’t really feel his feet much, only if he chooses to think about it or if he attempts to move anything below the knee, and the pulsating in his stomach isn’t a fantastic sign. He hadn’t originally thought the blows were enough to cause actual harm, maybe a few dark, dark bruises to show for them, but the sharp pin pricks in his side where he had been struck in the kidney doesn’t feel right. Internal bleeding is something that crosses his mind, the symptoms of numbness and a faint migraine building, but Dick forces himself to categorize and shelve the pain. Now isn’t the time. It’s really not the time.

“Yes,” he says stiffly, feeling his tongue scrape against the roof of his mouth. “I understand.”

“Splendid. Who is the Anaconda Killer?”

And wow, that’s a loaded question to start off the promise of liberty with. “The BPD never caught-”

“I don’t care,” the woman snaps, leaning forward. Her breath smells like old soup. “Tell me who the killer is.”

Dick swallows. Takes a breath and releases it. Eyes Burtrum, who is still hovering by his feet. Trails his eyes back to bright lipstick and shimmer eye shadow.

“Kennedy Giavich,” Dick says, unsure if he really should be giving out the name of a civilian that has never been charged. “My investigations pointed to him being the killer but there wasn’t any conclusive evidence.”

The old woman taps a fingernail against the cot and Burtrum moves forward, placing a single meaty hand on top of Dick’s mangled feet. Slowly, languidly, the man pushes against the soles of his feet and Dick sucks in a quick breath, screwing his eyes shut. The pain, like the first time, is laced with fire and ice and Dick is starting to come to terms with the fact that he’s going to have nerve damage if this keeps up. Never mind having to stay off his feet for a couple months, he’s never going to have proper feeling in his toes again.

“Who is Kennedy Giavich?” the old woman presses, leering further into Dick’s face.

In. Out. In. Out.

The woman taps her finger again and the pressure releases, the small scream Dick had been holding back dissipating as well. “Who is Kennedy?” she repeats.

“H-He’s a security guard,” Dick manages to wheeze out, still trying to catch his breath. “Works at a communal library. It’s where he sought out his victims. He, mgh, quit last year though. Brown hair, brown eyes, large build.”

“What else?”

“I tailed him for a couple months but he didn’t have any new victims. He lives near the library he worked at and hasn’t gotten another job since. That’s all I know.”

The old woman eyes him, pressing her lips together in what might be a scowl. She regards Dick with an air of suspicion, as if she could somehow read his mind to discern if he was telling the truth or not. He is, seeing as he really hasn’t done much follow up on Giavich in the past few months. A mistake, possibly, on his part but a cold case is cold, and Dick leaves it at that. Especially when there are more active and pressing things to attend to with the little time he has.

Reaching a decision, she raises a wrinkled hand and waves it behind her, signaling Burtrum to leave the room. Dick’s eyes travel upwards to the screen again, watching with a sick feeling in his stomach as one by one his brothers succumb to whatever invisible agent leaks into their small room. A minute later, the thick wooden door creaks open slightly, Burtrum out of sight of the ceiling camera, and a few utility belts are thrown in. The door shuts quickly, presumably some sort of locking mechanism closing it completely, and Dick abruptly doesn’t feel as bad giving away a supposedly innocent civilian’s name. Hopefully, with their tech back, his brothers will find away to escape and get out of whatever hole they’ve been trapped in.

“You said that he hasn’t taken any victims in recent times,” the old woman says quietly, hands folded into her lap. “That he’s been inactive?”

Dick nods. The sick in his stomach is starting to roll around a bit more violently, nausea taking hold. Burtrum re-enters the room holding something in his left hand, but Dick can’t tell what it is, the large figure just out of his peripheral vision. He swallows at the silence that follows his entrance, the air thick with tension. Dick holds his breath.

The old woman snaps her fingers and Burtrum descends upon him.

The blows are rapid and without prejudice, slamming into every available surface that isn’t obstructed by the straps that hold him down. It’s so fast, so savage, that Dick can’t follow the movements and prepare accordingly, the flash of a weapon and it’s strike zone too much for his pain muddled mind to physically follow. One barely glances against his feet but even that is enough to send his brain into a shock, white fire lacing up his legs and to the tip of his nose. It’s bruising, crushing force, each impact enough to completely paralyze him for a few precious milliseconds. His arms are jerking in their restraints, knees bumping against each other on reflex, and there might be a sound escaping his jaw each time a blow connects, but he can’t be sure because everything is happening much too fast and his lungs are gasping for air that escapes him.

All the while, as Burtrum continues to pummel him and break his bones and bleed him dry, the old woman is muttering, gazing at the beat-down with angered, uninterested eyes and a frown cold enough to freeze the sun.

It’s all Dick can do but try and relax, there’s no point in defending himself like this, but his instincts are going hay-wire. He wants to clench and retaliate, snatch the weapon out of those ruthless hands, but Dick’s own hands are secured tightly. He can feel the marks pulling at the skin of his wrists, indenting and leaving bright red and raw flesh behind in his frenzy. Desperately, his eyes once again travel to the screen above him, his brothers’ forms still and un-moving. The sight brings little comfort, a small and irrational portion of his head screaming that they’re dead, that the old woman killed them, that Dick killed them, that he’s going to die to-

The beating stops. The old woman has a frail hand resting against Burtrum’s huge arm. She’s staring right at him.

“That was unfair of me,” she says. “I should have warned you again.”

Blood dribbles past his lips, saliva and bile sliding out as well and leaking onto the cool metal.

“I told you at the start that I wouldn’t tolerate lies.”

Something shifts inside Dick’s chest. He thinks a rib might’ve been broken. Or maybe that’s his clavicle. Sternum. Something. It hurts. It hurts.

“That Burtrum would extract the truth if necessary. Really this shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Nightwing.”

Breathing is difficult. His stomach spasms with each inhale and exhale. It’s slow and pained. Thoughts are difficult too. His eyes remain fixed on the dull monitor. Jason is moving. Reaching for his empty holsters. Tim is shifting. Damian remains still.

A gentle hand guides his chin away from the screen.

“Don’t lie to me,” the old woman whispers. There are tears in her eyes. “I told you that this was very important to me. Would you like to know why? Why I do this?”

Dick doesn’t have the strength to say yes or no. Doesn’t have the will to nod his head or turn it away. He can only stare through the lens of his mask.

“He has my grand-daughter,” she admits, voice trembling. Her fingers tap a frantic rhythm against his chin and blood flicks in their dance across his face. “I just know it. And I know you must know it too. You live in Bludhaven, don’t you? You work with the police there. Surely you must know? You’ve told me as much, so surely… Surely you know where she is?”

No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

The tapping stops and fingernails dig into the sides of his jaw, shaking him. It jars something in his mouth and he coughs, spittle flying out and something hard dislodging. He’s lost a tooth then it would seem.

“Her name is Maria Dunken,” the old woman tells him, looking, searching, for anything like recognition in Dick’s bloody face. “She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She’s only sixteen. Please, you must know what he did to her. Where she is. Answer me! Tell me!”

Dick feels himself drifting, mind floating somewhere between coherence and dizziness. He can’t feel his feet anymore, his heart is beating beating beating, and there’s a dark fuzz building at the edges of his vision.

The old woman releases his face, pulling instead at the heavy arm of Burtrum. “This,” she says almost breathless, the panic building in her voice, “This is her uncle. Don’t you see? You must, you must know where she is. We are her family. Family is important, I know you understand this. See, look at your brothers! You do this for them, don’t you?”

Yes, Dick thinks, a mist falling over his sight. Always.

“I, we both, would do anything for our families. This was my last hope, Nightwing. My last resort. I tried so hard to get the police involved but no one would answer. Do you know how long I searched for you though? How long would you have ignored my grand-daughter if I had not brought you here? How long?”

Dick doesn’t know. The room is getting darker. He can feel his shoulders sagging against the cold table, muscles trembling and collapsing.

“Sorry,” he rasps, because that sounds like the right thing to say. He is sorry about Maria Dunken and her poor grandma. He is sorry he didn’t stick with Kennedy Giavich longer. He is sorry he ever got into this situation. He’s paying the price for it now.

The old woman laughs wetly, Burtrum jerking in her grasp. “All will be forgiven if you tell me where Maria is. Everything will be okay. Just tell me. Please.”

Dick’s eyes are drifting back to the monitor, it’s dull glow all he can focus on. Its bright edges are just enough to chase away the luring darkness that’s clouding his eyesight. Jason is up, pacing, pounding against the door. Tim is picking through his belt, nimble fingers taking stock. Damian is staring right at him. Straight at the camera. Dick feels a smile tugging at his sore features. He doesn’t remember the last time Damian ever looked so small. He’s grown up, hasn’t he?

“Nightwing?” a voice calls to him, distracting him. “Where is she?”

Slowly, Dick glances back over to the petite and frail woman and her hulking figure of a son. They make a funny picture, contrasting spectacularly against each other, but their faces, even if one is covered, are filled with a dangerous kind of hope. Thrill. Expectance.

Suddenly, a headline crosses to the forefront of Dick’s mind. Two weeks ago, a body was found in an alleyway, stuffed underneath piles of garbage. It was a young girl, a Jane Doe, and she had blonde hair and blue eyes. She was strangled to death. Even now, the details are barely there, the news a similar story to all the other tragedies that happen and continue to happen. But still. Grandmother and son look at him, his bruised and broken body, and think he has the answers they seek.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“She’s dead.”

Dick blinks and finds he doesn’t have the strength to open his eyes again.

~oOo~

Jason is about to punch the door for the fifth time when he hears something click on the other side.

Tim is trying to figure out how to get his communicator to work with little reception when he sees Jason take a step back from the door.

Damian is still staring at the weird indent in the ceiling when he realizes neither of the other occupants are moving.

They all stare at the heavy door as Jason carefully edges towards it, pressing a hand against the far side. There is little resistance and the obstruction that had trapped them for so long swings open. White light pours in and they have to squint against its brilliance. An empty hall reveals itself past the frame, and through the hall is another open door, the sounds of the city filtering beyond it. 

Jason is the first to move, taking a step out of the small room that smelled of sweat and old heat. Tim follows, gathering his emptied belt and peering into the white expanse. Damian trails after, suspicion the only thing keeping him from fleeing out into the streets. No one stops them as they walk down the long, clean hallway. There are no doors, no windows, no other exits other than straight ahead and when they step out into the damp and smog filled air of Gotham, life dances before them.

