qvill-s

[qvill-s]

claude + #8 from “right to the good parts”? would be a sight to see the usually mild-tempered man be frazzled

NOTES: ooooh i agree with you !!! it'd be fun to see him like that >:)

WARNINGS: its nothing too graphic, but this fic does have death (but not of a main character) and blood

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

claude + “oh, my god, I thought you were going to die. please don’t ever scare me like that again” under the cut !!!

You run through the halls of Garreg Mach, taking a haphazard path around its area, thankful for the time you've spent exploring it in your years as a student. You chance a glance over your shoulder, only to find the increasingly familiar figure of a hooded Imperial mage, still pursuing you from when you were separated from the group a while back. You push yourself to take longer strides for the next few steps and put some more distance between you and your opponent.

When you're far enough, you stop, draw an arrow from your quiver, and nock it against your bow, squinting with one eye to take aim against your pursuer. The mage draws ever closer, still running towards you, and in a gamble, you let the arrow loose before you can fully aim. You don't look to see if it met it's target, turning on a heel and taking off in a run again.

You don't hear a sound of pain coming from behind you — in fact, if anything, the pounding of the mage's footsteps seem to sound closer — and with a heavy heart, you determine that your arrow didn't hit the target after all. You figure you can probably pick the arrow up again, mapping a route back to it from the main hall, through the mess hall, and back to the courtyard.

For good measure, however, you decide it'd be a good idea to loop them around the ruins of the church before you made your way back to pick the arrow up. There must be a lot of rubble surrounding the church still, ones that you can easily vault over due to the relative freedom of your legs. You're in a pair of sturdy trousers, while your opponent is in dark, flowing robes. You reason that the mage's clothes could easily be caught in the sharp angles of fallen stone.

With a renewed vigor, you run in the direction of the church, taking this turn and that to get yourself to the narrow walkway connecting the church to the rest of the monastery. That vigor dies, however, when you see that the wooden drawbridge resting neatly against the walls of the church, unlowered.

"Shit," you hiss, skidding to a stop before the gap where the drawbridge should have been.

The mage behind you gives you little time to process your situation or even catch the panting breaths wracking your body, sending a ball of dark magic barreling your way. You narrowly avoid it, slamming your abdomen against the railings of the walkway to avoid it, which does nothing to help the fact that you are already breathless.

You shoot an arrow at your opponent, nicking their shoulder as they draw the runes for another spell. You receive a grunt of surprise. You gain a small sense of satisfaction for finally getting a hit in after being unable to for who knows how long.

The satisfaction doesn't last long, with the mage quickly sending another ball of magic your way. Once again, you avoid it just in time by sending yourself to the cobbled ground, the jagged edges of stones digging into your knees and the heels of your palm. When you respond with another arrow, this time embedding itself into their upper arm, there's a soreness in your right knee that wasn't there before.

A dark stain blooms against the tan of your trousers, and your mouth settles itself into a grim line — you'll deal with that later — as you reach into your quiver for an arrow.

You find nothing.

You search for the familiar brush of feathers, clamping around air, and finding nothing. The mage seems to notice your predicament, and their sounds of pain are suddenly replaced with sinister laughter.

"You have no arrows," they say, their voice deep and dark and tainted with a smile. They make their way towards you, drawing another rune, its shape and symbols slowly forming in the air in front of them.

You shuffle backwards, dragging yourself in the direction by the palms of your hands, watching the ball of magic grow ever bigger in the mage's hands.

Eventually, your palms meet the crumbling edge of the walkway, the stone easily giving way at the pressure of your weight.

"And you have nowhere to go."

You send the mage a glare. They seem to have a penchant for stating the obvious. "And you like to take your time killing someone."

They laugh again, this time tinged with delight. The ball of magic in their hands pulses in time with the sound. You see a shadow of a smile underneath their hood. "Indeed. I suppose I should get on with it, then?"

"Do what you'd like," you snap back.

They don't respond, choosing instead to charge the ball of magic ever further, raising it above their head. You don't see their eyes, but you can feel their gaze on you. In the face of the your demise, your false sense of bravado quickly depletes.

Just before you think they'll send you to the afterworld, they stop, asking, "Any last words?"

You remain silent, the firm line you've set your mouth into quivering only slightly. You jut a defiant chin towards them, taunting them to do their worst in your final moments.

They seem to understand. They raise the ball of magic above their head, and you close your eyes, waiting for the imminent blow.

It comes.

But not for you.

The mage before you lets out a started grunt, followed by a heavy thud.

When you open an eye to peek, you find the body of the mage crumpled by your feet, an arrow in their arm, in their throat, and in their chest. You scramble to your feet, inching around the circumference of the body at a cautious distance, squinting around for the owner of the two arrows.

You find your answer in Claude, dismounting his wyvern and making his way over to you in quick strides. Before you can even express your thanks, he crushes you into a hug, enveloping you in the warmth of his arms. You feel more than hear the ragged sigh he releases into your hair.

"Are you okay?" He murmurs, his lips against your hairline.

With your face pressed against his chest, all you can manage is an affirming, "Mhm."

Just as you were settling into the hug, you are torn abruptly from it with Claude's hands on your shoulders pushing you away. He levels you with a glare. "What were you thinking?"

You gape, surprised by the sudden change of tone. "I wasn't thinking anything?"

"You already hurt," he continues, seemingly not hearing your answer, interrupting his tirade with a frustrated utterance of your name, "You could've died."

"You don't think I don't know that?" You respond, your fiery temper rearing its ugly head, "Did you think I wanted to be out here in that situation?"

You meet his glare, daring him to say yes to either of your questions.

His eyes search yours, as if looking for an answer that you're refusing to tell him, his furrowed brow matching the one wrinkling your forehead. Finding none, he sighs, his body sagging along with the release of breath.

"Sorry." A hand moves to cup your jaw as he presses a kiss to your forehead that dissipates your irritation. "I know it's not your fault."

