#//It had been too much to bear and utterly broke him in that moment; his sobs more akin to screams drowned out by the downpour

[dutybcrne]

A little known fact is Kaeya usually tends to cry out of frustration. Little known, because he tends to be so good at masking it and holding back when it comes to a head, with only Adelinde having been the one he felt comfortable enough to cry around, back in his youth.

Nowadays, he will adamantly refuse to cry in front of anyone, even those he’s closest to. But if one who knows him well enough might happen to witness his lashes seemingly fluttering as he rolls his eyes after a verbal bout with Diluc, they’ll know.

They’ll know.

[maxlarens]

hi lilli!! i heard angst and i came running, how about searching for each other in crowded rooms, finding each other everywhere with logan or oscar, whoever sparks the most inspo, but plot twist—not being able to be together for some reason (the why is totally up to you, feel free to ignore if this isn't your cup of tea). thank u thank u <3

kait!!! hello!!! thank u for sending this in!!! im gonna do oscar 😁 it genuinely hurt my feelings SO BADLY to not have them make up at the end of this. so i sympathise with everyone that im about to make sad it was a bad time for me too❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

It's familiar, this feeling.

The squeeze of your chest, the grieving, panicking thing climbing up your throat. You've been feeling it a lot lately, every time you catch a glimpse of someone with hair the same colour as Oscar's; wearing clothes you swear that he has; a person with the same shoulders, the same gait.

You've been seeing him everywhere. You just think you have. Monaco is small… not that small apparently.

When it had first happened, at the beginning of summer break, you’d half expected to be back together within a week. For Oscar to message you and half-beg to talk to you again. In your dreams, you’d both come grovelling back to each other, apologising for cruel words, making amends for various mistakes. Then you would kiss him and you’d tell him how much you love him and things would get better.

Instead, you’ve spent weeks of your summer break totally and utterly miserable. Missing Oscar like a phantom limb. You reach for him, he’s not there. You go to text him, find a thread of messages discussing the logistics of returning the other’s belongings.

You sit in your flat and you watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy twice in a row twenty two hours and forty-four minutes because it doesn’t remind you of Oscar and it occupies your time in a way nothing else can right now. You cry until your eyes are puffy and you write in a diary you’ve never touched before, because it needs to go somewhere. The feeling stuck in your throat needs to be written down said out loud and you can’t say it to Oscar, who you would usually tell everything, because he needs “distance from you right now”.

Briefly, you convince yourself that “right now”, indicates that there still might be a later for the two of you. That this thing between you that’s fallen to pieces might one day be salvaged. In the quiet moments of Lord of the Rings you spiral down a rabbit hole of ways to get Oscar back, pathetic fantasies of how you might convince him to talk to you again. Then Arwen says, “I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone” and you cry for two hours straight.

You sob, your face in your pillow and you think that was supposed to me! That was supposed to be us! And maybe it wasn’t, maybe you’re not an elven maiden giving up her immortality for a mere man, but you love Oscar. You wanted to spend the rest of your life with Oscar. And now… now…

Well—

It is the waiting that’s the worst.

No texts, no calls. Lando sends you a few, but you can’t bear to hold a conversation with him, knowing he’s playing both sides. And anyway, you’re just thinking about Oscar. Is he there? Is he reading your texts? Seeing the pathetic selfies of you on your couch in days-old PJs? Is he staring at your stagnant text thread just like you are? Has he blocked you?

Your every waking thought is consumed by him. You drag yourself out of the apartment for coffee down the street and you wonder what he’s doing. Has he been rotting at home like you? More than likely he’s been doing things. Playing padel with Lando, going out for lunch, training at the gym, FaceTiming his family.

You feel sick to you stomach. You can list on one hand the activities that you’ve done since Oscar broke up with you at the beginning of the month:

Sleeping, crying, watching Lord of the Rings, ordering takeout, training because you have to. Going for coffee had been a big step out of your current comfort zone. You’re wearing pants that aren’t sweatpants… you’d even showered properly for fuckssake.

You got your most noise-cancelling headphones on, blasting sad Taylor Swift (who you don’t even like. It’s just something to fill the void) and staring down the barista so you can lip-read if they’re saying your name or the words Large Oat Latte. And then—

Then. The barista is mouthing Oscar and your stomach lurches as the exact object of your ire temporary depression walks to the counter. You try to convince yourself it’s not him, you keep seeing him places but it’s never really him. But it is, that’s his burgundy shirt, his swoop of hair, his knobbly little ankles.

You release a ragged breath that you hope isn’t too loud. You duck your head, try to avoid his gaze as he turns, pretending that you haven’t seen him. Try to look occupied by your phone though you’ve only had time to open to your home screen. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, you blink furiously, trying your best not to fall apart in this coffee shop.

At least he’s not with someone else, you think as a tightness crawls up your throat to settle at the base of your tongue. But he looks happy, he looks fine, he looks better than you feel right now. God, what if he’s better off without you? What does it mean that you don’t seem to better off without him?

There’s something wet sliding down your left cheek and then you see Nike trainers entering your vision, still directed firmly downward. Someone puts a hand on your shoulder— you don’t jump but it’s a near thing. You reach up to slip your headphones off, wiping the tear discreetly as you go. Then you look up and it’s him, it’s Oscar.

He’s holding out a paper cup labeled, Oat Latte and smiling at you tightly.

“They were calling your name,” he says by way of explanation.

“Right,” your voice is shaky, weak, “Thanks.”

He nods, you take the coffee, careful not to touch his hand. You’re trying to swallow down the lump in your throat that’s rising rising trying to claw its way out of your mouth. You blink away the tears filling the corners of your eyes. You can’t look at him.

You’re looking up at the ceiling instead, biting the inside of your mouth. Breathing in and out, in and out.

He says your name, and then, “Do you want to talk?”

You feel like a tonne of bricks has just hit your chest. Knocking the wind out of you. Tears, hot and wet, are slipping down your cheeks. You can’t speak, you turn around and leave the coffee shop without saying anything because surely you’ll just start crying if you open your mouth. Oscar finds you again across the road, in a dark cobbled alleyway. The heel of your hand is pressed to the middle of your chest, you’re hiccuping, trying to stifle heavy sobs that you’d much prefer to let out in the privacy of your own apartment.

“Hey,” he says, gathering you into his arms before you can push him away, “It’s okay.”

You whine, collapsing into his chest, face pressing into his shoulder, “No, it’s not.”

You cry loudly, trying fruitlessly to keep the sobs in. Oscar’s hand rubs comforting circles into your back, which makes it better until you realise it’s Oscar, which makes it immediately worse. You stay there a while. Until your eyes are puffy and your throat sore.

“Better?”, Oscar asks, the crease between his eyebrows prominent.

You sigh tiredly, shrug, “Sure.”

Your coffee is cold now, your chest feels void, hollow.

You shake your head before Oscar can say anything further, before you’re set off on another fucking pathetic crying fit in the arms of your ex-boyfriend, “I can’t talk, Oscar. I really can’t.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding and swallowing some lump in his own throat.

You bite down hard on your tongue. Turn to leave the dark alley to go home, your back prickling with Oscar’s wet brown-eyed stare on you. He lets you leave. You spend the ten minute walk wiping tears before they fall and itching to run back, to kiss him, to pour all the emotion in your chest into some physical action.

There’s an awful grieving ache in your chest that’s carving out your insides and when you check your phone after walking in the door there’s a text from Oscar that reads:

I miss you. I’d really like to talk to you soon.

not sure if it was weird but the lord of the rings Mentions were kinda about how you’re in such a fragile state during a breakup that something as irrelevant to your break up at lord of the rings will make you cry for hours for no real reason. (and not to expose myself but after a break up i did watch the lotr trilogy two times in a row. told my friends and got a text from one of them asking if i was depressed 😭 like yes… temporarily alright)

send me a prompt/req + driver and i'll write something. pls check if my requests are open first 💖

[redvexillum]

Of course, anonnie! This is flufftober after all. I would like to dedicate this story to my wife @nyx-umbrakinesis, my poor nyxy has been feeling unwell. Here's to all the readers battling chronic pain - Alastor will hug it all better!

Pain coursed through every fibre of your being, muscles burning and twitching as they stretched and strained beyond endurance. Each breath was a test of your will, your jaw clenched tightly that the insides of your cheeks ached. The tremors that wracked your body were almost too much to bear, and you wondered, as you always did, if this was your eternal punishment.  

Hell was your new home, but to be condemned to carry the same human frailties, the same agonizing ailments that followed to the grave? It was almost too cruel, yet, fitting for where you were. 

Perhaps even God had abandoned you. You weren’t just damned – you were forgotten, left to rot with the relentless pain that burrowed deep into your bones, a ceaseless torment that whispered you deserve this.  

Some days, you could push through it, the ache a dull roar in the background of your suffering. But today? Today it was unbearable, a storm of agony that left you feeling raw, broken and utterly lost.  

Your eyes flickered toward Alastor, who stood across the room, his ever-present grin almost sharp, as if it hid the grimace of someone witnessing something distasteful. He adjusted his bow tie with a haughty scoff, and for a brief moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes – a glimmer of impatience, perhaps, or even frustration. You couldn’t be sure.  

Still, you forced a smile. It was all you could offer him, even if the effort to do so made your body scream in protest. Alastor had been your saving grace when you first arrived in this forsaken place – lost, terrified, and utterly alone. Like a fragile, starving kitten, you had been desperate for shelter, and he had taken you in. You had never quite understood why, but you hadn’t dared question it.  

Now, your fingers absently played with the silk scarf around your neck, its vivid red a stark contrast against the dim, oppressive atmosphere of Hell. It was one of the many gifts Alastor had given you over time, though you never felt deserving of them.  

He had always showered you with such extravagance, his gestures grand and unapologetically bold, as though he were trying to fill the empty spaces inside you that the pain had carved out.  

 You were just a mere assistant to Alastor, though his enemies would disagree and call you his pet. Perhaps, in a way, they were right. You were always there, just a step behind him, tending to his whims, assisting with his daily tasks, ensuring you were never far from his side. You didn’t care what you were in Alastor’s or anyone’s eyes. It was the happiest you had ever been – in life and death.  

Chronic pain had been your constant companion, dragging you into a void of loneliness so deep it became an invisible wound, festering beneath the surface until it felt like it would swallow you whole. No one had ever seen it, no one had ever cared to notice the quiet suffering that gnawed at your very being.  

Until Alastor.  

He was Hell’s most feared Overlord, his power, and reputation, enough to make even demons tremble. But to you, he was something else entirely – something inexplicably special. He was the only one who had ever been able to stop that wound from consuming you completely, as though his very presence cauterized the edges of your loneliness and dulled the pain that tormented your body, keeping them from spreading further.  

“Can you believe it?” Alastor’s voice broke through your thoughts, his tone dripping with exaggerated disdain as he fiddled with his bow tie for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I swear, who would've guessed being an Overlord is nothing more than babysitting fools!” He sniffed, his ears twitching flat before springing upright again in irritation.  

You managed a soft laugh, though it felt weaker than usual. The first wave of pain hit, sharp and persistent, but you didn’t let it show. You couldn’t. If you continued to burden him too much, if you became too much of a hassle, he might leave you – just like everyone else had. That thought terrified you more than the pain itself.  

Your steps were uneven as you moved to pick up Alastor’s pinstriped coat, every motion sending a fresh jolt of agony through your body. But you swallowed it down, took a deep breath, and forced yourself to smile. You had learned how to reign in the pain, to push it down until you were alone, where it couldn’t burden anyone but yourself. If you could just keep it together until he left, then you could handle it on your own.  

You always did.  

“Here you go, Alastor,” you said, your voice gentle as you held up his coat with a bright, cheerful smile that felt more like a mask. “Maybe today won’t be so bad.” You beamed, pushing the brightness of your smile to its limit. “Oh! I could also stop by your favourite butcher shop while you’re out, pick up some of your favourite cuts for you!” 