They are free.

They are free and are forced to wonder: At what cost?

#bad things happen bingo #tw:blood #tw:torture #Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Damian Wayne #Tim Drake #fanfic #prompt #tbh i wrote another version of this with about 10 pages before i decided i did not like it #maybe one day i'll try re-writing it but for now it's just going to be some random draft #uh i don't think dick died in this story? it's an open ending i suppose #so you can make up whatever ending you want #dick grayson whump #angst #in the good ending the boys find dick and take him home and he makes a full recovery with a thousand hugs and some nice hot chocolate #in the bad ending the boys dont find dick and he just kinda lays there and succumbs to his injuries #yikes that'd be real sad wouldn't it? #dick staring down at his broken body: haha don't die you're so sexy #dick looking at his feet: haha don't become lame and lose all feeling haha you're too sexy for that

[now-im-a-belieber]

dinner and diatribes

a/n: Hello! I put it off as long as I could but I just HAD to start writing. So, Here it is, my first BoB fic! Any and all feedback is appreciated.

══════════════════

After graduating and settling into the swing of the life you wanted to live, the universe seemed to actively work against you.

You did not get accepted into the college of your dreams. And the underfunded local university you wasted away at was the bane of your existence. You could barely land a job with all the hours you were required to stick to campus, and only made enough money walking dogs and watering plants to pay for tuition and the occasional new outfit. 

When you started to see the light at the end of the tunnel, with a few hundred saved away, and some time opening up to find career opportunities, the chatter about war turned from gossip to gospel. 

In fact, you'd made it all the way to the opposite side of a fine mahogany desk for your first full fledged interview when your dreams were promptly crushed. The man meant to interview you rushed in with flustered news he'd only just found out himself. He told you the company was shutting down. All the nation's money was being sorted to aid in the war. The president had called for rationing to start. 

The man was near tears when he asked you to leave, replacing a goodbye with a hopeful wish you might be able to come back again one day. 

You marched home at a loss. And the worst thing of all, was the fact that you didn't seem to have anyone to talk to about it all.

The best of your friends had moved away one by one, well meaning phone calls only coming from a couple now and again. Some weekends you managed a stroll through the park with Janice Dean. And you hadn't missed a single one of Rudy Delacroix's card parties. But the one friend you'd always been able to call upon seemed ever less interested in being a part of your life. 

Joe was busy as everyone else, you knew. But when he started canceling long standing plans, and forcing smiles when you skipped up to ask him on a last minute adventure, you realized something must have been very wrong. 

Over breakfast you'd prod him for answers. He'd joke about the state of the world and steal what was left on your plate. So, nothing could have been too wrong. Right?

Joe always entertained your random stops by, and offered you drinks and listened to you complain about uni. He’d curse the place and drag you to pubs and sneak you into films and waste hours by the waterfront laughing about nothing with you. He’d go great lengths to help you forget your dreary days, even if just for a moment. But lately you noticed Joe had stopped trading his own complaints- the kind he claimedvno one else would tolerate hearing besides you. 

And then… he stopped talking at all. Right when you figured it was time to ask what the hell the matter was. Joe wasn't at his place last you swung by, like you so often did. He didn't come around yours like he so often managed. He didn't answer his phone when you rang, and a real worry sprouted through you when the next time you tried, the line went dead.

And then you did see Joe. At the local grocer. You spotted his profile across the aisle and moved to meet him. And he clearly saw you too. When he did, he moved the other way, and disappeared from the stall all together, leaving you to panic over what you might've said or done to upset him so.

You went about your mundane week with a heavy heart. While you seemed to lose hope in the very near future, the world spiralled out of control outside of your windows. And you had no one to talk to about it. Until Joe's mother called. 

"Come round for dinner, won't you love?"

"Of course, ma." You'd been calling the woman by her motherly title since you and Joe first fused at the hip some odd years back. Since then his family had included you in most every occasion they could manage. Until a certain someone up and broke tradition a week or so ago...

"Great! Joe didn't want a big send off but we all know he'll want you to join in the last big family meal before he goes.”

His mother chirped through a sigh that crackled from the other line. And in her all too casual remark lied a clear answer to the impasse you'd been facing. 

"He what?" You asked low, through your teeth, with a sense of urgency you'd never felt in life, till now. 

"He didn't tell you did he?" Joe's mother seemed to ask less more than she seemed to realize; and before you could think up the right thing to say, you slammed the phone down, grabbed your purse, and flew out the door. 

Of course this was happening. How had you failed to realize? You shouldn't have had to realize. Joe should have told you he was shipping out. Everyone seemed to be. But he should have said so. He'd always told you everything. From the embarrassing to the inconsequential, Joe hadn't held back from droning deadly details to you since he'd started. The fact that something this detrimental had been hidden away sent smoke from your ears as you marched toward his family's home. 

The windows across the little brick cottage were all opened, the late day breeze blowing you up the porch steps. You traded knocking for bursting in the door. There wasn't time left to waste. And the realization hit you all at once… but you had a mission to complete before becoming all too overwhelmed. 

Joe's mother ducked out of way, a tray of warm food in hand. She did not try and stop your storm through the kitchen. The only one you’d taken by surprise was Joe, who turned from the sink with eyes as wide as empty dinner plates. 

"You didn't tell me?" You seethed, heading straight for him. Joe started to back away, moving toward the patio doors with his hands held in a pitiful defense. 

"I'm sorry-"

"Sorry?!"

He kept moving. So you marched after him, out into the yard; shouting all the way asking how the hell he could've kept this from you. How you were supposed to cope with all the worry you’d feel the longer he spent storming the front lines. Asking, flippantly, if he’d tell you what it was all like, or if you’d have to find out from a soldier who'd come knocking to tell the last of Joe’s news.

"I said I'm fuckin' sorry." Joe boomed, stopping near the trees that lined his family's property. You didn’t regret your frantic interrogation but you wished voicing your worst fears of losing him for good hadn’t been what finally got Joe to say something like he meant it.

You halted when he did, stunned to silence. But only for a beat. You watched Joe sigh and bring his hands to his face. 

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" You pressed, much quieter but with disappointment ever present in your tone. You stepped a little closer, willing your friend to speak up. At least now you could see he was trying too. Joe tossed his head back, and shifted his weight to lean against a dying tree. 

"I don't know." He shrugged finally. It wasn't what you wanted to hear, but it was more than you had in awhile.

"I-I guess I didn't know how to." Joe spoke in a tone you'd never quite heard him use before. A terribly hopeless croak. 

"Didn't know how to tell me?" You had to laugh a little. All you ever did was tell each other things. 

"Didn't know how to leave you." Joe pointed, like it was obvious. You watched his jaw clench as you were baffled into silence once more. But only for a second.

"Well it seems like you've only got one night left to figure out how." You wanted to cry. "Thanks for wasting all the time we could've spent figuring it out together." 

You started to turn, only to hide the tears stinging your eyes. But as you stepped aside, Joe wrapped his hand around your wrist and yanked you to face him again.

"I'm an idiot but I am not stupid enough to let you go." He said, still keeping his hold on you. 

"I panicked." Joe admitted, speaking softly all of sudden. "And I’m sorry. And I don't ever want anything like that to ever happen again. I won't let it." 

You studied Joe and the look on his face and the way his eyes searched yours so easily, so acutely. Part of you wanted to keep shouting, to really drive home how abandoned you’d felt. But you could see how he'd withered under the weight of knowing so. But you couldn't even begin talking about what was meant to happen next... it was all too overwhelming. For as long as you could remember, you'd never not been near one another. 

"I wished I never had to find out how shitty a day without you felt. I'll always regret bringing it on.

As your mind raced and your heart ached, your brow furrowed when Joe started to move away from you. His spare hand latched onto your other wrist. And he knelt.

"I didn't mean to leave you out. I never want to again." Joe emphasized each word as he strung them together. And after a long pause he spoke again. "So...marry me?"

You wanted to laugh. A good hearty nausea inducing laugh. You could admit to yourself that over the years, in the very depths of solitude, you'd secretly wished for a moment like this, with Joe. But never in a zillion years, least of all now, had you seen it coming. 

You felt Joe's grip tighten as you blinked, bending ever so slightly closer to meet his eye.

"You're fucking crazy." You said, a montage of this week playing through your head. 

"Please." Joe desperately whispered. He wasn't begging you to be with him. He was only hoping that the two of you might make your always being together official. How could you say no?

"Yeah. Yes, of course, Joe-" You finally let a small chuckle escape as your tears started to bubble over. And before you'd finished stammering acceptance, Joe sprung to his feet and lifted yours off the ground in a long overdue embrace. 

He set you down and caught his breath and you started to lean in with a new, unabashed desire to press yours lips to his. But the guy spoke up with a gasped realization.

"Oh, I have got some good news." He grinned, mischievously. You only rose a brow and waited for the penny to drop. 

"I don't leave for a week." 

You understood every possibility that came from his news, and found despite every grim reality closing in around the two of you that the future was full of blindingly bright silver linings. 

Joe lifted you off the ground again, this time as he moved to start back inside. You bargained for him to put you back down, as he carried you toward the kitchen.

"We're getting married!" Joe called to whoever might've been around to listen. 

"That was quick. And just in time for dinner." His mother chirped, as you were returned to solid ground.

"Quick? I've been tryin' to do that since sometime after highschool." Joe pointed, following as you sauntered further in the room, smoothing your clothes and hiding a blush. 

"I meant the two of you have spatted longer over the color of the sky." His mother held a whisk your way, while fixing her eyes on her son. "I'm glad you worked this one out in record time." 

Joe reached for your hand as you stood, listening best you could, all of your senses entirely preoccupied by the man at your side. 

"And have you finally come to this joyous conclusion?" His mother softened, abandoning her dishes to shuffle toward the two of you. She gave out hugs and squeaks of excitement and gasped before taking off around the corner. She beckoned the two of you to follow her, and after a shared chuckle you did. 

His mother was stood at the vanity in her room, waving the pair of you in. And after only a second of pilfering through draws, did she pull out a ring. She gave it to Joe and said it was his grandmothers. The spritely woman shot you a beaming wink before creeping out of the door she'd only just invited you into. 

Then it was just you and Joe. Like usual. At fucking last.