"I would hope so," you say, not unkindly, "You know I would never put myself in danger like that intentionally, right?"

"Yeah," he breathes, "I know." He draws you into another hug, less urgent and more tender than the last. "I just... I just don't want to lose you."

"And you won't," you reassure him, circling your arms around his waist. "I'm very hard to get rid of."

He laughs, but it sounds a little hollow. "That's not something you can promise."

"No," you agree solemnly. "I can't. But," you move to meet his eyes, "I can try."

A fond smile quirks up the corner of his lips. "I guess that's the best we can do for now, huh?"

You give another affirmative sounding noise in response.

He squeezes you a little tighter, and you feel another shaky breath play with the loose strands of your hair. "Just don't... Don't scare me like that again."

"I'll do my best," you tell him, the promise murmured against the beat of his heart.

[qvill-s]

that dimitri scenario really killed me 🥺 could i get 4 and 11 from the good parts prompts with felix? 💖

NOTES: i’m glad that the dimitri scenario did its job >:) and i hope that you guys don’t mind that i combined the two requests due to similar plotlines.

WARNINGS: just a very Somft Felix TM

WORD COUNT: 1.6k

felix + “we slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair” &&. “you’ve said you’re going to leave, but i don’t want you to go and if i don’t say something now…” &&. “i don’t mind sharing the blankets with you” under the cut !!!

The rain, Felix supposes, is to blame for the whole situation. What was supposed to be a quick stop on the route back to the monastery has turned into an overnight stay when the white clouds overhead turned grey and heavy. It caught the two of you off guard in the market, coming down in large droplets of water that almost stung as they landed and soaked your coats through in a matter of minutes. 

And now, you stand before him — hair plastered to your face, coat draped on your arm and dripping over the inn’s wooden floors, the fabric of your shirt tracing the line of your body — and say, “There’s only one room left.”

He almost, almost, tells you that he can find another inn, but he bites back the remark when the sky opens up, releasing another crack of thunder and another flash of lightning. He shifts, suddenly finding the idea of going back outside less and less appealing with each droplet that splatters against the windows of the establishment. The storm had settled into the town, albeit earlier than when it seemed it should have, and he doubts it would leave anytime soon. Besides, he assures himself, one room doesn’t necessarily mean one bed.

So instead, what he bites out is a, “Fine.”

Despite it’s delivery, your face seems almost relieved at his compliance. He even notices that the characteristic “v” of worry between your eyebrows has smoothed out on your forehead. There’s that small, hopeful part of him that thinks you were worried about him being out in the storm, but he crushes it before it can melt a corner of his heart, because worrying is in your nature. You would show the same amount of worry for another comrade. He isn’t special, no matter how much he wishes to be.

Felix follows you up a flight of stairs, down to the end of the hall, and into a clean, little room. There’s nothing quite remarkably different between this room and any other room at inns he’s stayed the night at, except maybe the bay window, and a small fireplace against one wall. Aside from those, however, the room has the same sparsely decorated layout, with a dresser against a wall, a bedside table, and a bed. 

A bed.

You seem just as shocked as him, if not more, when you freeze at the door —beside him, his thoughts point out, close enough to touch — gaze darting between the singular (not plural) bed sitting innocuously in the middle of the room and the two of you. Thankfully, he recovers quick enough to say, “You take the bed,” before you could.

You open your mouth as if to protest, the furrow in your brow back again, but Felix interrupts your incoming tirade with, “Just take the damned bed.”

You snap your mouth shut, looking entirely displeased even as you nod your head. “Fine. But take a blanket with you.”

He complies, taking the thinnest one out of all the others, brushing past your form frozen in disbelief. He smirks, the slightest bit amused at the way your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He raises an eyebrow at you, a wordless challenge, but all you do is huff and busy yourself with getting ready for the night.

And so, Felix makes his bed in front of the happily burning fireplace on a prickled carpet that barely softens the hard, wooden floor beneath it. The blanket he has pulled up to his ears does little to block out the cold fingers of a fall storm running up his spine. He shivers.

“I saw that,” you say, your voice almost accusatory as it emerges from the gloom behind him. “Felix, you’re cold.”

“I’m not.”

“I can see your shoulders shaking.” He stiffens his shoulders immediately. You sigh, the sound accompanied by a rustle of sheets. “Come on,” you coax, “there’s enough room in here for the both of us. I don’t mind sharing the blankets with you.”

He turns his head to face you, the firelight caught in your hair, the glow marking your eyes and warming your skin. He almost has to fight to tear his gaze away from whatever ethereal being you become in the radiance of a flame, to instead focus on the corner of the blanket you’ve raised in invitation.

You notice his gaze on the blanket, and you lift it higher, more invitingly. "Keeping you from freezing is more important than propriety, Felix."

The selfish part of him — the greedy, hungry part of him — is more than happy to occupy the space you've made on the bed, the space you've made for him. It does little to convince him otherwise, to convince him to power through the cold and avoid what being so close to you would do to him.

Sharing a bed with you is just another way to keep warm, just another means of survival and seeing another day. After all, it's not his fault that the storm came early. It’s not his fault that there was only one bed in the only room available in the last vacant inn. 

Sharing the bed on a cold night was an action you'd extend to all your friends, he tells himself firmly, repeating the sentence with each step towards the bed, trying to drown out the elated feelings his selfish side decided to let him feel. You're only doing this because you're worried, and nothing else.

He cautiously slips into the bed, leaving just enough space between the two of you that he can keep his distance and still refrain from falling over the edge of the bed.

“I don’t bite you know,” you tell him, your voice sleepy and muffled from your face being half-pressed into the pillow, “you can come a little closer. You look like you’re about to fall off if you so much as breathe.”

He complies, finding himself eager to be enveloped in more of the warmth he finds under the sheets. And, he admits, though begrudgingly, to be a little closer to you.

Just for good measure, he says, “Don’t try anything,” with a tone short of barking the words at you.