Alastor sighed, a wistful sound, as if indulging in a well-worn ritual. He raised his arms, allowing you to slip the coat over his shoulders, your movements slow and careful despite the pain gnawing at your every joint. “You truly are, my sweet darling,” he murmured, his voice soft as he straightened the coat, then brushed back his bangs and adjusted his monocle with that same practised grace.  

You giggled, the sound light and teasing as you watched him preen, admiring his own reflection. “Alastor, you look perfect,” you said, your tone warm, the smile on your face genuine for a fleeting moment as you saw his tail twitch beneath the back of his coat. He’d always told you it was an involuntary ailment of some sort, something you shouldn’t worry about, but you found it endearing all the same.  

But even as you laughed and shared in that small moment, the pain remained – a shadow lurking beneath your skin, waiting for the moment you could finally let it show. You were determined, though.  

You would never let it burden him.  

Not Alastor.  

He was too important, too precious to risk losing.  

Sweat clung to your skin, rolling down your temples as the pain intensified, pressing on your chest like a crushing weight. Each breath you took felt like dragging air through shattered lungs, but you forced yourself to smile, as you always did, your hands clasped together in a mockery of prayer.  

But this prayer wasn’t to God. No, you prayed to Satan, to Hell itself – please, just let you hold out until Alastor left. The physical agony was nothing compared to the thought of being abandoned again, swallowed by the suffocating emptiness of your own solitude.  

Alastor’s sigh, deep and exasperated, cut through the haze of your pain. He turned toward you sharply, his eyes narrowing, and your entire body tensed in response. You straightened up, biting back the tremors that threatened to ripple through you, squeezing your hands together so hard your knuckles turned white.  

He cocked his head, studying you, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce right through the mask you wore.  

“Are you in pain, darling?” 

The question sent a chill down your spine. Your heart lurched, and for a moment, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Fear gripped you, cold and relentless.  

For you knew, no one wanted to deal with someone else’s burden. You had learned that the hard way, over and over again. Every time someone asked you that question, you saw it – their faces, vivid in your mind’s eye.  

Faces twisted in frustration, exasperation, and annoyance.  

Faces that silently screamed, why won’t you just get better? Why won’t you go away?

Faces that turned cold and indifferent, backs turned as they walked away, leaving you behind, hoping you would simply disappear – too much trouble, too much of a drain on their time, energy, resources.  

It had always been the same.  

Always.  

But with Alastor, it was different. For the first time, you felt needed.  

You felt wanted.  

When the pain became too much, he would hold you, comfort you. But how many times? How many times could he bear your weakness before he decided you weren’t worth the effort? Alastor loathed babysitting fools, and you feared becoming just that – a burden he’d eventually grow tired of carrying.  

Desperation clawed at your throat as you forced out a laugh, the sound far too bright, too strained. “I-I’m not in pain, Alastor,” you stammered, but even as your words left your lips, your voice betrayed you, trembling and unsteady.  

You tried to shake your head, but the movement threw your balance, and you stumbled, nearly collapsing under the weight of your own failing body. Shame burned deep inside you. Oh, how you despised this weakness, this cursed body that refused to let you be anything other than fragile and broken. You would give anything – anything – to be strong, to be whole... 

To not be a burden.  

“A-aren’t you going to be late?” you pushed, your voice a little too eager, too desperate to change the subject. “The other Overlords, they always kick up a fuss when you miss their meetings...” 

But Alastor wasn’t fooled. His eyes narrowed further, dark and calculating, and he bent low until his gaze was level with yours. His red, clawed hands reached out, and you flinched despite yourself.  

He gripped your cheeks, squeezing just enough that your lips puckered together like a fish, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for some hidden truth. He turned your head from side to side, examining you as though you were a fragile specimen he didn’t quite understand.  

“Darling,” he sighed, letting go of your face at last, though the weight of his scrutiny lingered. He began to shrug off his jacket, the smooth fabric whispering against his skin as it slid to the floor. “I’ve told you many times before,” his voice softened, but there was a warning there, sharp as the claws he extended, “if you’re in pain, you are to let me know immediately.” 

His words were firm, but they stirred a new kind of fear inside you. The fear of how far you could push him before he finally grew tired of you. Before he saw you for what you truly were – an unbearable, broken thing.  

Guilt, thick and suffocating, clung to you like a weight you continued to bear. The apology burned on your tongue, heavy with the knowledge that there was nothing Alastor could do to fix your pain. “It’s not bad, really,” you murmured, but the words fell flat between you. It was too late. Alastor’s fingers wrapped firmly around your hand, pulling you deeper into his room, into the place he had made for you.  

He had brought a bed into his room, just for you – a place to rest, though he himself barely needed sleep, if at all. The gesture alone was enough to send a pang of guilt straight through your heart, sharper than the pain that gripped your body.  

Gently, he guided you to sit, and then, with an almost reverent care, he pushed at your shoulder, coaxing you to lay down. You obeyed, but the guilt gnawed at you like a beast with insatiable hunger, tearing at the edges of your mind.  

When Alastor finally laid beside you, he opened his arms wide, a signal that had become a private ritual between the two of you – an unspoken invitation for comfort when the pain became too much.  

Hesitantly, shyly, you inched toward him, slowly closing the distance until your face pressed against his chest, the warmth of his body enveloping you as his arms wrapped around you with a tenderness you didn’t deserve.  

It felt...safe. Too safe.

Too good to be true.  

His arms wrapped around you, holding you as if he would never let go. And yet, as comforting as it was, every ounce of gratitude you felt began to sour, twisting into a cold knot of fear deep inside.  

Until when? 

How long could this last? 

How many times would he hold you, rearrange his life around your fragility, before the day came when it was all too much? 

Tears burned in your eyes, but you fought them back. You refused to cry. Not again. Not when this ritual – this twisted dance of comfort and guilt – only deepened your fears, choking the breath from you in ways the pain never could.  

Each time he held you, each time you ruined his plans, each time you dared to hope that maybe this could last forever, it only hurt more. The guilt, the fear, the shame – it stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.  

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your body began to shiver uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry,” you whimpered again, squeezing your eyes shot, biting your lips until you tasted the faint tang of blood.  

You wouldn’t cry. You couldn’t. It was your fault his day was ruined once more, your fault you couldn’t be stronger... 

... your fault that you couldn’t...just get better.  

“Come now, darling,” Alastor’s voice cut through the suffocating silence, still bright, still full of that eerie, unsettling joy. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing! How unfortunate for you to have to endure such a pesky illness. But fear not!” His cheek pressed against the top of your head, nuzzling you with a comforting affection. “I’m sure we’ll find a cure soon!” 

A cure. You’d given up on that a long time ago. The hope of it had dried up, shrivelled into dust. But you couldn’t bear to let him see that.  

So, you did what you always did – you played along, forcing yourself to believe in his boundless confidence.  

“Really?” your voice trembled, the unshed tears making it sound fragile, like it could break at any moment. “If you say so...it must be true.” 

Alastor hummed in response, pleased, his grip tightening around you as if he could squeeze away the pain with sheer will. The silence that followed was thick but not oppressive, filled only by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, his breathing slow and calm – a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. For a moment, the world seemed to quiet, and the storm inside you stilled, if only just.  

Your fingers absentmindedly played with the fabric of his shirt, tracing the smooth lines, grounding yourself in his presence. You breathed in deeply, the scent of him, a heady mix of something rich and dark – filling your lungs. The warmth of his body seeped into you, thawing the ice that had long encased your lonely heart.  

And yet, even in the safety of his arms, that question remained.  

Until when? 

“Alastor...if you ever get tired of me,” your voice wavered, barely more than a whisper as you clung to him, “y-you’d tell me, right?” 

He sighed, not in frustration, but in that tired, familiar way, his fingers tangling themselves in your hair as he pulled you tighter against his chest. “Darling, this again?” his tone was weary, but there was no malice in it, only the weight of a conversation you’d had too many times before.  

This was your ritual – one that had repeated itself so many times it was etched into both of you. When the pain came, he held you like this, his arms wrapped around you as if to shield you from the world. He’d talk of a future free from agony, and you’d ask him – beg him – to promise, to swear, that he’d tell you if he ever grew tired of you.�� 

You needed him to know he wasn’t trapped, that you weren’t a cage, a burden he had to carry. He was free – free to walk away whenever he wished because as much as the thought of being left alone terrified you, the idea of being a source of misery for him was worse than any pain you could endure.  

“You would, right?” The words came out a little firmer this time, a desperate need to hear the reassurance in his voice, to quiet the gnawing fear in your chest. You closed your eyes, trying to capture this moment in your mind – his warmth, his touch – before it could slip away like a fading dream.  

“I’m quite fond of our little routine, you know,” Alastor replied, his voice light, teasing, but not without affection. His arms held you firmly, one hand wrapped around your waist while the other played with your hair, his fingers moving from your scalp down to the nape of your neck.  

Slowly, gently, they traced the curve of your spine, dragging downwards in a soft soothing stroke. Each caress felt like a whispered promise, his touch tender, calming. 

You let out a shaky breath, shivering slightly as you pressed yourself closer to him, craving the comfort his touch brought. There was something hypnotic about the way his fingers glided down your back, a rhythmic motion that grounded you, as if he were coaxing the pain out of you with each gentle stroke.  

“Who would brew the perfect cup of coffee for me every morning?” Alastor mused, his lips brushing against the top of your head as he inhaled deeply, savouring the moment. His fingers continued their steady, soothing dance along your back. “Who would accompany me on strolls through town, eagerly listening to me about all the latest gossip with such captivating eyes?” He chuckled, his chest vibrating pleasantly beneath your ear, a sound that brought warmth to your aching soul. “And who else would help me decorate my office every Tuesday?” His tone was light, almost playful.  

The last comment pulled a soft laugh from you, a small, involuntary snort escaping your lips. The sound was weak, but genuine, and your arms, trembling from pain, from insecurity, finally wrapped around his waist.  

You hugged him back, a little tighter this time, allowing yourself to melt into the comfort of his embrace. The pain, which had been a constant storm raging through your body, faded into a distant rumble, no longer the monster it once was.  

“Decorating, huh?” you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You mean moving everything just slightly to the left, or right?” 

“Decorating,” he confirmed with absolute certainty, his voice dripping with confidence, as though no one in Hell could convince him otherwise. 

You let out another quiet laugh, burying your face into his chest, letting the warmth of him wash over you. His fingers continued their steady path up and down your spine, each touch as soft and delicate as a kiss.  

It was moments like this that made the pain bearable, moments when it was just the two of you – safe, together, and for just a little while, the world outside couldn’t touch you, pain couldn't touch you.  

A soft trembling laugh escaped your lips, and in that instant, Alastor’s breath hitched, his arms finally pulling you closer with a firm unyielding embrace. It was as if he were afraid you might slip away, and you could feel the tension, the raw emotion behind his usual calm demeanour.  

His grip was not just protective – it was possessive, as though the very thought of you leaving was intolerable.  

“I don’t very much like change, darling,” Alastor murmured, his voice low, soothing, but laced with an intensity that made your heart clench. His touch, strong yet gentle, was a reassurance, his fingers tracing patterns along your back, grounding you at the moment. “And you,” he continued, with absolute certainty, “are very much a permanent fixture in my life.” 

You opened your mouth, starting to protest, to voice your ever-lingering doubts. “Alas-” 

But he interrupted, his hand coming up to cup your chin, tilting your face upward so you could meet his gaze. His crimson eyes, sharp and burning with an almost predatory focus, locked onto yours, filling your vision entirely.  

“If you ever wanted to leave me, darling, you should’ve ran away the moment you had crossed my path,” he said softly, his voice a whisper of velvet that held a darker undertone. The hand on your chin was tender, but his grip on you was firm, keeping you close, tethering you to him.  