He said nothing as he reached out to pull you nearer. He bit back a smile as he slid the diamond on your finger. Joe broke your admiration of the thing by placing both his hands on either side of your face. And he kissed you like you always dreamed of being kissed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back like you always secretly longed to do. 

You spent the rest of that night squished between him and his family at the dinner table, like usual. They celebrated your news. And there was very little talk of where Joe was headed. But when he brought up the war and his leaving, he held your hand under the table and you felt the hug of the gold band around your finger and couldn't find reason to worry too much. You’d have time enough for that later. You'd miss him. You already did, a little. 

But you'd gotten through the worst yet, and come out of it hand in hand. But before he left, till heaven only knew when, you’d officially and always be together.

#joe liebgott imagine #joe liebgott x reader #joe liebgott #band of brothers

[sxfterhearts]

49. [3:15 am]

➳ pairing: jinyoung x reader

➳ genre/warnings: tw!! anxiety attack, fluff, mild angst

➳ word count: 920 words

➳ summary: 49. Call me when you get home

➳ author's note: (x)

//

Closing her eyes and leaning against the cold metal railing of her rooftop, she took a deep breath for the first time that day. With a heavy exhale, she released all the pent-up frustration and anxiety that permanently resided in her insides for the past few months, right up to this very moment. Her breath formed a warm hazy cloud. It dissipated into the backdrop of the city skyline, adding to the gloomy atmosphere.

It was the dead of the night. 3am, pitch black darkness surrounded her and she wanted, pleaded for it to engulf her and swallow her whole.

She wanted to disappear.

To her, disappearing was better than living with this overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

The final paper of her college entrance exams concluded this afternoon. She finally closed this chapter of her life, and her fingertips were on the brink of flipping the page, propelling her into the next one. The only thing missing was a sense of accomplishment.

Instead, it brought along fear and uncertainty of the future. She felt so empty after chasing this day, the 'endgame', for so long. Now that she was living in this moment, she didn’t know what to do with herself; she didn’t know what came next. It felt surreal. All this time she kept telling herself to hold on, hold it together until tonight and figure everything out once she was done. But now…

Empty. Just, empty.

Along the way, somewhere between the tsunami of words and the tide of school work, she drowned. She lost herself. She allowed the inertia to carry her limp body to a faraway, deserted shore, one with no human inhabitants and scarce resources.

The question that kept racing through her mind was: what now? Her thoughts were flying in every direction and her palms began to sweat. She felt a crushing weight upon her chest. Breathing became difficult. An impending sense of doom shook her very core. Her pulse quickened. Don’t panic, she thought as her vision started to blur. Breathe. Breathe. One, two-

Ring!

Her fingers shook and trembled as she retrieved her phone and instinctively answered the incoming video call, not even bothering to look at the caller ID. There was only one person who was crazy enough to call her at this ungodly hour.

“Congrat- Y/N?” Jinyoung’s voice drew her out of the darkest depths of her mind, just like it did many times before. “It’s dark, where are you?”

Silence. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words at the very tip of her tongue - ‘I think I failed. I'm a failure. I don’t know what to do with my life.’

“Y/N?” Through the corner of her eyes, she could make out his worried expression as he squinted to inspect her through the screen. “I’m here, Y/N.” Magically, he knew. He always knew. “Just listen to my voice and focus on my words. Can you please do that for me, Y/N?”

Her eyes were fixated on faraway blinks and flashes of the city, her stare was dazed and confused and distant. Yet, she nodded and listened.

“Good. On my count, take a deep breath, a really deep one. Ready? Breathe in,” Jinyoung paused for three seconds. “And breathe out. That’s great. You’re doing great. Let’s go for another one. Breathe in, hold it for a little, and breathe out.”

They did this for several more minutes until she finally stopped trembling.

“Feeling a bit better?”

“Yeah,” She whispered in a tiny voice, readjusting her phone so she could catch a better glimpse of Jinyoung completely in his element - pen resting snugly on his ear, tired eyes behind thick glasses and hair mussed up, sticking in all directions.

“I’m glad.” He answered sincerely, a small grin breaking through his fatigued expression. Her beating heart calmed a little at the sight. It's funny what love does to you. “Do you want me to stay on call?”

She shook her head before remembering that he couldn’t see her. “No, it’s alright. Your Bio exam, it’s tomorrow right?”

“It’s fine, Y/N…” Jinyoung's lips came closer to the microphone and cupped his palm around his phone as though he was sharing a prized secret. “You are more important to me than any exam.”

At that, the beginnings of a smile worked its way to the edge of her lips. “Jinyoung, it’s okay, go. I’ll… I’ll be okay.”

“Sure?” His eyebrow quirked up in mild scepticism.

“Yes.”

Jinyoung heaved a sigh. “Okay…” He paused, hesitation clear in his voice. “Call me when you get home. Can you promise me?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, dad. I promise.”

“Oh, and Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations. You’ve worked really hard. Take a rest now, Y/N. You deserve it.” Jinyoung’s eyes, filled to the brim with wave after wave of sincerity and warmth and kindness, washed over her entire body and cleansed her soul of its hopelessness. “The future will sort itself out.”

His last phrase constantly ran through her head as she sat down on the little stool amongst her mother’s baby succulents and fragrant herbs. With the instrumental music passing through her headphones (not the lo-fi kind, God no, she could never listen to another lo-fi song after the many nights spent crying in frustration over trigonometric functions), she observed the passing vehicle and foot traffic from the vantage point of her rooftop. She simply allowed her thoughts to quiet down, watching silently as life passed her by.

Perhaps that would do for now.

#jinyoung fluff #jinyoung fanfic #jinyoung angst #jinyoung scenarios #jinyoung imagines #jinyoung drabbles #jinyoung timestamps #got7 fluff #got7 angst #got7 fanfic #got7 imagines #got7 timestamps #got7 jinyoung #jinyoung #ramblings #wrote this during my exam period #its pretty cathartic? #i dont usually write like this i think #a bit of a different style #but yea #its nice to write again amidst my.. inner turmoils LOL #got7creators #kwritersworldnet

[morsking]

And so we have concluded Lostbelt 2! Now that I’ve experienced it for myself, I have a much clearer picture about how I feel about this chapter. As I progressed one thing became very clear to me, and that was that Hazuki Minase likely did NOT have any influence with this chapter, and its weakest points can be attributed to its main writer, Hikaru Sakurai, once we more closely scrutinize her work.

For starters, I would like to apologize to the people who kept trying to tell me Minase had nothing to do with the writing of Losbelt 2. You were correct, I simply acted stubbornly because I was terrified that one of the writers I loathe the most had returned to haunt and corrupt the franchise I hold very dear to me. I insisted on blaming him for any flaws because he was an easy scapegoat and a bogeyman, and while we all agree he is a pervert and a hack who should be fired, it is simply not fair to point fingers at imaginary criminals. A person should always be held accountable only for the misdeeds they have actually committed. Indeed, we may now explore Lostbelt 2 and the integrity of its writing with a more objective perspective, or rather as objective as I can manage to be.

The overall theme of the Lostbelt is “acknowledging one’s emotions as a vehicle for personal growth”. The issue persistent in the setting of Lostbelt Scandinavia was that it was a place where only young humans were allowed to survive. These humans would be oblivious to what real growth and prosperity were really like. They were innocent, and emotionally and intellectually stunted groups of people who only knew to live for the truth of their eventual demise. They lived short, rushed lives where they would stay ignorant of basic human experiences, such as love, grudges, aging, vice, hate, competition, and companionship because they devoted themselves to living how Scathach-Skadi ordered them to. They were unable to think or decide what to do for themselves, and were thus incapable of not just taking the reins to decide their own evolution as we do in Proper Human History, but also of fathoming doing such a thing in the first place.

This is a mirror to Ophelia Phamrsolone. Ophelia was conditioned to only listen to others for purpose and direction. Ophelia doesn’t actually know how to listen to her own feelings or even what those feelings even are because she was never allowed to connect not just with herself but with anyone. Ophelia, like Surtr points out, is still very much a little girl terrified by everything around her because she has no balance, no capacity for finding her center as a healthy and normal human being would. Unbeknownst to herself, all her interactions with others are a plea for help. Her very first interaction with Mash in 2017 was asking her if she’d like to have lunch with her and Pepe because Ophelia is terrified by male strangers and wishes to connect with other women as well. Ophelia’s conversations with Kirschtaria are also her not knowing how to proceed with challenges and therefore appealing to authority both for comfort and advice. Finally, her monologues with the Alien Priestess are Ophelia venting about how she feels, as if she were unaware of what to really think of herself as her helplessness and indecision drown her in a lake of self-loathing. 

These cries for help extend to the way she summons her Servants. Ophelia is noted to be incredibly proficient at evocation. Some might even call her a genius. In fact, she is such a genius she unknowingly managed to contract not just with one, nor two, but three different Servants all at once. The first Servant to answer her summon was Sigurd, the King of Warriors from Nordic mythology. The second Servant was Surtr the King of Giants and Scourge of Ragnarok (titled by yours truly), who hijacked the summoning and took over Sigurd. The third, and most pivotal, was Napoleon Bonaparte, the French Emperor whose Spirit Origin was modified to embody the “ideal Good Fellow who could make dreams come true” rather than the actual historical Napoleon.

What these three Servants have in common is that Ophelia wished for all of them from the darkest depths of her heart. Ophelia desired capable Servants who could give her some form of direction and stability. 

Sigurd, for example, is a hero renown for rescuing Brynhild and giving brand new meaning to her life by showering her with love and devotion. Love and devotion are things that Ophelia not just desires to be shown but actively struggles to adequately express to others because she has never known what it’s like to experience those things. To Ophelia, Sigurd represents “being given that which you have never known and finding fulfillment”. 