Your lids are closed, but somehow he gets the feeling that you’re rolling your eyes anyway. “And here I was thinking I could assassinate you in the middle of the night.”

He huffs. “You could try.”

“Maybe I will.” You open one eye, squinting at him in the firelight, a sly smile playing on your lips.

Felix huffs again, turning away from you on the bed to face the glow of the fire.

"Always so grumpy," you say, the tease still in your voice. "Good night, Felix."

There's a beat of silence, then: "Good night."

And he's surprised at how easily he succumbs to sleep.

❛ ━━━━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

When Felix wakes, its to the weight of something pressed against him. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, watching the soft light of the early morning sun play against the walls of the room, disrupted only by the shadows of the curtains and dark behind his lids.

When he comes to his senses, he realizes that the fire's dead, the embers in the hearth dark and black. It must have gone out in the night. Despite the lack of its warmth, he finds that he does not feel the chill of the morning air seep into his bones.

At first he thinks that it must be the layers of blankets and furs he's under, but when he moves to get out of bed only to receive a groan muffled against his back and an arm tightening around his waist, he's inclined to believe that the warmth he's feeling is due to something else.

Carefully, and while ignoring the small, sleepy sounds of protest you're making, he turns over to face you. You double down on your physical approach, burying your face in his chest with a contented sigh, sending a wave of heat flooding to Felix's face and ears.

You were always so touchy with everyone when you're awake, and there's no reason you wouldn't be the same in your sleep, but he's at a loss for what to do.

He's never been this close to you before, save for the one or two times you've hugged him. But even those moments have been brief, merely lasting a few seconds before you moved on to do something else.

So with the backlight of morning sun against your figure, this feels like it should be nothing more than a dream that his feelings for you have conjured up in some sort of bittersweet punishment.

But he can touch you, can feel the weight of your arm around his waist, can feel your breath against his chest, and that's enough to convince him that this is real, that you've really entered his personal sense of space and stayed.

He ghosts around your sleeping form, a tentative hand hovering over the length of your back, the curve of your shoulder, the shape of your hair. He brushes a finger against an errant, wayward lock, staunchly sticking up from the rest lying flat on your head, and makes a decision.

Sooner or later, he knows that he will have to get up and pretend that this never happened. Sooner or later, he knows that the two of you will have to go back to your war-torn lives and return to Garreg Mach.

For now, however, he decides to let you sleep a little longer, especially if it means that he can make this moment last for a short while more.

[qvill-s]

Love your writing. If you were a FE unit what class would you be? (calvery?, dancer? lance person? mage?) I am tired but happy from reading your blog.

if i were an fe unit, i think i would be a mage, a dancer, or a healer. if i only had to pick one, i’d probably be a healer. i’d like to be more of a support than a main player in the battle, mainly bc i don’t think i have the guts to actually kill someone even if i sometimes say i will skfjdbankfn. and while i don’t mind the gore, i’d rather be healing or preventing it than creating it, you know ?

thanks for your ask nonnie !!!

❀ mod l

[qvill-s]

Hi,

I just wanted to say I stumbled across your blog and fell in LOVE!!! ❤❤❤ Your Writing is AMAZING!!! You write Dimitri SO Well!!! (I honestly was in tears at one point...😢) Your Dimitri Angst with just THAT on point! You also just seem like a really cool person. So, I just wanted to say "Thanks for making my day a bit brighter." (Oh God, that probably sounds AWFUL doesn't it?) Well, Thanks for being a great writer and sharing!

-Idiot Anon (Who is now going back to hide under her rock!)

t ,, this is such high praise ,,, 

thank you nonnie, i’m glad i was able to make your day a little brighter and make you cry ♡

but seriously, you brightened my day by sending this message, so i should really be thanking you !!! 

thank you for your kind words and your support bb ♡ ♡ ♡

❀ mod l

p.s. it doesn’t sound awful at all, i promise.

[qvill-s]

noo i was too late to see ur deleted post </3 hope u r safe & doing okay!! Sending good vibez 💕🔆

hi nonnie !!!

i accidentally posted the new masterlist before it was finished, so i just switched it to private post before i thought anyone could see it sjdfhasoifjpd. thankfully it’s finished now and you can see it here :3

thank you for the good vibes ♡♡♡ i’m sending them right back at you !!!

❀ mod l

[qvill-s]

«❀« masterlist. »❀»

fire emblem ii.

fire emblem viii.

fire emblem ix &&. x.

fire emblem xiii.

fire emblem xiv.

fire emblem xv.

fire emblem xvi.

fire emblem heroes.

updated on 01/03/2022.

[qvill-s]

How r u??

hi nonnie !!!

sorry for not getting back to you sooner :( i was a little distracted with life and anxiously waiting for my laptop to get mailed in, but things have calmed down enough for me to actually log in and be back here. 

i was also playing a lot of feh bc FINALLY my boi seliph got an alt :’)) i unfortunately did not get him and instead got ,,,, Them™ ,,,,

keep in mind that prior to this screenshot i sent one of each home as an example :) so yeah that was a fun banner.

anyways, i've been writing while i was off tumblr, so requests should come out a little more regularly ! i just wrote them in the notes app of my phone rather than tumblr mobile, so i've just been transferring them over and editing them as i go along. 

i’m sorry if i worried you with my absence, and thank you for checking up on me ♡ !!!

❀ mod l

[qvill-s]

can i request a relationship headcanons with dorothea or bernadetta? i hope you’re doing well! drink plenty of water :)

NOTES: guess who got her new laptop :D !!! i can finally edit and post some requests bc ,,, tumblr mobile just ain’t it folks. but anyway, here’s your request ! i didn't really know if you wanted it pre or post timeskip, so i tried to keep that as ambiguous as i could.

WARNINGS: brush your teeth if you don't want cavities folks, because it's all sweet below the cut (for once sksksk)

WORD COUNT: 1.1k

bernadetta &&. dorothea + relationship headcanons under the cut !!!