His forehead rested gently against yours, his breath mingling with your own, and his eyes – oh, his eyes – burned into yours, leaving no room to escape. “You should’ve left before you decided to invade my routine, my space...” His words trailed off, quieter now, as if they held secrets meant only for you. “My mind,” he finished, his grin curling at the edges, tightening with unspoken emotions that he rarely revealed.  

There was a deeper meaning hidden in his words, one you didn’t need him to spell out. You could hear it, feel it, as clearly as if he had shouted it. You were his, entwined into the very fabric of his existence, and he had no intention of letting you go.  

A single tear slipped down your cheek, a reflection of the overwhelming emotions bubbling within you. Despite the heaviness of it all, you smiled – a bright, genuine smile. “I want to stay with you,” your voice trembled, your desire so familiar, so fragile, as if revealing the very truth that hid in your heart would somehow shatter the delicate balance between you two. “Even if I don’t get better, is it alright,” another tear rolled down your cheek as if expelling the painful memories of your past, “to still stay with you?” 

And as always, as you’d heard countless times before, the answer you longed for came, steady and unwavering, grounding you in its certainty.  

“Always.” The word slipped from his lips, firm yet soft, sinking into the depths of your heart and settling there like a balm to every wound you carried. He closed his eyes, his head dipping to rest in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. “Always, darling,” he whispered again, his arms wrapping even tighter around you, as though he feared you’d disappear if he ever let go.  

And at that moment, as you lay in his arms, the doubt that had haunted you for so long finally quieted. Because for as long as he whispered those words, for as long as his grip remained steady, you knew this – this bond – would never fade.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[finallydoingfanfics]

Stalemate - a Spencer Reid imagine

At the BAU, you’ve always been the one to hold the team together—smart, compassionate, and unwavering. But behind the calm exterior, you’ve been in love with Spencer Reid for longer than you’d like to admit. When Maeve’s death shakes Spencer to his core, you step in, offering him the comfort and support he needs. But in the midst of your quiet devotion, it becomes harder to ignore the feelings you’ve kept hidden for so long. Warnings: mention of death, depression, angst x fluff

The shots rang out, jarring and final, their echoes slicing through the tense air. The space between the two bodies—the life now lost—seemed to stretch into eternity, everything else falling away, drowned in a sharp, suffocating silence. Diane and Maeve lay motionless on the floor, the world around them holding its breath, and in that moment, the oppressive weight of what had just happened pressed down on the room. The team stood frozen, their guns still drawn, eyes wide with disbelief. Y/N could feel the heaviness of it, too—their breaths shallow, their hearts racing, each person lost in the gravity of the tragedy.

But it was Spencer who commanded her attention, his face a mask of shock, his body rigid as he stared down at Maeve’s lifeless form. His eyes were glassy, unblinking, not seeing anything around him, not seeing her. He was lost, distant, swallowed whole by the crushing sorrow.

Y/N’s heart twisted, and without thinking, she took a step toward him, her hand outstretched, silently offering him what she always had in moments like these—her steadiness, her warmth, the comfort she had always been able to give him when the world became too much. She couldn’t bear to see him like this. She needed him to turn to her, needed to be the one to help him through this.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t even look at her.

And it was the most painful thing she’d ever felt—this cold, unbearable space between them. She knew he was suffering, but as he stood there, utterly still, completely lost in his grief, he didn’t reach for her. Didn’t acknowledge her presence.

She took another step forward, her voice soft, breaking through the thick silence. “Spencer…”

His body trembled, the first sign of emotion breaking through the stoic façade he had carefully constructed. A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And then, in a moment that shattered everything, Spencer crumpled. His knees gave way beneath him, and he sank to the floor in a heap, his chest shaking with the force of the sobs that tore from him. His hands gripped the floor, his breath ragged, as the dam finally broke.

Y/N stood frozen, her heart in her throat. The others were still, too, their eyes sympathetic, understanding, but none of them moved toward Spencer. It was his grief to process, his to carry. She started to move toward him, her instinct to comfort him overwhelming, but as she reached out, he flinched, pushing her away.

She froze, staring down at him, hurt flashing across her face, but her eyes softened almost immediately, realizing what she had done. She hadn’t meant to be pushy; she hadn’t meant to force him to respond. Two shots, two lives lost in an instant. But the only thing that truly shattered her was knowing that in the end, she wasn´t able to comfort him, even in a small way.

Weeks had passed since Maeve’s death, and Spencer had slipped into a darkness so deep that even his closest friends struggled to reach him. They tried—Penelope left baskets filled with thoughtful little gifts outside his door, each one overflowing with his favorite teas, warm scarves, books he’d yet to read. Every day, the baskets sat untouched, gathering dust, ignored, as if their very presence was too much for him to bear. JJ came by more than once, knocking, her voice warm and persistent as she called his name, hoping he’d find the strength to open the door. But her gentle words were met with silence.

In the end, they’d called her—one more friend, one more plea, one more person who wouldn’t give up on him. By the time JJ called, she was already on her way, her car humming softly against the quiet of the early morning. The city was beginning to light up but she barely noticed, focused entirely on what lay ahead. She could still hear JJ’s worried voice in her mind, the way it cracked when she whispered, “Please, he won’t even look at us. We don’t know what else to do.”

As she reached Spencer’s apartment, she took a deep breath, forcing herself to hold steady, to keep her emotions in check. She knocked gently, three soft taps on the door, then called his name. “Spencer,” she said, her voice low but firm, hoping he’d hear the determination woven through it. “It’s me. I’m here to help, but I need you to open the door.”

Silence. She waited, listening for any sign of life inside, but heard nothing. Her brows knitted together, and she knocked again, this time with a little more force. “Spencer,” she repeated, her tone firmer now. “Please. Just open the door.”

Still nothing. She clenched her jaw, her frustration mounting alongside a deep, aching worry. She’d seen him break before, watched him struggle and come out the other side stronger, but this felt different. This time, he was truly shutting everyone out. Taking a step back, she squared her shoulders, her voice dropping to a sharp edge.

“All right, Spencer. If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down. Morgan-style. You know I’m serious.”

Still, there was nothing. Her chest tightened with a mix of anger and sadness, she’d given him enough time alone, it was time she went over and star helping, actually helping. Bracing herself, she took a step back, focused her weight on her foot, and kicked the door with all her strength. The lock gave with a loud crack, and the door swung open, revealing a dark, silent apartment.

The sight that met her inside was worse than she’d imagined. Spencer’s once orderly, meticulously maintained apartment was a mess. Books lay strewn across the floor, some pages half-ripped, others lying open as if he’d tried to distract himself with their words and failed. Dirty dishes sat piled on the coffee table, takeout containers scattered across the counter. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, casting a murky shadow over everything, and there, in the middle of it all, was Spencer.

He was sitting on the floor, hunched over, his back against the couch. His eyes were hollow, rimmed with dark circles, and his clothes hung off him, wrinkled and stained. His hair was disheveled, a far cry from the neat, careful way he usually kept himself. He looked up at her, but there was no spark of recognition, just a dull, vacant expression as if he was barely even aware of her presence.

“Spencer,” she said softly, kneeling down in front of him. Her heart ached as she looked into his tired eyes. “You can’t keep doing this. You have to take care of yourself.”

He mumbled something, words half-formed and incoherent, his gaze slipping away from her, and she could feel the weight of his grief pressing down on him, crushing him under its terrible burden. She wasn’t going to let him drown in it. Taking his hands, she gently helped him to his feet, guiding him toward the bathroom.

“You’re going to take a shower,” she told him, her tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to do anything else, just… let the water wash over you.”

He stared at her for a moment, blinking slowly, and then, as if too exhausted to argue, he nodded, shuffling into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. She could hear the faint sound of water running, a small win, but nonetheless a win in her book.

While he was in the shower, she took a deep breath and surveyed the wreckage of his apartment. She gathered the empty takeout containers first, tossing them into the trash, then stacked the dirty dishes in the sink, scrubbing them clean one by one. Moving through the room, she picked up the scattered books, careful not to touch the torn ones, stacking them neatly on the corner by the bookshelf where they belonged. She stripped his old bed covers for new ones she brought from her own home, and laid a soft, fresh pair of pajamas she’d bought for him on her way there on top the neatly made bed. She even started his laundry knowing he wouldn’t have thought of it himself.

Once the apartment looked somewhat presentable, she checked on the laundry and went back to the kitchen, unpacking the groceries she had picked up for him, starting on a pot of chicken soup, the warm scent of spices soon filling the air. She took a quick glance toward the bathroom door, noting the faint wisps of steam coming from underneath. Her heart softened as she thought of him finally allowing himself this small comfort.

When he finally emerged, freshly showered, his hair damp and skin warm from the heat of the water, he looked around, blinking in surprise. He seemed almost disoriented, as if he’d stepped into a different world entirely. The faint scent of his fresh pajamas reached him—a soft, familiar smell that stirred something deep within him, something that had been numb for weeks. The clothes smelled like y/n, like her warmth and gentleness, and for a moment, he closed his eyes, letting that feeling wash over him.

She handed him a glass of water, watching as he drank slowly, his gaze beginning to clear, if only just a little. “You need to rest,” she said softly, guiding him to the couch where she’d laid out a blanket. He nodded, too tired to protest, and lay down, letting his head sink into the cushion, his eyes fluttering shut.

While he slept, she continued her quiet work around the apartment. She aired out the room, opened the windows just enough to let in a breeze, then returned to the kitchen cooking the various dishes she had planned, a combination of Spencer´s comfort food as well as some nutritional options. By the time she was done, the apartment smelled of warm chocolate chip cookirs, fresh air, and a hint of her own familiar perfume, creating a quiet, comforting warmth.

A few hours later, Spencer stirred, blinking as the scent of home-cooked food filled his senses. He looked around, the apartment feeling strangely light, almost unrecognizable. He took a deep breath, the unfamiliar feeling of peace settling over him. For the first time since he’d lost Maeve, something inside him felt almost, maybe, just a little bit alive.

When she noticed he was awake, she brought him a steaming cup of tea and settled beside him, offering him a gentle smile. “Feeling any better?” she asked, her voice soft, careful not to push.

He nodded slowly, wrapping his hands around the warmth of the cup. “A little. Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough with disuse.

They sat in silence for a while, the quiet hum of the apartment filling the spaces between them. He could feel the weight of her presence beside him, solid and unyielding, a quiet strength he didn´t want to admit he’d needed. Spencer clenched his fists, the guilt twisting inside him like a knife as he felt the faintest urge to reach out for her. He hated himself for it—how could he even think of finding comfort in someone else, in her, when Maeve was gone? It was a betrayal of everything he'd lost before he even had it, a cruel reminder that he could still feel something other than the ache of grief. But the quiet pull toward her, the instinct to lean on the steady warmth she offered, was there, and that only made the shame burn deeper. He didn’t deserve her kindness, not when Maeve’s memory was still so raw, not when the emptiness felt like it should last forever. But she softly put her hands on his, caressing his tough skin, and finally every thought he had went away.

Just then, the doorbell rang, and he looked up, confused. She exchanged a small smile with him and stood, crossing the room to open the door. There, waiting outside, were the rest of the team—Morgan, JJ, Penelope—each of them carrying the same worried expressions, softened now by the relief of seeing him safe, even if still broken.

As the team settled in, they moved quietly, almost instinctively, each taking up a small task as if they’d rehearsed this a thousand times. JJ and Morgan set about picking up the torn books, handling each one with care as they pieced his beloved library back together. JJ gently ran her fingers over the spine of each volume, smoothing out pages that had been crumpled in Spencer’s desperate, frustrated hands. She and Morgan worked in unspoken harmony, taking each book to the shelf, restoring order to the chaos one small piece at a time.

Across the room, Garcia moved to the collection of gift baskets she’d left outside his door, carefully unpacking each one. She picked up a small, hand-written note from the top of one of the baskets, her eyes softening as she read it aloud: “Spence, I found these at that little bookstore you love. I thought they might make you smile.” Beneath the note were two novels, each carefully selected, and wrapped with a ribbon Garcia had tied herself. She placed them on the coffee table, their bright covers a reminder of the love and effort she’d put into every detail.