Surtr, on the other hand, embodies a darker type of direction: the terror stagnation, conformity, monotony, inaction, and eternal suffering. Surtr exercises control over Ophelia by threatening to destroy the world if he is released, prompting Ophelia to flash to her childhood locked away by her abusive parents every dreaded Sunday. Surtr locks Ophelia into a state of helplessness and indecision where she has to carefully consider how she will proceed with dealing with Surtr. Ophelia has decided to lock herself in with him as a way to prevent him from breaking out of both Sigurd’s body and the physical prison inside the Lostbelt’s sun. This is a situation where Ophelia is in a constant state of stress and fear, since as a Crypter the last thing she could ever want to see is the destruction of yet another world by her hands. More personally, the death of the Lostbelt would also mean death for Ophelia, as she has failed her purpose once again and thus would have no worth as a person. However, what Ophelia cannot understand, because Surtr himself does not, is that Surtr’s destructive impulses are how he wants to show love and devotion towards her. Surtr has reasoned that since their worlds abandoned them after they failed to perform their ordained tasks, the only thing left is to annihilate them completely as retribution for their suffering. Surtr does not wish to hurt Ophelia, but because he is a being defined only by his overwhelming desire to burn everything, he cannot help her heal or grow in any way that matters. All he can offer is annihilation. To Ophelia, Surtr represents “self-destruction through a static state of being”.

Finally, there is Napoleon. Napoleon represents a pronounced antithesis to Ophelia’s entire personality. He is an upbeat, improvising, confident man who chooses to not stress over things because what he is seeing is only what lies ahead, not what lies in front of him.He also breaks her defenses by asking something so ridiculous and unexpected as her hand in marriage when they have only just met. Napoleon refuses to give in to any negative outcome regardless of how much the odds are stacked against him, as he demonstrated in Scathach-Skadi’s throne room where he refused to let Sigurd kill his Master despite being restrained by Skadi’s paralyzing rune. He demonstrates this once again when he blows his final shot at Surtr during the final battle, sacrificing his own life to give Chaldea the opportunity to regroup and bombard Surtr to bring him down. He is called the Man of Infinite Possibilities precisely because he faces the unknown head on and finds the best path to walk for his comrades to advance. He does not let fear take over his heart and judgement, he creates a rainbow as a bridge connecting the present to the bright, shining future. He is precisely the hero Ophelia needs, because he embodies “the bravery to grasp your own future and find your own direction”. 

But analyzing these characters further is a post for another time. What I want to get into are the gripes I have with this Lostbelt. 

Now, I could lead you on through a couple more paragraphs before I wham you with what this all means in a much higher metatextual level, but I don’t have the time nor the creativity to do that so I’m just gonna give it to you straight. This square between Ophelia, Sigurd, Surtr, and Napoleon is the storyline that matters most in Lostbelt 2. Scathach-Skadi matters little despite her own parallels with Ophelia and being the Lostbelt King, and the situation with the Lostbelt’s inhabitants matters even less. Why?

Because Lostbelt 2 is Sakurai coming full circle and writing an otome game like Fate/Prototype was meant to be before Fate/stay night became a thing. 

SHOCKER!! SOUND EFFECTS OF SURPRISE!! DRAMATIC KAZOOS GALORE!!

Now, that’s exaggerating a little. Or maybe not that much, actually.

What Sakurai was doing was applying conventional otome game tropes into the setting not just what she’s familiar writing for, but because Lostbelt 2 is inherently an incredibly self-indulgent project. 

There is a classic trademark otome fantasy at play here: the fantasy of multiple men being devoted to a female main character a player can relate to. There is no denying there is a certain appeal to the idea that there are several handsome men all willing to devore their entire lives to a person. Sigurd, Surtr, and Napoleon all embody certain otome game love interest archetypes. Sigurd is the cold, composed, intellectual man who is actually earnest, just, affectionate, and wise. Surtr is the dark-hearted troubled man with fiery disposition struggling with expressing love. Napoleon is the strong, confident, borderline pixie manic dream boy with almost zero brains but plenty of empathy and... *ahem*, physique to make up for his seeming lack of tact and intelligence (he’s a himbo is what I’m saying but that comes as no surprise). The problems arise with Napoleon himself, however. Napoleon hounds Ophelia with marriage proposals she refuses time and time and again. When he proposes to her in front of Chaldea for the first time, the narrative has Mash take Napoleon’s side and urges you to do the same because Sakurai believed the reader would’ve caught on to what’s actually going on between Ophelia and Napoleon. 

The issue here is that Sakurai’s clues up to that point had been far too hidden for the player to make a proper connection, and it’s not until AFTER the proposal that the player discovers Napoleon is predisposed to fall in love with whoever summons him because that’s what Ophelia wanted out of an ideal Servant. Because of the poor execution in presenting all these factors that completely recontextualize the relationship between Napoleon and Ophelia, when Sakurai has Napoleon say “You did not reject me therefore you DID agree,” we jump to the conclusion that Napoleon is engaging in extremely reprehensible behavior and ideology reminiscent of dangerous and abusive men IRL rather than take it as harmless flirtation from a well-meaning oaf of a man as he tries to break the shell of his beloved. Sakurai invokes a very dangerous trope that does more to excuse misogynistic behavior when done incorrectly rather than successfully appear as a romantic gesture of attempting to liberate a loved one from the clutches of isolation and victimhood.

On a larger scale, the application of these tropes is where Lostbelt 2 starts to suffer, and that’s where Sakurai’s writing further begins to resemble Minase’s. Sakurai spent so much time building these interpersonal dynamics that she spent the least amount of effort actually building upon the situation of the Lostbelt and Scathach-Skadi’s character and motivations for keeping the Scandinavia the way it is. 

Upon scrutiny, it’s not very difficult to pick apart the setting and make a mark out of the glaring logistical inconsistencies of maintaining a population of only 10,000 humans for a span of 3,000 years by having them reproduce at 15 years old at the latest to execute them at 25. Anyone with a passing understanding of biology would know that forcing children to carry babies to term can lead to terrible health and psychological complications that would certainly end up in a lot more miscarriages, stillbirths, and failed attempts at impregnation than actual successful births. The problem here then is rather evident. Sakurai wanted to use the fact that all these children are young, innocent, naive, gullible, and ignorant to draw a connection to Ophelia’s own psychological and emotional circumstance. However, she realized that because she was writing a setting that obligated her to work around a 3000-year gap between Ragnarok and the present day. She needed something that would compromise the need for a realistic system that would ensure the reproductive viability of a human population through such a long period of time and the thematic vehicle of childhood and repression of growth as a way to connect Ophelia to her environment. This compromise ended up working for the absolute worse because she chose the worst possible system she was aware was the worst possible system she could’ve come up with and therefore decided to forsake that part of the plot without going through the implications of it and leaving the specifics to the reader’s imagination so they could sort it out in her stead.

This unwillingness to properly explore the problematic implications of Scathach-Skadi’s system not only deprived the player of a possible engaging storyline where child endangerment, a common theme in the Nasuverse, is explored and criticized through a different angle, but also actively hurts Scathach-Skadi’s connection to the player because we never get the opportunity to debate with her about her ideology and the state of the Lostbelt. We never hold her accountable for enforcing such a brutally predatory and dehumanizing system that targets children, instead Sakurai opts to build her up as a flawed, self-absorbed mother figure desperately trying to combat the extinction of the remnant of her world who also never really learned how to deal with the revelation there is an entire life she did not get to have in this universe that we MUST sympathize because she occasionally sees through the characters and acts kind towards them until the time comes for us to fight her in earnest as a matter of principle completely divorced from the question of how she’s managed her Lostbelt. The fact Scathach-Skadi’s model of sustainability does not work is made obvious by the fact it takes place in a Lostbelt, what we are trying to get at here is that it does not work from a writing standpoint because of all the different holes you can poke on it before you’ve punched through the paper screen entirely and revealed the superfluousness of it all. 

There is nothing inherently bad about self-indulgent storylines. If I’m being honest, if Sakurai wanted to use Ophelia and Musashi as self-inserts to fantasize about romancing the different kinds of characters she finds attractive, more power to her. But the problem surrounding Lostbelt 2, which is the same problem that plagued Septem and Fate/Extella, is a veritable lack of restraint from her part as a professional writer in charge of a multi-billion dollar mobile game. What the writing room over at Type-Moon has to realize is that they are no longer a small doujin writing circle that can get away with whatever they want because they operate under obscurity. They are visible to the entire world and will be held accountable and criticized as professionals by consumers and their peers in the industry. A little bit of self-fulfillment in a published work never hurt anyone, you can cater to yourself most of all with your professional work (I mean, just look at She-Ra), but you must be sure that in your pursuit of indulgence your work does not suffer for it and ends up alienating and disappointing your fanbase and giving them the wrong impression of what you stand for. 

Anyway we’re popping the biggest bottles when GudaMoth becomes canon this December. 

#fate series #fate grand order #fgo #fate/grand order #fate go #homecooked meta #WOW THIS WAS LONG #for some reason sakurai ends up bringing the best in me even at her worst #IF I MISSED SOME THINGS IT'S WHATEVER IT'S 4:20 AM

[worlds-smallestviolin]

Mother

Masamune x MC

genre: angst/fluff

word count:2208

summary: retelling of Masamune’s love’s union gacha story from MC’s POV

a/n: It always bothers me how MC just decides to stay in past without care about her family, so for stories sake let’s assume Sasuke went back to the future.

           With everyone asleep, Aoba was a quiet place; quite a contrast compared to how loud and lively it was during the day (it is Masamune’s castle, after all). Having changed into my sleeping robe, I was sitting on the futon, waiting for my lover to join me ( I’d say to sleep, dear reader, but we both know that would be a lie.).And my handsome Masamune was still at his desk, working despite the late hour. He may be a wild tiger, but he took his responsibility as a head of the clan very seriously. He did everything he could to make life easier for the people of Oshu. And I’m not just talking about him going to war or battling demons of paperwork. I mean little things as well, like cooking a meal for his men on patrol, or writting letters to his vassals to thank them or simply talk about what’s been going on lately. “You shouldn’t write in the dark. It’s bad for you’re eye.”, I broke the silence hoping to convince him to put down the brush for tonight. “I know, I know. I’ll be done in a second. You just wait for me like a good kitten”, he said, raising his head to flash me a smile that made my heart skip a beat or two. “Meow!”, My god, I’m such a dork. I hugged my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. Masamune returned his attention to the letter he was writing, and again silence settled in.