BERNADETTA

A relationship with Bernie is definitely slow-starting. The relationship starts with a friendship — and maybe even a mutual "I don't know you, but you seem nice" kind of vibe going on beforehand — as you catch her between classes and in the handful of times she leaves the comfort of her room.

It will take some time, so please be patient! Opening up and trusting other people doesn't come quite as easily to her, but once she realizes that you mean her no harm or ill-will, she'll be able to settle into your presence and get used to having you around. The important thing here is to give her time, be patient, and keep at it.

Once that happens, though, the two of you become fast friends. Most of your time together is spent in the dorms, more in her room than yours. She just feels much safer inside the four walls she's used to seeing, and plus, all the things you guys needed for your activities were in her room anyway, so it made little sense to relocate.

You guys definitely have painting nights! She sets up a stuffed animal or a venus flytrap on a table and the two of you try to paint it to the best of your abilities. When the weather is particularly nice, the two of you go out into some quiet corner of the monastery and paint the scenery there. Hers always come out better than yours, no matter what she says to try and brush you off.

She's always offering to patch up your clothes. After one ripped hem too many, you insist that she teaches you how to sew, saying that it's a good life skill to have. Even after she teaches you, she still says that she's happy to fix up the rip in your sleeve herself.

Falling for each other came easy. Neither of you can pinpoint when exactly the two of you saw each other as more than friends, when a casual touch to the shoulder became more than that, when stolen glances began to linger, and shared smiles became much more common.

You were both in denial, however, refusing to believe that the other could ever like you back, even when it was plain to see that the two of you were already head over heels for each other. In fact, when the two of you confess, no one is surprised more than yourselves. Bernadetta most of all, because never in her wildest dreams did she even hope that you shared her feelings.

After the initial excitement, little changes between the two of you as you enter a romantic relationship. You still have painting nights, take tea in her room, and spend most of your time indoors — but this time, the experience is peppered with red cheeks and clasped hands and the little physical expressions of intimacy.

That being said, the first time you two kiss is an endearing mess, with faces so red you could rival a pair of tomatoes. There's a lot of awkward fumbling and one (1) incident of teeth clashing at first, but once the two of you find your rhythm — well, they could very well be the fairytale kisses she writes about in her stories.

DOROTHEA

Dorothea, though she may seem more approachable than Bernadetta, owns a heart that is not so easily won. Her life on the streets and at the Opera taught her all about pretty words, their value, their weight. Pretty words, yes, but they are only that.

That being said, she isn’t particularly inclined to let anyone whose words can only be taken at face value to get too close to her. She’ll only open up to you if you show her that there’s more to you than just your words, that you can back them up with actions, that you understand the weight of words and use them wisely. A romantic relationship, however, doesn’t start until you show her that you don’t think any less of her just because she’s a commoner.

It’s something she’s heard  — usually along the lines of, “Oh, you’re beautiful for a commoner” — and reminded of a lot in her life. Not to mention, at the Officer’s Academy, she’s a part of the Black Eagles class, where commoners are few and far between. She’s tired of hearing about class, about commoners and nobility, about how the latter are supposedly better than everyone else, especially when her experiences tell her otherwise, so it’ll come as a pleasant surprise when you tell her that you aren't concerned with such things, and mean it.

It’ll take some time, as with most things, but once she sees that you genuinely care for her, there’s very little about you that she isn’t enamored with. She loves your smile, the sound of your laugh, the gleam in your eyes when you’re happy. She thinks the flush in your cheeks when you’re embarrassed or angry (or both) is endearing. She adores that you care for her as much as she cares for you, checking in on her after particularly brutal battles, or even when she’s simply having an off day.

When you remember the little things she’s told you, like giving her a crown of the wildflowers you saw on your walk that she said she liked, or a recipe of a cake from the café you ate at that she enjoyed, she’s flattered. Your gifts, though usually inexpensive, are priceless in what they mean to her.

Your dates together exist outside of the monastery, outside of lectures, outside of battles. They are the moments of peace in your lives, where you don’t have to think of much beyond each other — the way her hair falls on her face when she tips her head forward to read the menu, the way she covers her dazzling smile with a hand when she’s embarrassed — and beyond whether or not you should try the new tea blend the café is offering.

If you’re interested in black magic, she’s more than happy to teach you, which comes as a relief for you because, uh, the other Black Eagles don’t seem too eager to do so. (Read: Hubert leered, and Linhardt declined in favor of a nap.) She’s a decent teacher who tries to make the difficult concepts easier to understand, but she won’t give you a free pass for slacking just because she’s your girlfriend. She does, of course, reward you with a kiss if you manage to expel a bolt of thoron successfully.

Kisses with Dorothea are usually a gentle — if not a little teasing — affair. She’ll cup your face in her hands, sweep a dainty thumb across a cheek, curve her lips into a smile before she presses them against your own. If she’s feeling a little mean that day, she’ll bite your bottom lip and leave you with a promise that goes unfulfilled (for the moment) and an almost cherubic smile as she goes off to do her errands.

[qvill-s]

i didn’t realise you were back!! i hope you’re doing well :) — 🔮

hi there bby !!!

sorry i couldn't get back to you earlier, but yes ! i am back, and hopefully for good this time. i hope you're doing well and taking care of yourself as well uwu

❀ mod l

[qvill-s]

I'm sorry that happened to you, when stuff like the computer shutting down and it needing to get a hard reset, that's rough and very frustrating. Especially if a lot of your work is on it and not backed up. Please don't worry about not posting until now, because stuff like that deals a big hit to your motivation. I hope that your new computer is nice to you and won't shut down randomly

!!! thank you so much for your kind words !!!

and yeah, it really sucks, especially when it happened :( on the bright side, at least, it taught me an important lesson on making sure things are backed up, and i get to have a new laptop!

don't worry, nonnie, im looking for one that has a bit more longevity than my old one, so stuff like this doesn't happen again.

much love,

❀ mod l

[qvill-s]

only your arms can make me better.