Rossi straightened the picture frames that had been tipped over, adjusting the angle of a few things that looked out of place. Spencer’s apartment had always been neat—organized to the point of obsession—but now, it was a reflection of a man who had lost all sense of normalcy. Rossi placed a framed photograph of the team on the mantle, setting it in a way that made it visible from the couch, hoping that even in his sorrow, Spencer would see them, all of them, watching over him.

Hotch, standing near the window, crossed his arms and watched as the rest of the team restored Spencer’s world. He finally joined in, opening another basket, pulling out a small, heartfelt letter Garcia had written. It was filled with little messages of support and humor, each one signed with a heart. Hotch read it quietly, his expression softening before he placed it where Spencer could see it, so that he’d be reminded of everyone’s love whenever he reached for the small comforts Garcia had filled her baskets with.

Y/N set the pot of pesto gnocchi, whose recepie she had perfected with Rossi by her side on the counter and walked back into the living room, glancing at Spencer as she passed. He was looking at the photograph Rossi had placed carefully on the mantle, his gaze distant, lost. She hesitated for a moment before quietly taking a seat next to him on the couch, just close enough that she could feel the heat of his presence but far enough to give him space. Her eyes caught his for a fraction of a second, and it was enough to make her heart race unexpectedly. It was a fleeting moment—too quick for him to realize, too quick for either of them to really acknowledge—but in that brief glance, something shifted. A small spark of recognition, maybe even something that felt like warmth, passed between them before he quickly looked away, his grief still too heavy for him to allow anything else. She swallowed hard, forcing the fluttering in her chest to settle. She knew, of course, that he was still hurting. The grief of losing Maeve—of everything that had happened—hadn’t left him. And it wasn’t something she could fix.

She doubted if she was the right person to help him through this, if she could truly understand the depth of his loss. The thought struck her—if it had been Maeve who was still alive, would she be doing a better job? Maeve had reached him in ways that no one else could, filling parts of his heart that felt out of her own reach. Maybe Maeve would have known the words to say, the silence to hold, a way to soothe him that she just couldn’t seem to find. The ache of that thought left her feeling hollow, as if she’d failed him before she even began.

Just as Reader’s doubts threatened to overtake her, she saw Spencer shuffle toward the kitchen, his movements slow and tentative. Her heart stilled as he reached for one of the cookies she’d made, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked it up. It was such a small thing—one bite, barely a glance in her direction—but it was enough.

In that fleeting moment, something clicked inside her. She’d loved him from day one, quietly and completely, understanding him in ways she hadn’t even realized until now. She knew his habits, his fears, just how much sugar and butter was needed for the cookie batter to taste just the way he wante it. Spencer, who could barely bring himself to look up these past few weeks, had turned to her, even if it was only for a simple comfort like a homemade cookie. She felt the weight of her doubts ease, replaced by a steady certainty that maybe, just maybe, being there for him—knowing him better than anyone else—was exactly what he needed.

As the team began to gather their things, their voices hushed with sympathy, Reader prepared to leave with them. She’d spent hours here today, helping where she could, watching over Spencer as he navigated his shattered world. But as she turned to follow them out, she felt a light touch on her arm. Spencer’s fingers grazed her sleeve, hesitant yet deliberate. She looked up and saw something in his eyes—a silent plea that he didn’t have the words for. It was clear as day. He didn’t want her to go. She gave him a small nod, and the team exchanged knowing glances, understanding her unspoken promise to stay.

The apartment grew quiet after they left, the air thick with a bittersweet stillness. Spencer hadn’t spoken since he’d asked her to stay, but that was alright; she was in no hurry to fill the silence. They both sank into the quiet, letting it wash over them like a balm to soothe the day’s grief.

Finally, as the hour grew late, he looked up at her, eyes weary. "Would you…stay the night?" he asked softly, barely above a whisper. She nodded without hesitation, gathering a pillow from the couch, preparing to settle there.

But he reached out again, his hand brushing hers with an urgency that made her pause. He didn’t say a word, but his gaze shifted toward his bedroom, the unspoken invitation clear. She understood immediately. He needed her close, needed to feel that he wasn’t alone in the dark abyss of his sorrow. She followed him to his room, her heart thrumming as she took her place beside him.

As they settled in the quiet of his room, Spencer seemed to be wrestling with words that wouldn’t quite come. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice low and hesitant. “I keep thinking about what I could have done differently… how maybe if I’d been smarter, or faster, I could have saved her.” He stared down, his fingers knotting in the edge of the blanket. “All those years I spent learning how to solve things, save people… and none of it mattered when it actually counted.”

She listened, letting him speak at his own pace, her heart aching with each word. She wanted to tell him that he’d done everything he could, that none of this was his fault, but she knew he wouldn’t believe her. So instead, she reached for his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He didn’t pull away.

Spencer took a shaky breath. “And now… it’s like everything that made sense just disappeared.” He paused, his voice breaking slightly. “I thought I finally knew what it was like to be seen, to be… loved. And now…” His voice trailed off as he looked away, the words seemingly too painful to finish.

He was quiet for a long time, his face etched with a sorrow so deep it seemed to swallow him whole. And then, in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, he continued, “I think I lost my chance at being loved. I think that… that was it." His words were fragile, aching, the sorrow woven through each syllable.

She turned slightly, her chest tightening at the helplessness in his tone. “Spencer, I’m so sorry,” she murmured, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t know what to say. I wish I could make this easier somehow, but this… this might be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to live through. And I don’t know how to help you.”

He was silent for a moment, his hand inching toward hers on the bedspread, his fingers grazing hers. “The worst thing that could ever happen,” he said slowly, his voice barely holding together, “is the thought of losing you.

"You know," he continued, his words halting and filled with a shame that seemed to pain him as much as his grief. "As horrible as it sounds… I’ve thanked God, over and over these past weeks, that it wasn’t you. That you’re still here. Becase I know—if I lost you, too, I would choose to not go on.”

Her heart broke at the despair in his voice, and she couldn’t hold back any longer. Reaching over, she took his hand, squeezing it tightly, as if she could anchor him to the moment. “Spencer, listen to me,” she said, her voice unwavering. “You didn’t lose your only chance at love. Maeve was a part of your life that mattered, and nothing will ever change that. But you… you haven’t lost everything.”

He looked at her, his eyes searching, vulnerable. She took a steadying breath, feeling the words press forward, too powerful to hold back any longer. “Because you’ve already been loved, Spencer. I’ve loved you from the very start, from the first moment I laid eyes on you when Gideon introduced us on my first day at Quantico.

The words settled between them, soft and certain. She felt a weight lift, the truth finally out in the open, like releasing something she’d held too close for too long. His gaze softened, his eyes wide with an almost childlike wonder as he looked at her, his thumb brushing gently over her hand in silent acknowledgment. He didn’t say anything, but she could see the emotion flickering in his expression, the small glimmers of disbelief and relief as he took in her words.

Slowly, he reached out, wrapping his arms around her, his embrace both tentative and fierce, as if she were the one lifeline he had in the darkness. He held her close, pulling her to his chest with a vulnerability that felt like both a surrender and a grounding. His lips found her forehead, pressing a gentle, tender kiss there, then another, and another, each one like a quiet promise. With each kiss, she felt him relax, felt the tension give way to something softer, as though her presence alone was beginning to soothe the raw edges of his grief.

They didn’t need more words. As they lay there, their breaths finding a rhythm together, she felt his arms tighten around her, his presence like a warm shield against the loneliness. She closed her eyes, feeling her heart steadying as he held her, thinking that if this was how it felt to be close to him, she couldn’t imagine how beautiful it would be when he was truly ready to love her in return.

They were no longer in zugzwang, now resting in a stalemate, where neither had to move. And though checkmate loomed on the horizon, it no longer mattered who claimed it first—both had already won.

[yandere-sins]

Hi, I saw that your request were open and that you want to write more ab Vil from TWST so I wanted to request him making his kidnapped darling try on the clothes he got for her or giving her a makeover if she wants more insecure before he took her (also I love your writing so much ♥️♥️♥️)

Thank you for requesting my little prince ♥ I hope you enjoy it!

Warning: Yandere, Sexual Content

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

Vil thought for a moment as he watched you standing on the pedestal, surrounded by mirrors that allowed him to see all sides of you.

Stiffly, awkwardly, with your hands curled into fists. Tears ruined some of your make-up, your eyes puffy, and your lips chewed on. You strictly avoided any glance into the mirrors as if the sight of yourself was too much to bear. Instead, you stared daggers at him, the scowl creating wrinkles on your lovely face, yet Vil had no other choice than to describe you as utterly...

Beautiful.

If he had to guess, you had been over playing dress-up with him after the third outfit. But when you didn't show the proper excitement about your new wardrobe, Vil continued putting new outfits together regardless of your opinion. Now at number thirteen, a floor-length, purple, flowy dress with two high slits on either side of your legs and the sweetest of necklines, he had found his personal favorite for you.

"Stunning," he sighed, pleased with the gratifying view in front of him. Nothing he put on you had come close to how beautifully this dress accentuated your body, every movement accompanied by a flowing swish or draping of the fabric that left nothing and everything to one's imagination. He would have praised himself for picking out the right outfit to suit you, but Vil was no liar. It was you who suited the outfit, not the other way around.

"Are we done now?" you asked with gritted teeth, and Vil tsked at your raised shoulders and hunched back while you bottled up your anger.

His eyes snapped from your body to yours, the darkest flames of hatred burning in them, accompanied by... insecurity. True, you might detest him for the rigid regime of perfection he put you through. You were his new project, his muse, his obsession. But Vil had no problem fighting your fire with passion, your lips always soft, no matter how harsh your words could be.

However, he drew the line at your insecurity.

"Turn around and show me the back," he ordered, rising from his lavish, cushioned chair reserved only for him. To admire you, watch his most precious possession from the comfort worthy of the housewarden. But it would never measure up to the fluttering feelings in his stomach, the jittering of his fingers, and the faltering breaths in his lungs from being near you. No comfort was greater than the excitement of standing beside you, close enough to smell you, almost touching. If only you knew how much you were ruining Vil by simply existing, surely you'd have wholly and utterly destroyed him by now. He would have let you.

"I don't want to--"

"Turn. Around."

Your complaint fell on deaf ears, and it almost broke his heart to see you lower your gaze away from his in what Vil could only assume was defeat and fear. One of these days, he'd let go of the leash he held you so tightly with, but only when you were ready to stand next to him proudly. When you were ready to take the control from him—and he was ready to give the control over him up to you.

Not a day Vil thought would come soon, but one he would never have expected to anticipate quite so eagerly.

Until then, he'd be the one to guide you, fingertips slipping under your chin when you tried to avoid your reflection in the mirror. You gripped the fabric of the dress tightly, trying to hold on to something as your fear began to rake its nasty claws through your captivating mind. Vil knew he couldn't stop these thoughts from appearing, but he'd play his part in annihilating them. He couldn't understand how you could fear something as perfect and wonderful as you were, but he knew you well enough to see the signs of you slipping from your feisty self to the one you didn't like as much.

"Look at you, Darling. See how dazzling you are."

"I am not!"

"You are! Take a look—for me."

Your jaw remained firm against his fingertips even when Vil applied pressure. He saw no betterment of your posture or any tension slipping out of your shoulders, and he sighed. It wasn't his first time having to coerce you, and it certainly wasn't going to be the last.

Grabbing a tissue from a nearby box, he stepped around you, blocking your view of the mirrors with his body while wiping off the ruined mascara from your cheeks. Your lipgloss was always at the ready in his pocket, a little trinket when he had to be away from you and missed you and your lips.

You might have flinched back from his efforts, but even a smear of lipgloss was easily fixed by his skilled hands, the product evenly distributed with a kiss. It brought back that adorable scowl of yours, but at least for a moment, you were distracted enough to look up at him again.