Having nothing else to do but wait, I soon got lost in my own thoughts. Some time has passed since I started living here in Aoba. It still surprises me how quickly I’ve gotten used to the life here. Masamune encouraged my worked as a seamstress. He had a room prepared for me, where I could sketch and make clothes; I already had a few clients. He would often keep my drawings to hang on the wall, always repeating how much he loved my art. I’ve made friends with maids, and Kojuro and guys were always there to lend a helping hand. I spent my free time with Masamune, getting into all sort of adventures, and sometimes troubles. We would go for a ride, or a walk around town, we ate delicious food, we cooked together, we laughed and we made love. All in all, life was good. I remember how nervous I was in the days before we left Azuchi, worrying if I would be accepted in Oshu as I was among Oda. Not to mention that I’m still not completely used to the life in Sengoku period. Yes, things are great so far. But from time to time, I can’t help giving voice to my old insecurities. What happens if this doesn’t work out? The picture of my parants forms in my mind, only to slowly morph into that of Masamune and I. And their insults and shouts fall from our lips, that so far know only sweet kisses and sweet nothings. No, I don’t want to think of that.

I quickly try to banish those thoughts back into the dark corners of my mind. Luckly for me, a voice calls from outside our room. “Pardon me for the intrusion this late at night, my lord. There is a letter from Lady Yoshihime.” Masamune receives the letter and tells both man to get some rest. Once we are alone again, I couldn’t help voicing my curiosity: “Who’s Lady Yoshihime?” “My mother.”, he says, and something about his indifferent voice makes me feel uneasy. “I’ve noticed she doesn’t live in the castle with us…”The first day I came here they held a feast to celebrate Masamune’s return and my arrival, where Masamune introduced me to a lot of people that are important to him. You’d think that his mother would be among them. “She poisoned me when I was young. There’s messy politics with her side of the family, so it seemed best we live apart.”, he said it as if he was informing me about the weather outside.“I’m sorry, WHAT?” I misheard that, right? He did not just say his mother tried to have him killed. I stared at him, trying to process what he just told me. “It’s not that strange. When it comes to the succession of a clan, things often get ugly. With the loss of my eye, she must have thought I wasn’t fit to be the head of the Date and decided to take matters into her own hands.” Shock quickly turned into anger. She tried to kill her own child because of something that wasn’t his fault, something he couldn’t change. For a moment, I thought of my own mother, who believed motherhood to be the most sacred and joyous role a woman could have, who loved and supported unconditionally and would give up anything and everything for her children. I could not imagine how difficult it must have been for Masamune, being sick and losing your eye. And the one person who was supposed to love him more than anyone betrays him like that. My heart filled with sorrow. It must have shown on my face, because Masamune tried to reassure me with a smile: “I barely remember it. Must not have been that bad, or I wouldn’t have forgotten, right? If I let it trouble me, I wouldn’t be fit to be a lord, and that would only prove my mother right.” His words reminded me of what Master Kosai told me about Masamune. “One who would stand above others must be most strict with oneself. They must work as hard as their hardest workers and be always deserving of the praise their station affords them. Their pain they must learn to bear with on their own, for they will at times be alone. Those were the lessons I instilled in that young child. He survived by embracing what I taught him. So much that he no longer needs to ‘act’ to be the ideal leader from his lessons. But our nature is unchanging. In the deepest part of Masamune’s heart that injured young child remains.

Having read the letter, Masamune joined me on the futon. Smile on his face, he patted my head. But for a moment, a mere second, I saw something in the depth of his eye. You never tamed you’re demons, Masamune, you just kept them on a leash. And the wounds of heart are never quick to heal. You could try to ignore them, you might even forget them. But they remain there somewhere, waiting for a chance to overwhelm you. And if you cannot entrust them to anyone else, at least entrust them to me. So I pulled him down to bed with me, holding him close to my chest, his cheek resting against my breast. I run my fingers softly through his hair. “I want you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say. I love you, so you don’t ever have to hide how you feel when you’re around me. You’re not my lord, Masamune. You’re the man I love; a fun guy who acts all cool but has the most adorable blush, the one who can kiss my heart into a full stop and then restart it with a touch, someone who always protects me and encourages me. And I will always be here for you. So leave the perfect leader outside this room, and just be my Masamune.” He tried to protest but, I wouldn’t let him. Then he turned his face from me, and for a moment I thought he might cry. But after a while he met my eyes again. “I’ll try.”, he said with a smile. I guess old habits die hard. “That’s a start.” I kissed his forehead and continued running my fingers through his hair. Eventually I felt him relax as he drifted to sleep. But my brain was too busy for that. I was angry at Lady Yoshihime, I was sad for Masamune. And in the stillness of the night, my mind wandered to that dark corner again. I was afraid.

Hearing about Masamune’s mother made me think about my own parents. I knew they must be worried about me. Sasuke promised to deliver my letter. Hopefully, that will ease their hearts. It wouldn’t be the first time I disappeared of the radar. They were good parents, for the most part. Well, when it comes to my father, the best I can say is that he tried. He never failed to tell me he loved me. I never once doubted it. But he wasn’t the easiest man to get along with. He had his opinions and his expectations, and those were set in stone. Being his eldest child, the bar was set especially high for me. He worked two jobs to save money for my education. And though he never understood my passion for fashion, he supported me, so long as he didn’t have to listen to me talk about it. He never raised his hands on us, but his anger was something to be feared. My mother, on the other hand was a saint. I’ve never heard her raise her voice. No matter what troubled her, she always wore a smile. She was the one who took care of us when we were sick, fed us, helped us do homework or study for exam, attended every parents meeting, every school play… She was there to listen to us for hours and comfort us. She was there for every tear and every smile.

But as good as they were in their roles as parents, they were the worst couple I’ve ever seen. I could count the times I remember seeing them being affectionate towards each other on the fingers of my hands, if those hands were in a terrible accident and were missing a few fingers. Instead, there were fights and shouting, and then days of them ignoring each other, and us walking on eggshells around them. They would act more affectionate towards me and my brother, as if they were competing for our love. And it was always about something small and insignificant, a misplaced item or misheard word. It always ended with the ‘talk’ where my father would insist they just forget and move on. There were never any apologies, they never talked things through.

My parents didn’t marry for love, or at least if they did it was quickly spent. They did their best not to let their fights affect the kids. My childhood was for the most part a happy one. But the older I got, the more I noticed the cracks that began to show. They were not happy, although they stubbornly maintained that illusion. What makes someone choose to stay and live a life next to a person that makes them miserable? Why don’t you just leave him? I heard my aunt say to my mum one time. I do it for my children. I could never leave them. They are my everything. Maybe that was the moment when the fear was born, squeezing my heart each time she smiled. I was causing her pain just by being, a cage to a bird who otherwise could simply fly away. And I started to wonder if one day I too will be like that. “Mom, I love you. But I don’t want to become you.”, I said on the night before my cousin’s wedding, when the conversation inevitably turned into wedding talk, and I tell her I don’t ever want to marry. I see a heart breaking in those eyes. A single shard of glass melts and runs down her cheek; on its way, leaves my heart bleeding as well. Still she smiles: ” So long as you’re happy, I’ll be happy too.”.

The sky is still pale yellow-blue. I stared at the eye of a calm sea, and I felt calm as well; last night’s shadows fleeing before the morning light. Or maybe it’s Masamune’s touch that chases them away. He was always good at that, erasing my insecurities. Though I now know he was plagued by them too. Both of us are with hidden corners in our hearts, echoing with the words “You’re not good enough.” A doubt dwells in the back of the mind; his slumbers deep within, mine lingers just beneath the skin. Still I believe we’ll be alright. “ I want you’re face to be the first thing I see in the morning. Whether we’re at war, or everything is peaceful. I want that tomorrow, and the day after, and forever more.”, he brushed his finger along my cheek. I knew it won’t always be easy, I knew many things will try to break us apart. Still I believed in us. Whatever we might face, with you by my side, I was confident enough. “ My love for you will never change, Masamune.” He drew me to his chest, I felt his tears touch my head. The beating of his heart told me they were not tears of sorrow. I remained quietly in his arms, as another tear slides down my cheek. Mother, I’m happy now.    

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen masamune #ikemen sengoku masamune #date masamune

[primasveraas-writing]

Anakin & Maternal!reader Headcanons

Request: “May I please get a reader who feels really maternal towards Anakin? Like they know about his mother and know not to overstep his boundaries, but they offer him a shoulder, an ear or a hug whenever he needs one and they're just really protective of him? They love him as their own child, even when he's Vader and reassures him that "its okay" when he kills them at the order of the Emperor? Sorry if it's to detailed. Thank you.”

Thanks for the request love!! I hope you enjoy!

Part Two

All requests are open!

XXX

Upon meeting Anakin as a child for the first time, it’s clear how much he misses his mother and desperately needs guidance in his young life

He has Obi-wan, but the detached, sometimes misguided ways of the Jedi aren’t enough for this young boy and you feel the immediate need to step in and do what you can for him

So whenever he needs a break from the Jedi, or becomes overwhelmed by his life, he knows he can comm you and you’ll do whatever it takes to help him

Against any potential protests of the Jedi, you’ll take Anakin out for an afternoon, and buy him ice cream, or show him your favorite parts of Coruscant. Mostly, as he adjusts to Jedi training, he just needs distractions, which you gladly provide

Obi-wan knows this technically violates the Jedi Code, but it’s undeniable how much Anakin requires this escape, so he allows it without complaint

The outings continue as Anakin grows, and he quickly learns how much he can trust you. You become his main confidant and you listen to his every struggle, frustration, and sorrow

He always tells you that you give the best hugs; you pride yourself on this

On bad days, you spend hours trying to make him smile, and you’re largely successful too. This is another point of pride

It’s the only unconditional love he knows, after being separated from his mother

Anakin grows up faster than you realize; tensions escalate between Republic separatists and he is gone on missions longer and longer

When war is declared, Anakin is gone, and you anxiously refresh the holos, hoping for some news about the fate of the Jedi

You know it’s impossible, but there is a significant, compelling part of you that wishes you could be there with him, protecting him from the dangers of the galaxy

You’re there to comfort him when he returns several weeks later, sporting a new arm and a plethora of secrets

He allows you to cheer him up about his arm. At first, all you do is hold him, but you spend the next several visits reassuring him about his abilities and trying to reinstill confidence after such a great loss

Despite the depth of his hurt about his mother, Anakin tells you right away that they were briefly reunited before Shmi died in his arms

It is an absolute demonstration of his trust in you that he allows you to hug him, drawing him close in your arms while he cries quietly on your shoulder

Now more than ever, he is afraid of losing you, but you comfort him the best you can: you are still here, you still love him, his mother always loved him and always will, that he should live out her memory by being the happiest he can