NOTE: so ive also been replaying fe3h, and ive been thinking a lot about the 'no damage' thing. dedue and edelgard just really... don't take damage from anybody. like sure, yeah, the rock that that sand monster threw at you didn't deplete your hp, but shouldnt it still leave a mark ??? and then i thought abt dedue and got soft™ so here's dedue being taken care of uwu

WARNINGS: injuries (scars, bruises), but they get taken care of

WORD COUNT: 827

taking care of dedue under the cut !!!

You always have to remind yourself to breathe when Dedue takes off his armor. It's not that his physique is breathtaking, muscles rippling under his skin as he moves, toned through careful, continued use in both training and battle — because it is — but rather, the multitude of scars that litter his skin. He has so many, too many, for one as gentle as he. Though he assured you time and time again that he no longer feels their ache, a part of you wishes that he didn't have these injuries in the first place, that you could have protected him better. A more irrational part of you feels guilty for not doing so.

Even now, as he shucks off the plates of his dented armor and removes his undershirt under your insistent command, laying himself bare to you, you can't help but suck in a breath through gritted teeth. What first catches your attention is the large bruise on his chest, stretching from the jut of his left collarbone to the last curves of his right rib, fading out right above his stomach. You step closer to him, stretching out your fingers to graze lightly over the darkening skin.

"It doesn't hurt," you ask, concerned, fearful, meeting his eye with a tilt of your head, "does it?"

He shakes his head, and your heart does an awkward dance in your chest, unsure of whether to jump for joy because he feels no pain or to sink because he says he feels no pain. You know it's not right for you to project your feelings on to him, but a small part of you wants him to hiss in pain, to wince at the touch of your fingers, to validate the ever growing feeling of guilt that settles low in your stomach. You should've done better.

"Earlier," you begin, swallowing the lump in your throat that comes with the memory of seeing him jump in front of you, seeing him take a blow that was meant for you, "you didn't have to do that." Your fingers trail lower, tracing the edges of his bruise carefully. Though your touch is light, you can feel the muscle of his stomach bunch and flex under your fingertips. You falter. "You shouldn't have..."

"I did not wish to see you injured," he tells you, reaching down to caress the skin of your wrist. His touch is soft, gentle, and when he speaks it is the same. "To see that would hurt more than this."

You withdraw your hand, pretending not to notice how his falls limply at his side as you meet his gaze again. "And do you not think that I feel the same?"

He has, at least, the sense to look the slightest bit ashamed. You turn your head sharply to your side, eyes following your hands as you reach for the bottle of salve and unscrew the cap. You gather a bit of the rather foul-smelling cream onto the tips of your fingers, lathering it on the bruise on his chest not a moment later. He doesn't even wince at the coolness of the salve against the sensitive skin of his injury.

You work in silence, coating the rest of his bruises on the salve. You try your best not to stew in your anger, your frustration, your guilt, for not being one step quicker than the crawler, for not realizing that his aim was locked on yours, for being so slow and incompetent that the love of your life hurt himself to protect you. You stew in it anyway.

When you move to work on a bruise on the curve of his shoulder, his hand catches your wrist again, stopping your movements. "I am sorry," he tells you, blue eyes sorrowful and sincere, "I did not think that my actions would upset you as well."

You sigh, weak in the face of his earnest, honest words. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have gotten mad at you for it." He opens his mouth, as if to protest, but you cut him off, "No, I shouldn't have. This is war. I know that people are going to get hurt, that you're going to get hurt, no matter how much I wish it wouldn't happen. I was just... frustrated, I guess, at myself, for putting you in that situation."

He nods carefully, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I see."

"Can I ask you, though? To be a little more careful?" The request borders on unreasonable, you know, but you hope he agrees anyway.

He his hand moves from your wrist to cup your cheek, a thumb stroking delicately under your eye. "Only if you promise to do the same."

"Of course," you tell him, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I'll do better to keep myself out of trouble."

He returns your smile, a gentle, crooked thing, and says, "That is more than I could ever ask for."

[qvill-s]

hi all !!!

sorry again for the prolonged absence from the blog. you guys deserve an explanation.

a week-ish after i posted the inigo imagine, my laptop died on me, big time. nothing i could do would get it to boot up to windows. i took it to a shop and they managed to get it fixed with a factory reset, which meant that all the drafts i had for the imagines here were lost. not gonna lie, that made me really sad (ooof), especially because i lost a lot of work i was proud of. i didn't really feel like writing after that.

my laptop worked fine until this week, when it died on me (again!!). unfortunately, it was much more drastic death and im probably going to need to get a new laptop. don't worry, ill thankfully be able to once my paycheck comes in next week, so this isn't a 'please donate to me' thing! i just felt that you guys should know what's going on and why i haven't been so active on here.

in any case, ill try my best to stay active. im still a little sad from losing all my work, but im slowly getting into writing stuff for the requests again — this time properly backed up on google drive so they can't be lost — through my phone. formatting will be a little wonky for a while, so please bear with me!

it's my hope to get this blog as active as it was before, and i wanted to assure you all that im working hard to achieve that goal.

thank you all so much for your continued support to this humble blog, and to your very unreliable mod :')

❀ mod l

[qvill-s]

haha nice

[qvill-s]

#1 from "right to the good parts" with Inigo?? (_>\\\\

NOTES: YELL HEAH BABEEEYYY !!! i’ve had this ask in my head for a while now. also ! the briefly-mentioned object of inigo’s attentions in this imagine is a female, but rest assured that the reader themselves is gender-neutral! i hope it doesn’t put anyone off uwu

WARNINGS: inigo being flirty (as per usual) and running from the repercussions (as per usual); some angst but it ends well i promise

W.C.: 1.9k words

inigo + “i have you shoved against the wall but now i can’t stop looking at your mouth” under the cut !!!