And there you were, his perfect, strong-willed darling that could shatter his whole world.

He leaned forward, unable to hold back kissing that defiant mouth of yours even when you stemmed your hands into his chest. The cherry flavor of the lipgloss was exquisite, as was the flustered expression. There was nothing unlovable about you, his hands brushing along your sides with all the discipline Vil could muster to not rip that beautiful dress off your body and make you come undone until you'd see your own beauty in the chaos he'd create with you.

"Now, please, if you would," Vil mused, reluctant to part, yet set on his mission of proving your worth to you. Brushing his thumb briefly over your forehead to remind you of your wrinkles, he stepped behind you again, hands never leaving your curves. You tried to lower your face almost immediately to avoid looking forward, but this time, one of his hands wrapped around your chin faster than you could react, keeping your head locked in place. Your eyes darted side to side, up and down, but Vil was patient. This was a matter of patience to him, not a matter of effort.

You were beautiful without any effort applied. From the moment he met you, inside and out, he knew you were beautiful. Worthy to stand beside him. Worthy of ruining him. To break apart this carefully structured image of himself. Only you could allow him to truly be who he was—a lover. Obsessive and possessive, but a lover regardless. A lover of arts, beauty, and you. His only task was to make you understand your place in life and the power you had deep inside you.

"Please," he reiterated, shaking your head curtly to make you refocus your attention on what he wanted you to do. You inhaled deeply before finally caving to his demands. Beautiful and strong-willed as you were in defying him, you were just as exquisite when you ceased the resistance and relied on him, soothing that suppressed part of his that wanted to be needed and loved by you desperately.

"I look..." you mumbled, fighting against his grip on your jaw. For a moment, he could see the flames of fight in your eyes, and Vil readied himself with the tingle of excitement in his stomach. But then the fire dimmed before vanishing completely, your gaze slipping down your body.

"Okay... I guess."

"Okay?!" Vil couldn't help the appalled gasp escaping him as he repeated your judgment of yourself. No matter how many times he fought your demons with you, it never ceased to surprise him how cruel they were. There you stood, a marvel and a star reborn as a whole galaxy, and thought of yourself as just 'okay'?

You could have very well gouged out his eyes and rammed a dagger in his stomach with how much that hurt him.

"Look at you! Look again!" Vil demanded, and you winced, his sudden grip on your hair forcing you to look up as he pushed you toward the mirror. "This is a gift! You are stunning, marvelous, to keel over for!"

"It's fine! It's a nice dress! Vil that hurts--!"

"No, not the dress, love! You! You are stunning and beautiful, do you understand?"

Your face contorted into a pained grimace as you tried to brace yourself against the mirror with one hand, the other reaching to the one lodged in your hair. Drastic situations needed drastic measures, and Vil would never be too shy to do what he had to make you understand your worth.

"I- I understand!" you finally gave in, and his hand was gone before you knew it, the pained sensation replaced with a swift turning your body around and a kiss to take your breath away.

"Say it," Vil mustered in between kisses, caging your body between the mirror and his, his hands falling to your thighs, running higher, thankful for the slits in the dress. On second thought, he could never have you wear it in public—it was much too revealing. No one should ever look at what was only his. But for his private enjoyment, this was perfect, and Vil was happy to show you just how stunning you were with the help of the indulgent dress.

"I'm pretty."

"Beautiful."

"I'm beautiful."

"Gorgeous, mesmerizing."

"Gorgeous—ah!"

His grip on your ass made you lose your concentration for a moment, but when Vil's teeth grazed your lips in warning, you remembered the mantra he was going on about. "Mesmerizing..." you mumbled, breath hitching as he massaged your backside.

"You are, baby. So stunning, the most dazzling creature in this world."

Prying himself away from your lips cost Vil most, if not all, of his hard-earned discipline, but he was far from done with you. He knew that if he didn't burn these opinions into your mind, they'd disappear and leave another hole for you to sink into. He was not going to allow that.

"Look at you," he ordered, turning you around again to face the mirror, pressing your face against it until your hot breath fogged the surface. 

"Don't stop looking while I show you how beautiful you are."

You didn't seem to expect anything, much less to see the proud and proper housewarden sink to his knees behind you. But there was beauty to be shown in your most vulnerable moments, and a dress was so easily pushed aside, giving him access to the space he forbade you to hide with any underwear.

He checked one more time if you were looking, both pleased and angry, that your eyes had fallen on him instead of yourself, wide open and with a hint of surprised anticipation of what he was going to do next. But you'd be looking straight ahead soon enough because what he was about to do would make you forget all your hesitations and insecurities, leaving only room to realize your true, amazing, stunning self.

After all, his tongue could do much more than speak words you barely believed. It could also make you see what you truly were when you were most vulnerable:

Beautiful.

[thewulf]

Always & Forever || JJ Maybank

Summary: Request - Hii. Love your work. It's so good. I'm feeling a good hurt comfort fic with the obx cast. Could I get a JJ Maybank x reader (maybe john b's younger sister?) where she's lost everything after they assume John B and Sarah are lost at sea... Read Rest Here

A/N - Ohhh this was kinda hard to write. Being sad is a bitch. Please let somebody know if you're sad/getting sad. People love you! Always remember that <3

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Y/N

Word Count: 2.3+

TW: Talks of depression, being sad, not eating etc.

You barely heard the soft knocks on your bedroom door. Currently, you were huddled underneath the comforter of your missing older brother just hoping and praying he was okay. They’d officially called it. Lost at sea. Presumed deceased. Dead. Just like your fucking father. How was this your life? Two years ago, you had the world with the two coolest guys on the earth. And now? Now you were alone. Utterly fucking alone. It’d only been three damn days, but they gave up. There was no funding for a poor pogue boy from the wrong part of the island. Sherriff Peterman just gave you a sad look when she broke the news to you a few days prior. Or it could’ve been yesterday. Time didn’t matter anymore. Nothing really mattered anymore. You were a sixteen-year-old girl alone as fuck in this cold ass world.

“Hey little Rout.” You heard JJ’s kinder than usual voice from the other side of the door, “You need to open this door or I’m going to have to pick the lock. Need to see if you’re okay. You haven’t been at school and Mrs. Smith is getting worries, she said she’s going to report you.” You heard the soft sigh of utter defeat as he waited for a moment for you to respond. To do anything. You didn’t have the energy to respond so instead you just laid there.

“Come on kid.” You rolled your eyes at the nickname he’d long since used on you, “You need to come out. Get some fresh air. You can’t stay in there forever.”

Nothing. You just couldn’t. Depression was a hell of a thing. You just couldn’t fathom getting up and unlocking that door. Your brain knew you should. But the actual thought of moving seemed like a foreign concept you weren’t ready for sure yet.

He didn’t give you much else of a choice as you heard the lock click. You knew it wouldn’t take him much effort to get it but alas, you just couldn’t care. It didn’t seem to matter. Nothing else mattered. John B was all you had left and now you sat here empty and void.

“Oh Y/N…” His voice trailed off as he spotted you withering away underneath a mass of blankets. A blank stare on your face. You couldn’t bear to meet his eyes feeling grossly ashamed you let it get this kind of bad.

“I just…” Your voice croaked out as it hadn’t been used in while, how long you hadn’t used it you really didn’t have a clue.

He shook his head kneeling down beside your bed, “It’s alright mins.” His head was close as he smiled at you with a smile that never reached his eyes. A smile he was putting on for you. He took his hand brushing your knotted hair away from your sunken face.

Mins. You wanted to laugh. It was the first good emotion you had felt in a while. Mins was your current nickname of quite the long line of ever evolving nicknames from the blonde-haired boy. First it was mini-Routledge, then it was mini-JB, then mini and now mins. He didn’t use it all too often anymore, only when he thought you needed it. And you needed it more than ever now. All his love and everything he could give to you.

JJ knew just how much John B meant to you. He was your best friend. The two of you did everything together, practically inseparable. Even when JB met JJ they still included you in on everything. You were his shadow. That didn’t change as you got older. You just had to play it off as something different.

“I’m tired JJ.” You sighed letting your eyes close in front of him. The effort to keep them open was beginning to become too much.

He frowned deeply. This wasn’t like you. You were usually so full of life. The one who wanted to go and do things. The one who called him lame when he didn’t want to try something new with you. You were the one that kept the group going. And now it felt like everything was falling apart. The pogues were without their people and they needed you back.

This was your way of shutting down and he knew it.

“When was the last time you ate honey?” He asked while trying to brush the knots out of the hair he could get to. You were never particular about your hair, but JJ knew how badly knots hurt to get out. He remembered that one time when the both of you were younger, you crying when your dad tried to brush out some gnarly knots after JJ and JB tried to teach you how to surf one afternoon. It broke his heart even as a twelve-year-old boy. He had that same protective love that JB had over you.

You sighed trying to remember, “Before we found out he was missing I guess.”

JJ’s eyes bugged. He knew he should’ve checked in on you sooner. Damn the pogues who told him to leave you alone. That you needed space. You clearly didn’t need space. You needed help.

“That was three days ago Y/N.” His blood felt like it was running cold. How could he let you lay here for three entire days? JB would fucking murder him if he found out. Some friend he was.

You hummed in acknowledgement, “I’ve had some water though. Haven’t been hungry.” You admitted to your concerned friend. Your voice finally started sounding more like your own after the hoarseness had worked its way out.

“Well, that’s a start mins.” He sighed brushing his overgrown golden hair away from his eyes, “Can you get up for me? Get you some soup downstairs or something?”

“JJ.” You whined not feeling up to the task, “I’m too tired. I don’t feel like it.”

He took you hand in his and wanted to cry from how cold it was. You weren’t right. No, you were suffering, and they just let you. He felt nothing more than a piece of shit seeing you so broken, “I’ll carry you. I just need you to eat something honey. John B would be sick with worry if he knew you were starving away.”

“Don’t talk about him.” You turned away from JJ feeling your own blood run cold at the mention of your missing older brothers name. You couldn’t fucking believe he chose to leave you. Fuck, you couldn’t believe he’d ever put Sarah in that position either. It all felt like a fever dream you had to wake up from. But you weren’t waking up which meant this was a sick and twisted reality that you didn’t want to participate in anymore.

“Y/N…”

You shook your head on your pillow, “Please JJ. Don’t talk about him. I can’t take it. Not yet.” You felt the tears that had long since dried up come flowing back in an instant. Why in the hell did he bring out these feelings in you so effortlessly? Leave it to your older brothers cute as hell best friend that was certainly off limits. JJ would never, ever feel that way for you anyway.

“Alright honey.” Honey. That was a new one. You’d heard him use it sparingly on girls in the past, but it certainly was never used for you. But he’d used it a few times in the last few sentences sending your overly tired mind reeling in another direction. He was just being kind, that was all. After all, your older brother did just fucking vanish into thin air, “Can you please get up for me? Please mins? I need you to eat something. Whatever you what. Please?” He added one last please to let you know how dire he felt.

You rolled back over to him exerting far too much effort in doing so, “I don’t think I can.” You sounded defeated as the tears started once more, “I’m so tired J.” You whispered trying to contain the sob that wanted to escape from your throat.

“Cause you need to eat honey.” He spoke with nothing but concern on his face, “Let me take you downstairs? You need to move. Need to be somewhere new. Need to get some calories in your body.” He said so matter of factly you weren’t sure if it was JJ in front of you. But then again, for as much as a mess the boy normally was he thrived in crises situations such as these. He always seemed to know exactly what to do.

“Yeah, that’s fine JJ.” You knew he’d win eventually so it might be best to just give it up.

He let out a subtle breath of sure-fire relief as he scooped you up into his arms. You were light. Far too fucking light. God, he was such an idiot. He knew you better than any of the other pogues. Of course, you needed help.

He set you down at the messy table filled with whatever shit JB had likely left there the week prior. You grew tired of always cleaning so you just started leaving it. Your eyes scanned the table full of junk. A sad smile formed seeing his homework scattered about with an unpaid parking ticket next to it all. He’d never get to finish that homework. Never would have to lie his way out of that ticket. Why him? Why your JB?