He also confesses what happened with the Tusken Raiders, and you push aside any horror because your love for him is and should be stronger than any anger and shock that you feel

It takes several weeks before he confesses his marriage with Padmé

You have your own reservations about the fact that he will be deceiving all but the two people closest to him, about the rashness of the decision, but he takes you to meet Padmé, and they are clearly in love, for better or for worse

There is little you can do but support him and offer what advice you can

You see him less and less with the war raging on; you start to worry more and more that he won’t survive, or that he will never be the same after the conflict ends

It drives you insane knowing how much pressure is on him, as he is the Hero with No Fear and evolves into the perfect, infallible face of the war effort

You constantly tell Anakin that all you want for him is for him to settle down with Padmé on Naboo, away from the danger and the fighting

He usually chuckles at this, pressing a loving kiss to your forehead and hugging you tight. He replies that this is an impossible dream; you counter with reminding him to get some well-deserved sleep and to hope for better, more peaceful days

Anakin comes to you straight away when Padmé reveals that she is pregnant; he is both scared and filled with endless concern

You just hold him and tell him it will all work out, one way or another

But before you can get your bearings, Anakin is being whisked away by the Jedi and the Chancellor, and the next thing you know, an Empire rises as the Republic falls

Anakin goes missing for two days without a word. Padmé initially says she can’t tell you where he is, then she goes silent too

When the Jedi are declared public enemies and begin to be hunted, you fear the worst for Anakin, especially as Padmé is declared dead on Naboo

Yet instinct urges you to find him, and you begin to scour the galaxy for clues to his survival or whereabouts

This search rapidly gains the attention of the Emperor, who orders his new servant to kill you

Vader finds you before you are able to find Anakin

He greets you, confronting you alone on your ship, interrupted in your travels

Somehow, you know it’s him. You’ve already heard the whispers about Vader, about his power and might. How he emerged suddenly from the shadows, without warning or previous recognition

Especially in the last days of the war, the darkness within Anakin had been ever more clear. It’s more than plausible to you that he could have succumbed to the evil, even if you’d never want to believe it

One of the initial reasons that you wanted to take care of Anakin was to guide and support him, to show him love without terms or limits

But there was never a moment where it was easy to ignore his growing anger and frustration at the galaxy around him, and more than anything, you worried for his fate

Darth Vader stands before you, a broken and ruined man, and you know that this is what’s left of Anakin

Padmé is dead, and you are one of the few ties to Anakin remaining

You know that you must be next. It’s inevitable, Vader is to thrive

The galaxy has truly failed Anakin, and you only wish that there was more kindness that could have saved him

So when he raised his gloved hand, clenched in anger, slowly choking the life out of you, you use your last remaining breaths to tell him that it’s all okay

He is like a son to you. Your love is stronger than your repulsion, your hurt at what he’s done and who he’s become

More than anything, you hope that one day, he will be redeemed, and know the light again. You hope Anakin will be saved, and as the world fades around you, you tell him that you forgive him, and that you will always love him, no matter he who is or what he becomes

#Anakin Skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #star wars x reader #anakin x reader #shmi skywalker #darth vader #anakin skywalker fanfic #darth vader fanfic #star wars prequels #star wars #star wars fic #Star Wars fanfic #star wars imagine #anakin skywalker imagine #anakin fanfic #anakin skywalker headcanons #darth vader imagine #darth vader headcanons #star wars x you #anakin x you

[syilcawrites]

flickering

Series: The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild Type: One-shot Main pairing: Zelink (Zelda and Link) Rated: T Tags/Genre: post calamity, pre botw2, what’s the tag for his adventuring in between?? just botw?, then that’s it LOL, angst Summary: Link scouts out Hyrule Castle to see how he should prepare to fight Ganon, and stumbles upon Zelda's bedroom and her diary after he believes he sees her there. Snippet: “It was a silent vow that always lingered around in his thoughts—from when he spoke to the remainder of the Hylians to listening to the sweet melodies of a past long gone, sung by Kass.” A/N: I am terrible at summaries and was never good at them LOL. Anyway, this is just a little something for linktober Day 19: phantom/ghost! This is also loosely based off of my other fic archived memories chapter 6 :~) (which will be out tomorrow on Oct 20 haha). Hope you enjoy!! I like to spend a week editing whatever I write 'cause I tend to change it a lot but didn't have the luxury of doing it for this piece since I wrote it last night afouhgkjds.  You can also read it on ao3!

The first time Link stepped into Castletown, he was barraged with an incessant amount of echoing whispers.

Chaotic, haunting, loud and quiet, begging, pleading, bargaining. It felt like they were whispering about him, but he couldn’t decipher one word drifting into his ears.

He was by no means ready to take on Calamity Ganon—he had simply wanted to scope out the area, to see what he should expect—and he was hit with a wave of nostalgia that he didn’t understand.

Then came the nausea, and the painful throb against his head whenever he gazed upon the castle. It was different up close—the pain was worse, the stench that rifted off the malice was almost unbearable, and his eyes watered by being within ten feet of it.

But he marched onward—past the rubble and decay of a once grandiose town—or at least that’s what he assumed. It was hard to decipher what it used to look like amongst the ruins.

Link strolled up to one of the glowing eyeballs, staring into it for just a moment, before he stabbed it. It sputtered, shrinking, shriveling, before it withered away. He tightened his grip on the handle of his sword as he scanned the rest of the area.

More, his mind chanted. He wanted to see more of them crumble up into dust.

An unbearable anger always overcame him when he encountered anything inflicted by the malice—he wanted to tear at it with his own hands, rip and shred it into pieces until there was not even a speck left.

The overwhelming sense of hatred and revenge that dwelled deep within him feared him—because he couldn’t pinpoint why. He understood why, knew why, from an outside perspective. It took all of his dear friends and family one hundred years ago, but how the anger simmered within him like it ran through his veins felt unfamiliar to him.

His body remembered but his mind didn’t.

Link traversed the ruins of Castletown speedily, taking out the glowing eyeballs one by one and watching with satisfaction as they faded away—it felt like he was reclaiming the town back from the Calamity—whatever was left of it, at least. It was all he could do now.

“Okay,” he huffed out, peering at the large iron doors that stood between him and the castle. “One quick look inside, then you come right back out.” He whispered, gulping. He more frequently than not spoke to himself whenever he was alone—it grounded him, reminded him to stay focused.

“Free Zelda and all will be well,” he said quietly, his eyes trained on the various Guardians loitering the front. He would chant this before he fell asleep and it was the first thought that passed his mind when he woke up. It was a silent vow that always lingered around in his thoughts—from when he spoke to the remainder of the Hylians to listening to the sweet melodies of a past long gone, sung by Kass.

Link pulled out his shield and sprinted forward—holding his breath as he struck his sword at a stationary Guardian before it could respond to his presence.

Again—that bloodthirsty anger laughed in joy as he watched it implode, and he pushed down the desire to tear apart the ones that had long stopped working, and forged ahead.

The heavy metal doors of the entrance slammed open as Link used magnesis, echoing. His nose scrunched up as the putrid stench of the malice slammed against him at full force—causing him to double over. Link his behind a crumbling wall to hide from the wandering eyes of the Guardians as he gathered his bearings.

“Do not encounter Calamity Ganon, not yet.” He whispered, warning. He wasn’t going to go in until he was absolutely prepared—he had already failed once. Link gritted his teeth as his grasped at the small, vague memories that he’s so far recovered. They were so fragmented and confusing, full of questions and questions and questions that lingering on them for too long caused his head to split open while his mind desperately tried to remember. But he never did, and in the end it only left him feeling like a hollow and fractured version of himself.

All he knew was that he had to stay alive—stay alive long enough to seal Calamity Ganon and to free Zelda.

Zelda.

His blood ran cold at he thought of her.

“Will she fade away, too?” Link whispered to the castle, glancing up at it.

It did not respond.

He forced his way through the entrance, using the wreckage to avoid needless confrontation. He needed to be quick, no matter how much he wanted to slaughter the rest of the Guardians and the malice. Once Link was inside, he found the orange glow enveloped around the castle unsettling, as if the air around here had stayed stagnant for the past century. It felt it was holding its breath, waiting. Or maybe it was slumbering.

Zelda. She was here, waiting.

Then, he thought of Mipha—and the way his heart dropped when he saw that cursed blueish glow around her, just like with the late King. She smiled at him with so much familiarity, but he could only stare blankly at her, mostly just confused. Her eyes gazed upon him with such love and comfort, but he could not return the same affection, even if he wanted to. He found it easier to—to detach himself a little bit. Untangle himself from the Champions when he encountered their spirits. He had one left—Urbosa—but he had to mentally steel himself to confront her, like he had to for Revali and Daruk. When he confronted the both of them after Mipha, he forced himself to reflect upon those past memories—his own past memories—as a mere spectator, and it helped.

Link shook his head, drawing himself back from the depths of his plagued mind. He circled around the ransacked interior—taking note of the blocked passages, the crumbles in the walls that acted as a makeshift pathway to another part of the castle, and attacked slumbering monsters who blocked his path with an all too personal rage.

And then he saw a tower outside from one of the windows, set a little apart from the main building. He would have to paraglide to it and climb up if he wanted to get in.

His eyes trailed up the tower, to the caved in wall and blinked—eyes widening when he saw something shift—blonde hair, green eyes, flickering.

He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head and peered again, but it was still there—she’s there—looking at him.

Link, without a second thought, jumped through broken glass window, his paraglider wide open as he headed toward the isolated tower, heart racing.

He latched onto the broken tower and glanced up—he saw her peering down at him, smiling. She was familiar and warm, and... and so close. So, so close.

Link desperately climbed up—almost slipping toward the end—but reached up just far enough to latch onto the edge of the opening, and threw himself over. He fell onto the ground of the room with a heavy thud, and found himself face to face with an alarmed moblin.

Link quickly rolled off to the side, narrowly missing getting slammed head first with its stolen weapon, and was up in a heartbeat, his own weapon drawn. He mindlessly went through the quick, precise motion of eliminating it—simply allowing his body to move on its own, because if he dwelled too much on it, he became rigid.

He hated being out of sync within his own body.

Link exhaled with the final blow, and watched the moblin scatter into thin air, leaving him alone in the room.

With no one in sight, to his dismay. He wasn’t sure how long he searched every nook and cranny for those familiar green eyes and golden hair, but there was not even a hint of her ever being there in the first place.