“Quick, in here,” you hiss, shoving Inigo into the first darkened alley you see. It’s cramped, a  trailing and winding path between the tall structures of the buildings that border it, but you push through, traveling further and further into the darkness until even the lights of the streetlamps barely touch the shadows at your feet. Soon, the two of you find yourselves tucked into the smallest of alcoves, in the space between what seems to be two houses hushed with sleep, face to face and chest to chest. There’s a brush of fingers against your neck, a hand settling into the wall behind you. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, a hushed breath that rushes through the hair at your temple. He shifts, head turning the slightest bit to the side to eye the entrance of your little hideaway. “Think we’ve lost him?”

“Maybe.” You turn your head to do the same, and find your ear near pressed to his chest. You jerk back, a little too quickly, a little too harshly, and slam your head against the stone. 

At least, you would have, if it hadn’t been for Inigo’s hand cradling the back of your head, cushioning it against the potential impact. Through what little light the moon provides, you see his face twist into a wince. “Careful,” he chides, untangling his fingers from your hair to rest his hand where it was before, the wall beside your neck, his wrist brushing your shoulder every time you so much as breathed.

You’re certain that your face, burning bright red with the blood that rushes under your skin, is one he could see, a shining beacon in the dark for all the feelings and emotions and thoughts you’ve pushed deep into your traitorous heart. You’re certain that he sees, that he knows, and you’re desperate enough to mask them with a scathing remark of, “I could’ve said the same to you, earlier.”

He doesn’t withdraw—after all, where could he go? The space the two of you have to move is limited as it is—but you feel him tense up in front of you. You can feel the clench in the fingers beside your neck, hear the harsh set of his jaw in your ear, and it makes you feel even worse. “You said you were going to get drinks.”

“I was,” he replies, almost indignantly.

“But you flirted with the barmaid instead.”

A pause. “I did.”

“And now we’re here.” You sigh. “Forced to hide in the shadows because you couldn’t help but flirt with the barmaid and get her father angry.”

You can’t help the bitterness that surges through you as you acknowledge your situation. You honestly should have known better. You should’ve known better than to trust Inigo alone, much less in the company of such a blushing beauty. The barmaid was pretty, no doubt about it, with plump cheeks that reddened under his flirtatious attentions, catching the length of her lashes against its curve as she coyly avoided his gaze. 

You should’ve known better, you tell yourself, you should have known better than to fall for Inigo’s cloying words, his honeyed voice, the sweet smell of his flowers—especially when he has never given any of them to you.

You press your back against the cobbled exterior of one of the houses, leaving as much space between the two of you as you could have. You can no longer bear the idea of touching him in such close quarters, of having his nose brush yours every so often, or feeling the ends of his hair feather against your cheeks. Your heart aches enough knowing that he could not want you, that he could never want you, that he’ll leave you for the first pretty thing he’ll see—

“What was that?” Inigo’s whisper breaks you out of your spiraling thoughts, an alert murmur dashed with the slightest bit of panic, just in time to hear the ominous sound of footsteps.

“Is it the barkeep?” You ask. Immediately after the words leave your lips, you know your questioning is futile. 

“How could I know?”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” he hisses, though not unkindly. He leans closer, resting more of his weight on the hand beside your neck, bringing his body closer to yours. “Just, stay quiet and maybe he won’t notice us,” he murmurs lowly, a breath that caresses the shell of your ear and steals the breath from your lungs. 

You nod your affirmation, and you’re acutely aware of how the action brushes your nose against his neck. You pretend not to notice the slight shiver that wracks his body against yours. You’re so close—almost too close, you think, because you feel the slightest pressure of his wrist against your collarbone, his knuckles behind your ear, his lashes on your cheek, his breath warming the junction between your neck and your shoulder.

You tilt your head upwards, just a little bit, just a touch, and you lock eyes with deep pools of warm brown. They remind you of dark chocolate, of the time he picked up such a sweet only to have it melt in his hand, of how his tongue darted out from between his lips and licked his fingers clean.

“I have an idea,” you tell him before you could think, voice barely a breath over a whisper. He quirks a brow, an action you manage to catch despite the dim lighting and the shock of hair that falls against his forehead. Your fingers travel up from your sides to the collar of his shirt, curling into the fabric. “Follow my lead.”

You pull him down, your lips meeting his. The footsteps get closer and closer, loud enough that you can hear them pound against the stone path in time to the beat of your heart. In an effort to make this scene more believable—this is all you're doing this is all you're doing this is all you're doing—you slide a hand up to his neck, pushing against it with the slightest pressure to encourage him to come closer. There is but a moment of hesitation, the slightest pause in his actions that almost makes you pull away, before he responds in turn, tilting his head just so, his nose brushing against the side of yours as he finds a better angle to fit your lips together. A hand catches your hip and tugs, forcing the two of you to meet closer and closer, in spite of the little space that lies between the two of you. You try not to think about how good his lips feel against yours.

When the two of you finally break apart in the need for air, there is nothing but silence, broken only by labored breaths and the splash of water against the stone as it falls from the tile of a roof. His expression is hidden in shadow, hidden from what little light brushes against his face. You’re still painfully aware of how close the two of you are—nose to nose, your hand on the back of his neck, his hand on your hip—and how close the two of you continue to stay. You blink, driving away the daze that comes from kissing the person you’ve been pining over for months and having them kiss back, only to be hit with the sudden realization of what kind of situation your “idea” has put the two of you in. 

You begin untangling yourself from Inigo, separating your fingers from the soft strands of his hair, releasing his now crumpled collar from your grip. You try to move as slowly as you can, trying to savor what most likely is the last moment of closeness you’ll ever get with him. You don’t know where the two of you stand, and you’re not so sure that you want to know. You’re not so sure that you want to hear him let you down gently, to hear him say that he thought of you as nothing more than a friend, or, gods forbid, to hear him say that he already found someone else. 

“I think that we should start heading back,” you tell him quietly, not meeting his eyes. You push back against his chest lightly, trying to get him to move back enough to give you space to leave. He doesn’t budge. He even goes so far as to close a hand around one of your wrists. “I’m serious, Inigo.” You tug at your arm to get it out of his grip. “The others are probably worried about us and wondering where we are—”

“Why did you kiss me?” He asks, cutting you off with the one question you didn’t want to answer.