“What do you want to eat honey?” He asking running a hand up and down your arm. Attempting any form of comfort for you. He saw the sad look in your eyes as they scanned the table. He had to get your mind off of JB in any way he could.

“Why are you calling me that?” You asked instead of answering him. It was driving you nuts, and you had to know. In your right mind you’d never

“Honey?” He asked, a bit taken aback by your sudden brazenness. The you he knew would never have asked him that. Instead, you would’ve asked JB. Something you couldn’t do anymore.

You nodded in confirmation feeling your eyes droop and your mouth open to yawn. JJ cursed internally making the decision of canned soup for you knowing you needed to eat as soon as possible. Light and easy and calories. That’s exactly what you needed.

“I don’t know mins.” He admitted while heating up your food, “It just felt, feels right. I can stop saying it if you’d like.”

“I didn’t say that.” You spoke back in almost a whisper.

“Honey it is.” He grinned while putting your warm, not overly hot, soup in a bowl. He set it down in front of you waiting for you to eat.

“I still like mins too.” You added admitting to him just how much you did like the nickname. He’d stopped using it as much now that the two of you had gotten older. You’d forgotten just how much you’d liked the nickname. Probably because it was a nickname only you could have. A special one from the boy you surely loved but vehemently denied.

“Noted, now eat mins.” He grinned pointing to the bowl.

You nodded not really sure if your hands would agree with your brain. You were so utterly fucking exhausted. Turns out you did need to eat if you wanted to be able to function. Because it felt like a task you’d never be able to start. As much as you tried your arm just wouldn’t cooperate.

“Mins?” He asked seeing you not really making a move for it.

“I can’t JJ. It’s too much.” You hated to admit how disgustingly useless you felt. Yet here you were.

He nodded in understanding, “Here, let me.” He took the spoon from the bowl and held it front of your face. For the first time in three days, you relished in the taste of food. It did taste really good. And damn, you were a lot hungrier than you realized. Before you knew it the bowl was gone, and you were entirely full.

“Thank you J.” You let your eyes close once more feeling the outright exhaustion of the situation come down over you.

“Anytime mins.” Seeing your eyes close he noted your fatigue, “Why don’t we sit on the couch and watch a movie?” He suggested hoping you’d agree.

“That sounds nice J, I may need your help again.” You let out a frustrated sigh at the state of your condition. You did start feeling a bit better but the thought of walking or even crawling made you shudder.

He shot up from his seat to get you up. He picked you up like it was nothing, “I got you hon. I always do and always will. Remember that alright?” You nodded in his chest doing your best to fight off the sleep that wanted to take you.

“Thank you J.” You whispered into his chest. He set you down right next to him, letting your head fall into his side.

He wrapped an arm around your torso letting you know you were safe and secure. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere without you anymore. Running his hand through your hair he felt a shiver knowing you liked exactly what he was doing, “Always mins. Now, let yourself sleep. We’ll deal with all this shit when you wake up. Together.”

You nodded letting the darkness take over, “Promise?”

“Always and forever.” He gave your head a soft and gentle kiss before the soft snoozes overcame you. He decided he was going to watch you sleep, for however long that was. You were his everything too. He was only just beginning to realize that now. Always and forever. It had a nice ring to it. Forever with you was a life he would dream about. Maybe one day. Maybe after he sorted you through this mess. Maybe just maybe.

Permanent Taglist (Message me or comment below if you want to be added!): @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @hardballoonlove @rosiahills22 @djs8891

[youaremycosmo]

《Too good to be true》 taemin x reader scenario

Taemin as the most-loving-cute-affectionate husband&dad nothing else to add enjoy!

cr. for the photos: Jjakgoongie Word count// 2,051 words Pairing// Taemin x you

Summary// Cute moments with Taemin as parents of newborn baby girl, Taerinnie. (btw Taemin would make endless jokes when you call him Tae, showing with his daughter and asking 'what?' in the same time as they both share the same syllabe in names XD)

Genre// fluff

Warnings// talking about lactation, if you don't like pregnancy/ parenthood scenarios just don't read this ^^

MASTERLIST You stirred in your sleep, absent-mindedly searching for Taemin who was supposed to lay in the bed next to you. He was usually there, that’s why you groaned under your breath and opened your eyes slightly, not feeling the familiar source of warmth next to you.

The bedding on his side was a little messy, which made you push yourself up on your hands, looking around. Light from the corridor streamed into the room through the slightly opened door, making you sure Tae hadn’t gone to the restroom.

You were so tired from getting up every two hours that you just put your head back on the pillow, with strong determination to wait until your husband come back. Then you wanted to just lock him into a bear hug and try to get some rest again. However, Taem didn't show up for a while, which forced you to finally get up from the bed.

You frowned as the light hit your eyes, sensitive from the darkness and took careful steps around the apartment. You catched a glimpse of your daughter’s room, sensing it could be the first place where Taemin went.

Taerinnie was born seven days ago, and your entire lives had been subordinated solely to her from the first moment. Your and Taem’s little sunshine needed a lot of care, which, combined with the exhaustion of pregnancy and childbirth, meant that you felt completely worn out all the time. Not to mention stress from being fledgling parents, afraid of every single thing happening around her.

Taemin, on the other hand, seemed filled with energy like never before. Smile never left his face, no matter how little he slept and how much he took over your household chores. Additionally, he never forgot to take care of you as well, praising you at least a few times a day. It seemed as if the expansion of your little family had practically given him wings, and you weren't surprised at all. As long as you could remember, for Tae there was always the right time to get married and have a baby, although seeing you didn't share his opinion, he never pressured you into anything.

You leaned carefully against the doorstep, noticing Taem sitting in your nursing chair with baby Taerin in his arms. You could only see a fragment of his profile, but clearly observe your little daughter, dressed in cute rompers and wrapped carefully in a light pink blanket. Her eyes, huge and dark, stared constantly at Taemin, and her adorable cheeks moved continuously as she sucked on the pacifier.

- Everything’s fine now, right? - a loving and warm voice broke the silence. - Did you just need a hug? It's okay, mommy and daddy will cuddle you as much as you want - he purred, rocking her delicately.

You smiled tenderly at the sight. There were times where you could see him taking care of children and how well he did it. But when it came to Taerin, he was simply the best dad you could imagine. Tae seemed to have infinite patience and enormous amounts of love, pouring it on his long-awaited daughter at every possible moment.

- We can't wake up mom every time, okay? - his fingertip touched her cute, tiny nose. - Mommy is very tired because she's feeding you and needs some sleep... But daddy can also take care of many things - Taemin’s voice sounded utterly satisfied. - You and I are a good team too - he chuckled softly to himself. You could see his cheeks lift into a smile as he stroked her little face gently, like a porcelain doll’s.

Taerinnie's eyes were becoming heavier and heavier each second, opening with difficulty, but she still listened calmly to what her dad had to tell her.

- How on earth did I deserve an angel like you, hmm? - Tae whispered pensively - I always thought that being with your mommy was like a dream come true, then I couldn't believe that mommy married me, and now… there’s you… I always knew you would be the most beautiful baby in the world, after all, you got it from y/n... She was so pretty when I fell in love with her, but why does she seem more gorgeous every day? - he titled his head a bit.

You felt as your cheeks flushed, and suddenly you felt shy standing there and listening to all of it. Taemin was always full of love, as if it was the first year of your relationship.

- You are like my two princesses... And I’m the one who loves you to death -Taem chuckled under his breath - Do you feel like sleeping already? - he asked, probably noticing how Taerinnie's eyelids finally drooped and her face became completely calm and carefree.

- Sleep well, you have to grow a lot - he pressed his lips on her forehead, observing her tiny body for a longer moment.

You moved away from the door, seeing him rise to put Taerinnie in her cradle. He made sure everything was fine, then turned off the light, carefully leaving the room.

- Oh, are you awake? - he asked, noticing you, obviously surprised.

- I woke up because you weren't in bed - you admitted cutely, walking up to Tae and just cuddling into him tightly.

- Taerinnie cried again - he explained himself and smiled fondly at your gesture, his arms embracing you strongly. - I decided not to wake you up because she didn't need to be fed... And we somehow managed to calm down on our own - Taemin said with satisfaction in his voice, and you glanced at him with a wide smile.

However, your eyes immediately went to the ends of his long hair that curled outwards. You reached for them carefully. - Taeminnie, your wings seem to be showing again - you muttered, teasing him a bit.

- Ah, come on -  he rolled his eyes with pink shade coming to his cheeks. He reached his hands to your thighs and lifted you up. - This baby needs to sleep too - he purred lovingly, carrying you to the bed.

You let him make you comfortable on the pillow and cover you thoroughly with the duvet before he laid down next to you. His arms pulled you completely to him, leaving little space, and you could feel his warm breath near your ear.

Before closing your eyes, you tried to adjust your nursing bra a little, annoyed at having to wear it all the time. You couldn’t help but sighed loudly when you saw a small wet spot on your t-shirt. Actually, it was his piece of pajamas as you loved wearing it to sleep.

- I can't deal with this, really - you mumbled under your breath. You rolled up the fabric and struggled to correct the pads, which allowed you to forget, at least for a moment, about the way your breasts leaked milk at the slightest touch. Your body changes were quite hard for you to accept, maybe because Taemin seemed to be doing better than ever and despite passing years, he was still so handsome and hot.

- I need to change - you decided, trying to get up, but his hands didn’t let you do it, keeping you in place.

- Stay, don’t mind it - Taem asked in a low voice, his thumbs rubbing your side soothingly. - You'll still be getting up to feed Taerin - he added, and the tone of his voice suddenly became more worried. - Is it still the same?

- I think as long as I continue to breastfeed, it’ll look like this - you grumbled, clearly uneasy. - It's just... instead of a wife, you're hugging a cow at this moment - you tried to joke, chuckling hesitantly.

Taemin, however, wasn’t amused. - Don't talk about yourself like that - he chastened you in a serious tone. - You are still the most beautiful woman in the world. The most charming person I know. The sexiest one too - his hand slid slowly to your hip, which had been noticeably more rounder for several months now. - It's just… you smell… sweeter - he murmured affectionately, snuggling closer to you.

You gave him a side glance. - You're weird, you know that? - you cracked up at this unusual compliment. 

Taem raised his head from the pillow, obviously outraged. - I'm just stating a fact, it's not weird - he hissed, lying down again immediately. 

- Like asking if you can try my breast milk, not weird at all - you teased him, closing your eyes. 

- Making sure Taerinnie likes it isn't weird either - Tae replied with confidence, but you could hear a slight laugh in his voice.

A comfortable silence fell between you as you tried to rest, knowing in the back of your mind that you’ll be woken up by crying again in an hour or two.

- I'm sorry -  his thoughtful whisper echoed in your ear, making you gently open your eyes. - I know... it's difficult for you and... well, I was the one who wanted to have a baby of the two of us, and the reality is you're the one who has to deal with everything...

- It was our mutual decision - you interrupted him, speaking without doubt. - You just wanted it earlier, but that doesn't mean you wanted to have a baby more than I did.

- Well, yes... - he sounded inconsolable. - But... I guess… I didn't really know what it would look like... I see how tired you are. I wish I could take at least half of this stuff from you, but I can't…- the tip of his nose rubbed your cheek. 

You decided to pull away slightly to look at him. - You actually do a lot of things to help me - you assured, looking into his concerned eyes. - And I'm grateful, really grateful, because I have your greatest support - you reached your hand to his cheek, stroking it tenderly.

- But... you're so damn tired  - he stated the obvious, biting his upper lip gently.

You smiled fondly and closed the space between yours and Tae’s lips, pecking them sweetly. Currently, you didn't even have the strength to kiss each other more passionately, so your affection was limited only to hugging and rather innocent kisses.

- I'm so damn tired, and I love you both so damn much - you admitted with amusement.