With a heavy heart, Link walked toward the rotten desk, observing the scattered, torn books that lay in its wake. There was a flimsy notebook—leather ripped and torn, pages missing, but some of the writing was still legible.

Link flipped to the first page, reading the barely legible text at the front.

Zelda’s Diary.

He flipped through the carefully, as to not tear the pages, and found various scribbles and sketches—then a pressed cherry blossom flower in one of the pages, now brittle and brown. When he brushed a gentle finger over it, it crumbled immediately. His eyes scanned the next pages—various face portraits of Hylians. His lips tilted up a little when he passed by some sketches of food, of pastries and breads, or at least that’s what he assumed they were. It was hard to tell since many of them had faded away into the obscurity of time.

Then he found a familiar face, a face that he knew all too well.

It was messily sketched, but it was him—smiling, laughing, sometimes stoic, and it peered back at him like a stranger. It was him, but not really him. Link wished he could talk to the person he used to be, to ask him all of the questions that had piled up, but it was a futile desire.

He sighed as he peeled his eyes away from the sketches and flipped through the pages once more.

“Bit by bit, I’ve gotten Link to open up to me…”

He paused, lifting the journal up closer than ever to his face. His eyes drank in the words—words about him, who he was, how she saw him. He stopped at the end of the paragraph and closed the journal, staring down at it with confliction.

He took out the Sheikah Slate and slipped it into his inventory, and along with it, a little hope.

“I’ll keep this journal safe for you,” he whispered into the quiet room, his eyes roving around the falling, rotting objects that Zelda once owned, “so when you return, you’ll still have something.”

He waited for a couple moments, listening to the still air around him, as particles of malice floated peacefully by. He found it foolish that he even considered the possibility of her responding back and slapped his cheeks.

“Get ahold of yourself,” he muttered tiredly. He knew coming here would prove difficult—in terms of physicality, at least. He thought with time, settling into this new world would prove easier, but the distant reminders of the past associated with the wreckage of a world he once knew seemed to nail in how... alone he was.

Even without all of his memories, his heart ached with a heavy loneliness amidst a vast and broken land, because when it mattered most, he couldn’t save a single one of them. And then he left her, he left Zelda, to suffer by herself for one hundred years.

But he could do something now, even if it couldn’t bring back the lives lost. Even if she was going to simply drift away into the sky with the others, he could at least free her from the century of pain and torment she had endured waiting for him.

#botw #zelink #breath of the wild #botw fanfiction #linktober #my fanfics #nervous to post this.. idk why.. #but hope yall enjoy! #ehehe #made a lil graphic with this but i didn't want to clutter the post #so it's only on my twitter lolol

[obeymehana]

Unforgivable (Belphegor x f!MC)

this story covers the aftermath of chapter 16 so please make sure you play through to that point before reading the story! 

belphie may seem a little out of character, but i think they moved on too quickly from chapter 16 to chapter 17 without covering the repercussions between belphie and mc, so i sought to cover this with this story.

please do not steal my story! :)

type: belphegor x f!mc, angst

                                                          —

In this cruel place in the Devildom, it was not as if he had any claim to be angry. These irrational, painful emotions building within him were becoming impossible to ignore. It bothered him. After what he did, he could not expect her to be forgiving, much less understanding. Few would could his actions kind, many would call it one, simple word.

Unforgivable.

It was obvious, he already knew it. Stupidity was not a part of his skill set, unlike his second eldest brother. If he already understood this, why did he seem so desperate to get on her good side? It appeared that she was slipping out of his grasp. Once a human he lured to the room in the attic, she was now known as the descendant of Lilith. Lilith was so close to him, yet so far. She was disappearing, even though she had been found again. The red string that tied them together was pulling thin, soon to be little to no connection between them.

Belphegor had made a grave mistake. If the sins of his monstrous act could pull him any deeper into the depths of Hell, it would have by now. Although a part of this horrible situation had been fixed, there was hesitation within his family to let them completely by their side again.

What a lonely feeling.

One of the few things Belphegor did expect was that since he started acting kinder to her, (Y/N) would come around. She would see how sincere he could be, how he could apologize for wronging her, and all could be forgiven. However, it seemed like every act he did to beg for atonement was met with a form of silence.

It was almost as if she went out of her way to ignore him. He hated it. Everytime it happened, those feelings within his chest would stir and the realm around him felt blurry. Madness, how could he not charm one simple human after spending centuries around them? Every smile that touched his lips was greeted with a look of fear. Every attempt to beckon her over to chat was only a chance for her to run into the arms of another brother. Every hug, to pull her soft, warm body into his arms was met with stiffened, yet trembling limbs until a brother, the angels, or Lord Diavolo himself removed her from the situation. 

She feared him.

To see someone who looked at him with such comforting eyes to now look at him once more in fear, anxiety, and possibly hatred. It was as if nothing he did was enough to remedy what had happened. How could it?

He had already stolen her precious life with his own two hands.

‘Murderer!’ His thoughts taunted. Deep, purple eyes watching the way (Y/N) interacted with Lucifer in the hallway. It was morning time, with merely an hour left before all demons plus one human were to arrive at the academy. He took the time to notice every detail about her, some which he had failed to notice before. The way her curves suited her nicely; uniform all neat with a cute, lavender bow tied around the collar of her shirt, and her phone in one of her hands, carrying a small, cute charm. Had she always been this sweet?

The pair had failed to notice him, as he was hidden around the corner, watching the interaction play out. It was clear at this point how much she cared about the other brothers over him. What a bright smile, seeming to light up the whole hallway as she listened to Lucifer’s plans for a student council meeting later today. Belphegor’s eyes narrowed as he saw (Y/N)’s hand rest on Lucifer’s arm, just below his elbow. 

Lucifer was not always one for physical contact, yet he seems oddly comfortable with (Y/N)’s touch. 

If Belphegor was the avatar of different sin, at that current moment, he would be filled with envy. Jealousy? Him? It felt confusing, but he could recognize this feeling after years of seeing his own older brother react in a similar fashion. ‘That should be me’, his thoughts spoke one more, his grip on the wall tightening, almost cracking the drywall itself. Not that it was hard though, it was an old house. The point still remained, the eldest was simply in the way of what was his, of what he wanted to achieve.

As usual.

There was Lilith’s descendant, standing right in front of him, only a few feet away. There she was, glowing, smiling, and seemed to remind him of a firefly in the night. Bringing just a small bit of peace and harmony to the darkness of his inner world. 

Fireflies are never easy to catch.

(Y/N) would constantly be forever out of his reach until he figured out the right step, the right words, and the right actions to take. It was a tricky combination to unlock the path of forgiveness. What could it be? What did he have to do to regain that warmth he had lost? No he hadn’t lost it.

He had crushed it alive.

Belphegor shifted away from his thoughts to watch the pair part. (Y/N) turned to go to the dining hall. This was his chance, to try and make amends once more. He stepped out from the corner and sauntered down the hall, trailing not that far behind her. However, it seemed another demon had plans for him. When he felt that gloved hand on his shoulder, he could only stop and glare at his oldest brother, Lucifer. “What?” He asked, eyes narrowed and tone venomous. Lucifer returned the gesture, nails digging into Belphegor’s shoulder.

“What attempt will you make today to drive her into a state of panic?” Lucifer questioned, but it seemed to be more of a rhetorical question. Belphegor tried to shrug him off, yet his grip was as tight as ever. If the uniform was not there to separate him between his skin, he would certain there would be blood trickling down his shoulder. He began to speak, “I haven’t harmed her since-”

“-since you murdered her.” Lucifer finished, his own chilling, venomous glare sending chills into Belphegor’s spine. It silenced him for a moment, allowing the thick tension to grow. It was suffocating. The eldest brother spoke once more, “What you fail to understand about humans, even after your years of obsession, is that they were not bound to the same things that you and I might be.” He paused, allowing his lesson to sink in. It didn’t help the tension.

He continued, “If they are wounded by a situation, do you believe they are always likely to return to the same moment that brought them a world of pain?” Lucifer’s scowl was more than evident. Belphegor’s shame was beginning to overwhelm him as it had did the first time he realized the weight of what he had done. He gave a small shake of the head, eyes flickering to face the wall rather than look at his brother. 

“So why would you force this human to accept someone who has gravely wounded her?” His words stung, cutting into the emotions of the youngest brother. The one with the biggest crime above his head right now. The guilt would never escape, no matter what he did. To feel her lifeless body, crumbling beneath. The last gasp of air, turning into a pale shade of blue as he ripped away her life. The senses from that moment running through his mind over and over again. Then there was the worst of it, dragging her body to the entrance hall, down those wooden stairs.

Dumping her into full view of his brothers. Lifeless, bruised, beaten. Dead. Although the trauma was still there, for both of them. He would never forget it, seeing her alive again, while her dead body rested in Mammon’s arms. He had failed his objective, the sins weighing upon him. He thought back to Diavolo explaining (Y/N)’s lineage. 

He remembered his heart sinking, the room spinning, and the carpet beneath his knees. The string of apologies. The cries of his sister’s name leaving his lips. Cradling (Y/N) in his arms, begging her not to leave again. He hadn’t been the only one who had sobbed ungracefully, but he was the cause of it all. 

So much pain, by him.

Could it be time to let (Y/N) go? To let Lilith go? No, that meant forgetting them. He couldn’t do that, it was the reason all of his had happened in the first place. He never wanted to forget Lilith, and he would never want to forget (Y/N). She had always been one of the reasons for his freedom, he owed her this much to try and redeem himself in her eyes. Anger bubbled inside him, reminding him why he had gotten locked up in the first place, but he couldn’t raise a hand to Lucifer again. Purple nails of his only dug into his own palms, surely to leave small scars later. 

“What do I do?” Belphegor asked, after minutes had passed. It didn’t feel like it, but Lucifer had seen him go through a range of emotions. Sadness, remorse, anger, acceptance. Lucifer did not give a response right away, causing Belphegor to grit his teeth and dig his nails deeper into his palms. “Answer me, you bastard!” He cursed, becoming annoyed. “How do I fix this, Lucifer?”

“You can’t always fix it.” Lucifer replied, figuring out the right words to say. “The trauma of what you’ve done…is unforgivable.”

There it is again. That stupid word. It matched perfectly to everything that had happened.

Unforgivable.