“It was for cover,” you tell him, lying through the clench of your jaw.

He shakes his head. “It didn’t feel that way.”

“Well, it was, Inigo. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me the truth,” he says, a foreign note of seriousness in his tone as a hand reaching up to cup your jaw. The gesture is almost tender, a soft caress of his thumb against the line of your chin, at odds with the hard tone of his voice. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I don’t— I don’t know.” Your eyes dart away from his figure entirely, choosing instead to look down at the path at your feet. There’s a pressure that builds behind your eyes with each swipe of his thumb against your skin. He’s still touching you, his hand resting fully against your neck, your collarbone, and you don’t think you can take him being so affectionate with you when you know that he doesn’t feel the same. You reach a hand up, closing around his wrist in the same way he did to yours, stopping the movement of his fingers. “Please, don’t.”

He stills in response to your whispered plea, but he does not move his hand. 

“Please don’t be so kind to me,” you continue, trying to tug his hand away from your face. “I know that you know how I feel, and I know that you don’t feel the same, so you don’t have to force yourself to be nice to me.”

“How would you know how I feel?” He asks, punctuating his reproachful question with the syllables of your name. He pauses, sighs a breath that warms your skin, then adds, “I have yet to tell you that I feel the same.”

You finally meet his gaze, expecting to find the chill of forced affection decorating his face. Instead, you find that your skepticism is shattered by the truth that shines in his expression, in the warmth that you find swimming in the dark color of his eyes, in the fond smile that quirks the corners of his lips skyward. Still, you can’t help it when you ask, “You mean it?”

“Every word.” He affirms, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, catching his lips for a more passionate bout of affection before he can pull too far away. 

“We really should head back,” you tell him, still a little breathless from the kiss. “I meant it when I said they were probably worried about us.”

“We probably should.” He sighs, a disappointing sounded thing, before his fingers catch yours and lock them together. “I say we take the scenic route, though, going back. If they’ve waited this long, they could wait a few more minutes. There’s a nice little flower field up on the hill, if you’d like to see it.”

You smile. “I would love to.”

[qvill-s]

seteth making flayn listen to kidz bop 😳😳

NOTES: i told myself i was going to go in order but this was too good to pass up. what an A+ concept, nonnie. i love it !!!

WARNINGS: kidz bop (???)

W.C.: 746 words

seteth &&. flayn + kidz bop shenanigans right under the cut !!!

Much like the other heroes, Flayn was very interested in hearing about the Summoner’s world. She was particularly curious about music, how the instruments used evolved and changed over time, and how easily one could play it through a device the Summoner called a Phone.

Seteth had to admit that the Summoner’s music was enjoyable, though sometimes there were songs with lyrics that were... questionable. While he often found no harm in encouraging Flayn’s curiosity, he couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy at the thought of her adopting such crude words and attitudes.

Seeing as they were the owner of the Phone and, by extension, the music, he decides to have a little chat with the Summoner about his fatherly worries.

"Are there any alternatives to these songs?” He asks the Summoner, pointing towards the titles of ‘7 rings’ and ‘Love Me Harder’ on their Phone, “Flayn is particularly fond of those, and I’m worried they will soon affect her way of thinking.” He continues, a little distraught, “She has already begun to ask me how someone could love another harder. I cannot yet stomach the idea of telling her what the true implications of those words are.”

There’s an odd sort of smile that spreads on the Summoner’s face, an edge to the glint of their eye and the crook of their mouth that makes him a little uneasy. “There’s a compromise to that, you know,” they say, “Flayn can keep listening to these songs, and you don’t have to worry about them being too suggestive or explicit.”

He takes the bait. “How?”

“Kidz Bop.” The Summoner replies simply, a sagely air about them.

“What is this... Kids Bop?”

“Kidz,” the Summoner corrects him gently, “It’s ‘kids’ with a ‘z,’ and it’s the answer to all your problems. Leave it to me, Seteth. I’ll take care of it.”

And take care of it the Summoner did. The next time Flayn asks the Summoner to play some of her favorite songs, they come out sung in different, younger voices. 

It feels as if a weight was lifted off of his shoulders when he heard that the language changed from crude to something more appropriate for children. Granted, it is a little odd to hear pre-pubescent voices sing what were once mature songs, but if this is the price he pays for a little peace of mind, then so be it.

Flayn notices, of course, but the Summoner is quick to explain it off as another peculiarity from their world. She accepts this explanation easily, with a simple, delighted, “Ah, I see!” instead of her typical “Why?” and “How?” 

The arrangement works beautifully, for a time. Flayn adjusts to the new songs and adapts the new lyrics, humming their words around the halls of the castle. Any time she and the Summoner are in the same room together, the Kidz Bop is played in full blast and sung in equally loud voices.

Weeks of hearing the Kidz’ voices and their overly peppy beats and, quite frankly, their horrendous lyric changes, however, can change a person. 

After the third straight week of Kidz Bop, Seteth cannot get them out of his head. There is no peace for this man. He hums their songs as he sorts out the Summoner’s battle tactics, feeling more and more disappointed with every time he catches himself doing so. He hears their voices on repeat at night, staring up into the dark ceiling of his quarters, wondering how these faceless children have cursed him so. He can’t sleep, eat, or breathe without hearing them echo throughout his thoughts.

Eventually, he begs the Summoner to cease the infernal Kidz Bop, his initial peace of mind with them worn down by their seemingly endless tunes. He reasons that Flayn is old enough to know such things, that she is no longer a child, especially since she’s familiar with something as terrible and innocence-breaking as war.

The Summoner agrees. He does not notice how self-satisfied their smile seems to be.

“Has he given up?” Flayn asks, closing the door to the Summoner’s office behind her.

“Thankfully,” the Summoner’s replies, “I don’t think I could’ve listened to any more of it. I thought I was going to go insane.” Flayn nods in understanding. “I’m surprised he lasted this long, though.”