- Hey, how could you say something like that to Taerinnie…? - he groaned indignantly. - What example are you going to give if you swear like that?

You rolled your eyes, taking a deep breath. - Okay, then I love you so damn much, and my love for Taerinnie is immeasurable - you muttered, annoyed by his comment. - Better?

- Better - Taem replied, satisfied with this answer.

- You actually have one task, one thing - you pointed your finger at him.

- What is this? - he stared at you with curious eyes. 

- Just try to look for a younger girl without stretch marks and breasts that don't leak milk all the time, I'll strangle you - you threatened him, and Taemin bursted out into laugh.

- Ah, what are you talking about? - he whined loudly. - They're beautiful... just... - he tried to wrap his hand around them gently, but you hit it.

- No touching - you reminded him.

- No touching - he repeated with a mischievous smile, pecking your cheek.- I… just…  kind of look forward to having them back…

You rubbed your eyelids with your fingers, trying not to laugh.

- Not only are you an idiot, you're also perverted - you commented, glancing at him again.

- Pff, if I weren't perverted, you wouldn't have such a little cute daughter  - he kissed the side of your head a few times and corrected himself on the pillow. - I love you…- he murmured, making sure it came out as loveable as it could.

- I love you too - you answered tiredly, slowly falling asleep in the safest embrace of this world.

[kuzann]

First Meeting

So excited to finally be able to post this! It's my first time taking part in a big DP fandom event! 💜 I had an absolute blast working with @braisedhoney for @ecto-implosion 2023, and it even spawned an entire AU as well!

Go look at the art that inspired this fic! It's so good!!

You can also read this on Ao3 if you'd prefer.

Summary

The first meeting between Jazz and Dan following the timestream’s restoration doesn’t go as planned. Dan reflects on old memories and new vulnerabilities as he digs through the rubble.

Warnings

Brief gore, blood, explosion aftermath, grief, body horror, trauma flashback

The Fic

It was cold. Water dripped from the cavity’s ceiling, ran down the back of his neck and left chilling trails in its wake. He still wasn’t used to being able to feel such sensations to this degree. To being... Attached to a human body again.

The low rumble of debris continuing to settle shuddered through the cavity they’d found themselves in. A distinctly fungal smell hung in the air, of long-undisturbed earth recently awoken by the struggle of briefer creatures. It coated the inside of his mouth, now partially open to bear fangs as he stared down at the ghost who had given him so much trouble. An enemy who had at last realized the price of picking a fight with him.

Phantom, Dark Danny, the last remaining echo of a miserable future now unmade... He still wasn’t sure what to call himself. The old man had taken to calling him Dan. The name was brief, immediate, and wasted no unnecessary time. It was good enough, though he’d never let Vlad know that.

There was a choice to be made. He and his enemy weren’t the only ones down here. He could finish this wretch off for good, make sure he never dared to bother him again, or track down the other who had fallen in the collapse. With the clone body already deteriorating, already straining under his full form he could only choose one.

Humiliation had its claws in him. He’d nearly lost the fight, he was supposed to be stronger than this. The thought of putting the feeling to rest permanently was a tempting one...

“Get lost,” Dan snarled, his red eyes wide and focused and threatening even greater violence should his enemy turn down this opportunity. His breath streamed out before him like dragon smoke, its heat stolen by the chill of the hungry earth. That, too, was something he still wasn’t used to.

Vortex briefly considered his options. He was on his last leg and in the process of collapsing into an amorphous state, but the battlelust of their previous conflicts still rang through his being with an intensity that was hard to ignore. For a moment he appeared to be gathering for another strike, his body crackling with anticipation, only to suddenly surge up through the ceiling and out of the collapse.

Dan straightened and watched the point on the ceiling where Vortex had disappeared. When seconds stretched by and no ambush came he let out a long sigh and took a step back, broad shoulders drooping. He was still getting used to the power adjustments. To the new bodies. The new... Everything. And it cost him in this fight.

He scowled and turned to the span of collapse behind him.

Now to find her.

Dan knew where she’d been when they fell; Vortex had knocked her away before Dan broke through the power restraints and stepped between them. All he had to do was keep digging until he found her. Slower than using intangibility, but any ghost power would only accelerate his host’s deterioration at this point.

He pulled the first slab of concrete aside.

It had been an embarrassing fight. Frustration burned white-hot as Dan reviewed his performance and found it sorely lacking, and it wasn’t just this time. He’d utterly destroyed Vortex back in the other timeline, yet in this one he’d been clashing with the ghost for weeks as the two sought to prove who was stronger. Ridiculous. He should’ve been able to blast Vortex into nothingness long before this.

Dan grit his teeth and shifted more debris, freezing when the mass above him groaned ominously. The jumble held, dust shafting down around him as it quieted. He kept going.

This was Vlad’s fault. Always going on about how Dan had to be more careful with the new ‘power restrictions’, how the way he treated his host bodies was ‘wasteful’. If he could just get the power adjustments right this wouldn’t be a problem. Vlad just wasn’t trying hard enough.

A carelessly-shifted chunk of concrete fell back on his forearm. He growled and hurled it into the cavity behind him, ectoplasm dripping onto the dirt and debris at his feet. Dan paused to look down at the wound. The concrete must’ve had exposed rebar poking out of it to make a gash this deep and jagged.

Not good. If his body was this vulnerable already—

Dan cut the thought short and continued on.

Memories rose with the shifting dust, of the time before the explosion. Of the aftermath of the worst fights when he had to limp his way home...

—when he had only a vast empty house to return to, the silence broken by nothing save for the sound of his own movements and the creaking of a structure settling after dark.

Dan shook his head. Not the dual memories again...

It never used to be this much of an issue, back in the other timeline. But then he’d stamped out all true adversity years ago back there. Less struggle, less opportunity for such memories to slip in. A simpler way of being that wasn’t constantly flinging existential questions at his face and expecting answers he couldn’t provide.

The next span was too unstable to shift. Dan searched for a place he might be able to crawl through—difficult with his large frame—and found only a small hole. He would have to briefly use intangibility to get through this.

Did she even make it—

It’s fine, he told himself. It would be her own fault for getting involved where she shouldn’t have. She wasn’t even his Jazz...

A chill settled over him as he shifted to a different phase to the physical matter around him. Dan dove through the wall and found that it was as thin as he’d hoped it would be. He released his power and staggered a few steps as he touched down.

The clone body held. For now.

Why did she have to step in? He didn’t need her help.

But then, that was what she’d always done, wasn’t it? When his parents weren’t there for him, Jazz was.

His Jazz. The one who’d been gone for over a decade now...

—collapsed in front of their graves. A loss so complete it was a wonder he hadn’t died on the spot.

Dan clutched at his head and willed the memory back down into the abyss of subconscious. He didn’t need this right now. It didn’t make sense anyway. She wasn’t the same Jazz.

The twisting in his gut exposed the lie for what it was. Emotions he’d stifled and strangled long ago were even now resurrecting themselves as he searched beneath the cold earth.

Like a grave, the thought crept in, with coarse concrete slabs for tombstones. A grave he’d sent countless other humans to without a second thought…

It’s fine. He’d been willing to throw her away again for the sake of power. He didn’t care.

A lie, and an ill-constructed one at that. Willing to throw her away yet still so grief-stricken over losing her to begin with. Was he capable of making sense? Was it his nature to be contradictory?

He forced down another grieving memory before it could properly materialize. This had to be because of the stupid clone body dragging him back down into those pesky human emotions. Its glitchy biological programming was throwing his trauma at him again after he’d already dealt with it years ago.

If he could just keep it together—!

It was silent beneath the earth, save for his own efforts. He hadn’t once heard a cry for help from the person he was looking for.

Dread crept in and sank its teeth into the back of his neck.

She had that armor on. It could withstand a collapse like this, right? Fenton gadgets were ridiculously robust, and the Peeler’s armor was meant for high defense. She was fine.

Right?

Dan continued on and pulled another piece of concrete aside, then he sensed it.

There was something warm up ahead. The realization gave him a burst of speed.

It’s fine. She wasn’t in danger anyway. The Peeler’s armor kept her safe. He didn’t need to worry like this!

At last he broke into the cavity she’d landed in. A few dozen feet and he’d be able to put these wretched emotions to rest.

Dan forged ahead, and trod on a loose slab of concrete that shifted the ceiling above.

Debris thundered down on him and threatened to bury the cavity entirely. He brought his arms up to catch the worst of it, and the slabs fell between himself and Jazz

No, no! He was strong, the ultimate foe! It would be fine! He would make it so!

Dan gave a wordless roar as he shoved the topmost slabs off of him.

He was running out of time. Again. If he could just go faster!

Memories washed over him. He’d realized something was wrong just before the explosion, turned to fly toward the Nasty Burger, to do something, anything, to protect them. The memory played back at an agonizing pace, as if he were moving through tar as he struggled to get there in time. It was already too late. 

He lost his grip on a slab. It fell back on him and cut his right thigh open.

It’s fine. He would make it this time, push to the absolute limits of this wretched artificial body if he had to. He was stronger now. She wouldn’t be stolen from him again!

Dan remembered just in time that mindless thrashing was the last thing he wanted to do in this situation. He forced those stupid worthless emotions back down and steadied his hands as he pushed debris off of himself.

It’s fine. 

At last it came down to the final concrete slab. Dan hefted it with both arms and tossed it aside.

It’s—

He froze. She lay with her back against a slab of concrete, eyes closed behind the cracked visor despite the tumult that had just taken place before her. There was blood on the armor.

Hers—?!

A swarm of unbidden memories rose around him, of running toward the smoldering remains of the explosion—

—the bodies—

—charred but still—

—blood—

—pieces—

—unrecognizable—

A sudden, agonizing shudder shook the memories loose. The clone body was starting to give. Blood-tinged ectoplasm dripped from his hands.

Dan struggled to catch his breath and made himself look at her again.

The same. Ectoplasm shifting into blood. She’d been standing behind him when Vortex landed a severe blow earlier.

The release in tension was almost enough to drive him to his knees.

It wasn’t hers.

Dan walked to her, forcing himself to take slow deliberate steps. He stopped at her feet and leaned down.

There was a light mist clouding the inside of the armor’s visor.

She was breathing.

Jazz stirred. “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice quiet and strained. She was in pain.

“It’s me,” Dan said. Before, it would’ve been enough. His voice alone was the only introduction he’d needed in the other timeline. Now he struggled for something more to pin on to the end of the phrase. Nothing felt right.

Jazz opened her eyes and squinted up at him. She smiled. “I knew you’d come back.”

“Know-it-all,” Dan grumbled before he could stop himself. Now to muster the strength to phase them out of here—

His body gave. His form started to run, to lose its shape. Every cell screamed in agony as flesh lost its grip on bone. Dan fell to his knees. The halo appeared at his waist, returning him to the clone’s form.

He’d been forced to wear Danny’s face to survive, but he refused to wear the same clothes. The battle had been hard enough that the black leather jacket, jeans, and t-shirt would have to be replaced, even without the blood and ectoplasm leaking onto them. His boots might be salvageable if he didn’t get too much ectoplasm on them. If he was able to make it out of this, anyway. The chances of that were growing increasingly slim. He looked up to find Jazz watching him with a mix of shock and horror on her face.

“You’re—”

“The clone bodies don’t do so well when I go full form,” Dan said, looking away. He dragged himself over to her, his body screaming with pain every inch of the way, and let himself rest on the slab.

“I can’t get to my phone,” Jazz said, sounding guilty.  “The armor won’t come off, it’s dented in the back.”

What does she have to be sorry for? It was his fault Vortex showed up… Some first meeting this turned out to be...

“I’ll call the old man,” Dan said, silently chiding himself for not thinking of that earlier. And for not letting Jazz call Danny in when Vortex first showed up. He hadn’t wanted his other self to get involved…

Dan took the cell phone from an inner pocket of his jacket, his hand shaky enough to risk dropping it at any moment. He willed what steadiness he could into the limb and hit the only number he had on speed dial, then switched it to the speaker setting. In his defense he wasn’t used to having a phone again just yet. He simply hadn’t remembered during all the commotion.