“If she chooses to let you back in again,” Lucifer said, removing his hand from Belphegor’s shoulder, staring him down, “It will be by her own terms, not yours.”

Belphegor backed away once he felt Lucifer’s hand leave. He couldn’t look at him anymore. “…I’m going to breakfast.” It was the only response he could give before turning on his heel and resuming his walk down the hall. By now, (Y/N) was in the dining hall with the others. Laughing, talking, being happy with the others. It sickened him knowing he could not do that with her. He could feel his shoulders sink and head held low, gazing into the carpet beneath his feet.

Lucifer did not chase after.

As soon as Belphegor entered the dining hall, the chatter of his siblings was cut short. As expected. The clenching of his fists couldn’t be any tighter, and he swore he could feel the blood trickling slightly down his hand. Had they completely forgiven him? Of course not, he knew that. Maybe there had been hugs and welcome backs in his first few moments of freedom, but any sympathy had run dry by now. They began to make their excuses to leave, finding their way towards the door. 

He waited for (Y/N) to leave too. He thought over Lucifer’s words. He couldn’t continue to force her to accept him, it would only drive her away. Yet thinking of it brought this own unforgivable feeling within his heart. What would he tell her anyways that she didn’t already know? Sleeping now only brought back those vivid moments, and he couldn’t wake up from the nightmares. He was always tired, but now he felt exhausted. 

No sleep at this point would be enough, the pain was too much.

Belphegor had settled into his own chair when he heard Asmodeus’ voice ring out across the dining hall, “(Y/N), dear! Are you leaving with us?”

“Today, I will stay and eat with Belphegor.” Those seven words caused his head to snap up and look at her. There was a small smile on her face, although it wasn’t directed at him. It was for Asmodeus, to reassure him that she would be fine, but they all knew she was visibly trembling. In her eyes, there was a kindness he hadn’t seen in awhile. He knows that gaze and soft tone isn’t for him, but he can’t help but imagine it is.

Heart soaring, he wondered what had happened to finally bring her this close to him? She was across the table, just out of reach by hand, but this was the closest she sat by him since his crime. Had he finally done something right? Words from Lucifer trickled into his mind, and that soaring feeling faded as soon as it came. 

“It’s okay,” Belphegor said, looking off to the side, “I don’t want to make you late for class.” He couldn’t bring herself to look at her gaze, afraid of her running away once more if he did. What a fragile human, and at the same time, so stubborn. He focused on filling his plate with whatever was left. It wasn’t much, that was no surprise. Lucifer soon came into the dining hall to rush them along.

“It’s time for you all to head to school, isn’t it?” His tone was stern, causing the last of his brothers to make a break for the entrance door. Lucifer’s view turned to (Y/N), glancing her over to make sure she was alright. They all knew she was scared, but attempting to overcome her own fears. There was not much they could do to change her mind, she was simply determined. Whether it was to finally piece together the rift between her and Belphegor, each one of them had acknowledged one fact.

Something had to be done.

Lucifer did not fully understand her intentions, but allowed her to continue with what she was doing. As long as she was in class on time.  He strode past her, his hand brushing slightly over her shoulder before he too made his way for the door. The clicking of his shoes faded as the pair heard the door close behind him. 

Once it was just the two, Belphegor let out a sigh. “My brothers..it’s not the same as it was before you came here.” He commented, still refusing to look at her, even if he wanted to. His view turned from the side to his plate, fork picking at his food. He wasn’t hungry, he just craved to be in her proximity. “After all that’s happened, we can’t go back to normal.” There was a frown on his face, but neither said anything about it. “It is my fault,” He owned up to it, “For every action I have done, I have hurt you.”

He could not forgive himself until she did.

“I haven’t forgiven you for it.”

There it was, her response. He could almost laugh in the irony of the situation. How did he expect anything to be different this time? (Y/N) was right there, but she would be always out of reach, no matter how close she looked. Her scent, her face, her voice, he could sense it all. It gave him a longing he couldn’t release. He knew what had been done was unforgivable, but he chose to believe otherwise. Had he always been beyond redemption?

How badly he wanted to pull her back into his arms, and just fall asleep, her by his side. Maybe then the nightmares of her death would stop. Possibly Lilith’s too. He wanted to remember them both, but how long could he go in this state of exhaustion? Always tired, but sleep never being fulfilling. Even that plush pillow he carried everywhere could no longer bring as much comfort as it used to.

Belphegor scooted his chair back, “I know.” His voice came out almost in a hoarse whisper. He was ready to leave, not thinking his heart could take anymore. He froze when he heard her next few words, stopping him in his tracks.

“Yet,” (Y/N) continued, eyes staring directly at him. Bright, beautiful, serene. He could finally look at her. Her fists were trembling, but she stood proud. “I believe if there is ever a chance to fully restore peace, I need to learn to coincide with you.”

He was taken aback by her sentence, unsure of what to say. Eyes were wide. “What does that mean, (Y/N)?” He asked, breathless, after a few seconds of silence passed between them. “You…want to be near me?”

“No.” Her response was harsh.

(Y/N) could only take a shaky breath, setting her hands on the table, stilling herself. “You used me.” She spoke, bringing her eyes to glare at the table. “You murdered me. You only accepted me for my lineage and not once for who I was personally.” Bitterness was laced in her tone. Now her legs shook, and she appeared like she was going to cry. She was getting louder.

“I will forever be scared by what you have done to me.” Her eyes closed shortly before reopening, it didn’t help hold back the tears. “I can still feel you choking me, it haunts me every night.”  She slammed her fists down on the table, making Belphegor jump with her sudden actions. She had never been this violent before. “You betrayed me when all I did was try to release you and fix your broken relationship with your brothers!” (Y/N) yelled, and fell into her chair, unable to stop the stream of tears.

“Things will never be the same, Belphegor.” His heart cracked, hearing her say that. Moving swiftly, he came over to her, kneeling next to her. “(Y/N).” He said her name, a hand reaching out to her, but she smacked it away. “But, I know how much you mean to your brothers…and at one point how much you meant to me.”

How much she meant to him? What did she mean? Was he a part of her life more than he had thought before he had stolen her life? He did use her for his own gain, but their time in the attic, it had meant something more to her. He ruined it. 

“(Y/N).” He said her name again, and instead of reaching out with one hand, he buried his face in her lap, hands grasping her wrists so she wouldn’t push him away. Her skirt became stained with his own tears. “I fucked up.” He told her, remaining in this same position. “I fucked up!” He yelled this time, hoping it could reach her.

“Let go of me, Belphe-”

“No.” He replied, becoming stubborn like her. He brought his head up slightly, just enough for her to see the pained expression behind his eyes. “I did use you, and I hurt you. It’s unforgivable.” He took a breath, trying to find his words, “These actions will never be atoned for, I know this now. Yet, you did so much for me. I don’t think I could stand to not have you in my life now.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m Lilith’s descendant.” (Y/N) sobbed out, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him. “Let me go.”

“At first, it was only because of that. My sister meant all of the three realms to me. However, you did so much more than you think. You released me from that prison of an attic, reunited me with my brothers, and reunited me with Lilith. You showed empathy for me when I was at a point when I was beyond that. I fucked it up, but please, (Y/N).” He rested his face back in her lap, his grip on her wrists remaining as tight as ever.

“I can’t rest without knowing you’re okay now. I know I’m always tired, I am the avatar of Sloth after all, but I’m beyond tired.” What were these mixed emotions within him? He wanted to coincide peacefully, he knew it was the best course of action, but he wanted more than that. He wasn’t sure exactly of these feelings stirring within him, but they would remain unsettled if he and she were to simply be acquaintances.

“I’m exhausted. These nightmares I have, they’re the same as yours.” He was remorseful, and never wanted to let her go. “I dream of what I’ve done, and it hurts. I cannot apologize more. I don’t know how to make it up to you, I don’t know what to do to change anything between us.”

(Y/N) was silent, and so was Belphegor. They remained in that silence until both of their breathing had calmed down. “I want you to protect me.” She said, almost in a whisper. Her eyes were puffy, and her wrists hurt from his death-like grasp. She had known he was trying to make up with her, but what had happened gave her a horrible anxiety. 

Seeing him like this though, weak, kneeling, gave her this sense of relief. He didn’t have this horrible chokehold on her anymore. In fact, he was groveling for her to forgive him. She had assumed he had tried to move past it like the other brothers had, assuming she would be okay despite what had happened. She wasn’t, and she didn’t know when she would be okay.

Nevertheless, she could try.

“Protect you?” He asked, his grip loosening. He didn’t have much strength to keep her pinned down for long. She was able to free a hand, and instead of using it to free her other hand, she rested it on top of his head. “Protect me.” She confirmed, “From the demons who want to harm me, from risks I might take, and protect me from these nightmares I also have.” She stroked his hair lightly, her mind flashing back to their times in the attic.

When he would lazily fall asleep by the door, waiting for her to return with updates on the status of her pacts with the brothers. She would sometimes stick her hand through the metal bars of the door, just to pat his head. That small moment brought peace to her, even though it left a sour taste in her mouth now.

Perhaps that could be fixed. He moved his head away, and looked in her eyes, making sure she saw every expression on his face. “(Y/N), we are not in a pact yet, but I will protect you.” He said, “I will protect you from the demons who want to harm you, from the risks you will take to protect my brothers and I, and from the nightmares you have, even the ones I have caused you.” He smiled slightly, giving his best look of sincerity.

Normally, he hated mushy moments, but this was needed. He was fatigued constantly over the stress of what happened, and they both needed to heal to recover.

“I’ll never forgive you for the past, Belphegor.” (Y/N) spoke, not ceasing her motions with his hair, “But, I hope the future we have together will be more peaceful.”

Belphegor hoped so too. He returned to resting his head on her lap, closing his eyes. He was sleepy, and she felt like the perfect pillow now. How could she be so kind? He didn’t truly understand it, but he had a promise to keep now. She began to zone out too, noticing her shaking had decreased to a point where it was barely visible.

Lucifer would come home later that day to find out the pair had never gone to class, but were curled up together in the dining hall. Belphegor’s head resting on her thighs, hands on her hips. One of (Y/N)’s hands was on Belphegor’s head, the other on her own lap, near Belphegor’s face. What a peaceful look they had, appearing after this bout of fear and anxiety.

Belphegor had committed an unforgivable act, but he will make it up to her. 

He will protect his human.

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