“My father is a resilient man. I hope that this experience, however, has taught him not to coddle me so much.”

“So... we’re going back to the old songs, right?”

“Oh, of course. The lyric changes were awful.”

[qvill-s]

so... those fallen units huh... 😳

[qvill-s]

Please could you do an Ashe x injured reader? If you have time :)

NOTES: of course bb !!!  it really do be ashe loving hours right now 😳

ashe + an injured s/o right under the cut !!!

“It’s not too bad,” you tell him quietly, speaking through gritted teeth as you try to reassure him of the state of your well-being. You want to call out to him, to call his name, but something in the way he pointedly avoids your gaze as he helps you to sit on the edge of your bed traps the word on your mouth, heavy on the tip of your tongue. You reach out to touch his shoulder instead, barely brushing against the fabric of his nightshirt before he turns away, and the sound your hand makes as it hits the mattress seems to echo throughout the bedroom. He’s not looking at you.

He’s disappointed, you know, but you don’t blame him. He’s asked you, pleaded with you, even, to stop heading out to the tavern on the nights that sleep evades you. You’ve tried, of course, for him, because he asked, because he cares enough to stop you, but when you lie sleepless in your bed, tracing patterns in the freckles of his cheeks and watching him dream beside you for the hundredth time, the call of a good fight becomes too strong for you to ignore. As you hear the familiar sound of a bottle of salve being uncapped, you wonder when it began to call you so enchantingly, so alluringly, drawing you in with a siren song of heavy fists and bruised skin.

The first brush of the cool salve against your knuckles chases you out of your thoughts with a hiss. He pauses, cradling your hand in his palm, brushing the meat of your thumb with the tips of his fingers. “Sorry,” he murmurs lowly. It’s the first thing he’s spoken since the tavern and the long walk back. 

Your heart lurches in your chest, near jumping upwards to lodge itself in your throat as it tried to escape the fist that tightens with every passing moment. He has nothing to be sorry for. He had no reason to apologize, to breathe out a sorry in the way that he did and soothe the ache in your body with nothing more than a word, not when you were the reason behind his upset, not when you were the cause of his furrowed brow and stony silence.

He continues with his ministrations, wiping the salve and bandaging the cuts in a silence that you don’t dare to break. You both know the drill, both well practiced in the song and dance of you getting hurt and leaving him to pick up the pieces. He'll patch up all your wounds, bandage and tend to every reddened cut of skin, cool every bruise, and check for broken bones. Then, the two of you will talk. He will level you with a look of concerned disappointment, ask you again to promise him, really promise him, that this time you'll stay. You will say yes, your gaze trained on his nose because you can't look him in the eye when you lie to him.

Except... that doesn't happen.

He says nothing when he finishes, packing everything up into its little basket and putting it in the cupboard, when he makes his way to the other side of the bed. He tucks himself in, pulling the covers up to his chin, and turns to his side. He's not looking at you.

He's still not looking at you, and you're at a loss for words because you're quickly becoming more and more familiar with the sight of his back than his face. You realize that perhaps tonight was the final straw, the last trial that his heart could stand, and you—

You're afraid to lose him.

You think of all the nights he's had to take you back home, bruised and bloody of your own volition, the nights he's asked you why and was only met with silence, the nights he's asked you to promise him you'll stay only to find it broken a few days later. Despite it all, he treats you kindly, softly, like the beautiful soul he is. His touches are still gentle, his words stripped of their barbs, even when he's angry with you and he has every right to be nasty and petty. He could leave you to patch up your own wounds, leave you to heave stuttered breaths in the dark alleys of the town and choose not to find you, but he doesn't. And it makes all the difference.

You don't deserve him, goddess knows you don't, but you don't want to lose him.

You get into the covers behind him, inching ever closer until you can wrap an arm around his middle. You can feel him tense beneath your arm—it hurts, but at least you know he's awake—and you almost lose your resolve. But you keep going, pressing closer and tighter as you whisper, "I'm sorry."

"Are you really, this time?" Before you can say something, a confirmation, another apology, anything, he adds, "Or will I wake up tomorrow night with you gone again?"

You blink away years against his back. "I—"

"I've given you time." He says your name, a tired, exhausted sounding thing, "I know it's hard, to lose everyone in the way that we did, the way you did, and you need time to yourself. But I can't— I can't—"

He cuts himself off, taking a deep, shuddering breath that you can feel pressed against his back. His shoulders shake, and you wish you realized how he was being affected by all of this instead of focusing so intently on your selfishness and your own problems. In this moment, however, in the here and now, you can do little else but tug him closer and hope that it's enough.

"It hurts," he whispers in a voice so soft and low that you almost don't catch them leaving his lips, "to see you like this. To see you hurt yourself and not know why." He turns, and finally, finally, he looks you in the eye. Your breath catches in your throat, and you find that the moment is more than you could've hoped for as the tears you were fighting back manage to slip through your iron grip.

He raises a shaky finger, brushing away the first of the wetness that slips down your cheeks. He moves his featherlight touch—gentle, as always—across your skin, tracing around a bandaged cut above your eyebrow.

"I'm sorry," you say, a watery rendition of your previous statement, "I wish I..." You gesture vaguely at the two of you. You wish you'd have known. You wish you saw past your own ego and your own suffering to see that he was right there beside you, supporting you with all that he has.

After a moment of silence spent staring into eyes of softened green, you say, "I promise. I won't go anymore." He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, you hurry to tell him, "I mean it this time."

He eyes you carefully, searching for another indication of a lie. It hurts, to see him so doubtful in your words, but you know it's warranted. You haven't given him a reason to trust you these past few weeks. Still, you try to show him that you mean it, that you really mean it this time, by holding his gaze in yours, trying to tell him all the things you can't find the words to say.

So when nods, you thank the goddess that he's still willing to try, to give you another chance, to leave his heart in your fragile hands and trust you not to hurt it.