“Old man?” Jazz asked as they waited.

Vlad picked up on the second ring. “So you finally decided to check in,” he said, tone clipped and impatient. “And where have you been? You disappeared hours ago—”

“Amity Park,” Dan said, cutting off the rest of Vlad’s rant. They didn’t have time for this.

“What are you doing in Amity Park!?”

“Melting under a collapsed building. Jazz is here too.”

The audio became muffled by a hand to the receiver, but Dan was very sure he could make out Vlad shouting an actual swear word into the empty lab in Wisconsin. It cleared again, and Vlad was all business when he spoke next: “I need you to turn on your phone’s tracker. Is Jasmine hurt? How badly?”

Dan looked at her.

“I don’t think anything’s broken,” Jazz said. She winced when she took a deeper breath. “But the Fenton Peeler’s damaged and pressing on my back. It hurts too much to move.”

“Alright. I’ll have to go through the Ghost Zone to get there in time,” Vlad said. There was the distant sound of equipment being moved in the background as he made ready. “If I have to blow my cover because of you—”

“Just get your ass in gear, old man,” Dan growled. Vlad would figure it out. Somehow he always did. “Lecture me after this is over.”

“Stop calling me that! I’m not even fifty yet!” Vlad snapped, then he hung up without saying goodbye.

“Are you sure he’ll be here—” Jazz began before the silence could properly close in.

“He will, I just had to make him get off the phone and focus. He hasn’t let me melt yet.” Dan brought up his other hand, squinting in the near darkness as he turned the phone’s tracker on.

“And the melting happens… Often?”

“Yeah, because he still can’t get the bodies right,” Dan grumbled. If Vlad could at least make an adult clone then maybe they’d get somewhere. He hated being stuck in a frail teen body again. “If I don’t hold back they break.”

Jazz inhaled as if to say something about that, then let the breath go instead.

Silence descended on them, filled only by the hiss of falling dust and the grumble of settling earth.

It was cold. Dan could feel it even through his jacket. Even through the pain of his body’s deterioration. In all his years of fighting he’d never run afoul of a pain like this, of having his body slowly picked apart molecule by molecule, torn by gravity as much as by the bindings within his cells coming undone. Even the Fenton Peeler’s effects couldn’t match it. Perhaps the cold was somehow sharpened by his dying nervous system, or by the breakdown in circulation. It wasn’t a subject he was familiar with. All he knew was that he was in pain, and that the cold sapped even more comfort from his predicament.

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Vlad didn’t make it here in time. The pain would stop, but so would he.

Forever.

Jazz shifted, armor scraping against the slab at their backs, and put her near hand on his arm. She tugged at his sleeve, inviting him closer.

Dan hesitated. He still didn’t understand her attachment to him. Why she kept giving him chances he didn’t deserve. He wasn’t her Danny anymore...

Still, it was cold. Perhaps being closer would offer a little warmth. A little comfort while he waited to find out if this would be the day he met his end.

He pulled himself to her and laid himself across the arm she’d beckoned him over with. Jazz draped her forearm over him, holding him in a half-hug as they lay there. There was no warmth. The armor kept them separate and pressed into his upper back in uncomfortable ways, but he didn’t care. This was enough.

His eyes started to drift shut, his vision blurring slightly. He was running out of power. Jazz was in too much pain to move, even talking was difficult for her. They were in a sorry state.

He shouldn’t have come here on a whim without even warning her beforehand. Not when Vortex had it out for him, anyway. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what she said during that climactic battle, how she insisted that he was still part of her family even as he threatened to tear it apart in front of her eyes. Even after he’d leveled half the city.

It was something he still didn’t understand, even though he wanted to.

A pained shudder jolted through his body, bringing him back to the present.

There would be no asking why she still treated him like family for now. He had to conserve energy and hope that help would arrive in time.

Dan closed his eyes and waited.

Jazz wasn’t sure how much time had passed. In a place without sunlight or moonlight and without access to her phone she could only guess. Pain stretched everything longer than it should have been, but at least being able to hold one of her brothers brought some comfort.

She wanted to talk to him. Ask what his life was like now, if he was happy. How he arrived at where he was in the other timeline. But present circumstances made that impossible; just breathing hurt thanks to the way the armor crumpled into her upper back, and Dan was clearly so low on energy that any conversation was out of the question. It was horrifying, watching him slowly melt into ectoplasm. She could only hope that Vlad got here before it was too late.

Her eyes were closed when she suddenly became aware of another person’s presence in the cavity.

“Well, you’re in a sorry state now, aren’t you?”

Jazz looked up to find Vlad Plasmius, arms folded over his chest and one foot tapping in the dust as he glared down at Dan like a disapproving parent. The cut on his right eyebrow had become a scar, but he was looking much better than he had when she’d last seen him. There was a large metal coffin at his side, for what purpose she could only guess.

“About time you got here, old man,” Dan growled, though there was little venom left in his words.

“You’d think that a ghost with your level of experience would be capable of managing a vessel better,” Vlad grumbled as he pressed a button on the coffin’s lid. It opened with a hiss and the whir of multiple servos on its hinges, revealing a dimly-lit chamber within.

“If you’d just make the vessels better—!”

“I am not bothering Daniel because of your carelessness!” Vlad snapped. He met no resistance as he scooped Dan up and carried him over to the coffin. “Now I suggest you sit tight and think about what you’ve done, young man.”

“I’m twenty-four!” Dan howled as he glared up at Vlad.

“Then act like it!” Vlad snapped back. Despite his ire he placed Dan in the coffin with care and pressed the button to close it rather than slamming it shut himself. The two glared at each other until the lid closed, then Vlad sighed and let his head fall back. “I don’t know why he can’t just adapt to the restrictions. It’s not like they exist for no reason.” He leaned over the coffin and tapped away at a combination of buttons. A soft hum came from within, and the color of the lights on its exterior changed from red to green.

“Sorry for the wait, Jasmine,” Vlad said as he turned to her, his tone more sincere than she’d ever heard from him before. “He needed to be put into stabilization immediately.” He knelt before her and tried to get a better look. “Are you able to sit up? You mentioned the damage was on your back.”

Jazz turned herself onto her side, then pushed herself up and clutched at his arm for balance with her free hand. The crumpled armor dug a bit deeper into her ribs and shoulder blade, but she wanted out and if Vlad could get the job done then she’d take a little more pain. “Back here,” Jazz said, gesturing over her left shoulder.

Vlad shifted position, allowing Jazz to use one of his knees as a prop so she wouldn’t have to expend energy sitting upright. He leaned around and took a few moments to examine the damage. “I’ll have to cut the piece away, I don’t want to risk prying you out.”

“Okay.” Jazz tried to be patient, keep her breathing slow, but the pain was becoming unbearable.

There was a gentle heat at her back, not directly over the crumpled armor but in a rough oval around it. Knowing the solution was in the works eased the pain a little.

Jazz looked at the coffin again while Vlad meticulously worked his way through the armor. A stabilization chamber... Vlad certainly had a flare for drama to build it in the shape he did.

But he’d made it in time. Dan would live to see another day. That was what she figured at least, given that things weren’t so serious as to keep the two from arguing the way they did.

“Got it.” At last Vlad lifted the damaged section of armor away.

The relief was immediate. Jazz took her first deep breath since falling into the collapse. “Thank you,” she said, a tad breathless from sheer relief.

“You’ll need to get that looked at just to be sure,” Vlad said as she deactivated the Fenton Peeler’s armor. “Should I drop you off at the hospital?” He offered her a hand and carefully pulled her to her feet.

“It might look suspicious if I just showed up at the hospital all of a sudden,” Jazz replied after taking a moment to consider the option. “I’ll get mom and dad to take me.”

“Very well, I’ll drop you off on my way out.” Vlad took the coffin by one of its handles and hefted it with ease. He slung it over one shoulder and turned to her, offering a hand again.

Jazz let him scoop her up with one arm, and soon they were out in the open air again. Vortex was nowhere to be seen once they were above the roofline of Amity Park, he was probably either skulking somewhere or had been captured by Danny already. Hopefully the latter. He was a frustrating ghost to deal with even on a good day.

“So Dan’s gonna be okay, right?” Jazz asked, just to be sure. The Ops Center came into view over the rooftops; soon she would be home.

“Despite doing his best to make sure he wouldn’t be, yes,” Vlad replied.

“I heard that, old man!” said Dan’s muffled voice from within the stabilization chamber. It rattled briefly, as if he were banging on it from the inside.

Vlad’s frown deepened but he didn’t reply.

“Thanks for the save, Vlad,” Jazz said, still a little surprised that Vlad had done anything worth thanking him for. “Are things going...” she paused to glance at the coffin, “Okay back home...?”

“Mmm...” Vlad’s mouth drew into a thin line as he thought about it. “We’re making progress... I think. It’s still better than being alone, at least.”

Not the most encouraging reply, but not the worst either.

“I think Dan’s been picking so many fights lately because he’s trying to avoid thinking about things,” Vlad added, having given a bit more thought to the question. He went invisible as they neared Fenton Works and dove toward the alley next to it.

“Well he’s free to talk to me any time,” Jazz said as they landed and Vlad carefully let her down. “Just as long as we make sure there aren’t any hostile ghosts after him.”

“That part is up to him,” Vlad said, with a glance at the coffin as they returned to full visibility. It was strangely silent. “I certainly won’t stop him from coming to see you, just as long as there isn’t a repeat of what happened today.”

They both paused with the expectation that Dan might have something to add.

“Sorry our first meeting turned out this way,” Dan said quietly. “It won’t be the same next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jazz said with a knowing smile. “And to make sure I know when you’re coming to visit...” She took a small notebook and pen from her pocket and wrote down her phone number, then tore the page off and passed it to Vlad. “Just give me a call and we can set things up properly.”

Vlad knocked on the coffin with one knuckle. “You have her number now. And what do you say?”

“Stop acting like you’re my dad!” Dan snarled, and the coffin rattled again. There was a pause, and a sigh echoed within its confines. “Thanks, Jazz. We’ll talk again soon.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“We’d best be on our way, we have a long flight ahead of us,” Vlad said.

“Wait, why aren’t we going through the Ghost Zone?”

“Because the Fentons were just going down into their lab when I arrived and I’m not risking a fight with them or Daniel for a shortcut,” Vlad replied. “Besides, you have your little visits to plan. A few hours in the dark and quiet is the perfect opportunity to do so.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst! Coward!”

Vlad turned invisible and took off, the dust of the alley dancing in the wind he stirred up.

Jazz chuckled, and immediately regretted it as her bruised ribs shifted. She hurried to the sidewalk and up the front steps of Fenton Works. The relationship between Dan and Vlad wasn’t exactly friendly from what she’d seen, but it was progress for both of them. Vlad showed up despite Dan needling him, and Dan trusted him enough to know that Vlad would be there to help despite the insults.

They would probably be arguing the whole way home, now that she thought about it.

The confines of the stabilization chamber were comfortable enough. Dimly lit, perfect temperature, far more spacious than the Fenton thermos ever was. Vlad had even worked out a sort of localized gravity that kept Dan from being jostled as the chamber was moved. Something about using certain properties of ectoplasm in a similar way to the Ghost Zone; Dan had tuned out just after the first thirty seconds of Vlad’s explanation, so that was as much as he knew. It offered a good place to slow down and think, not that he was doing so because Vlad had suggested it.

Jazz still saw him as family. Part of him had wondered if, now that things had calmed, she might have changed her mind. Or if her words hadn’t been genuine to begin with. But what she said to him during the battle hadn’t been some desperate bid to get him to back down. She meant it.

Dan smiled. He was looking forward to seeing her again, once he was back on his feet.

In the meantime, though...

“Hey, old man,” Dan began, his smile becoming a smirk. “Are we there yet?”

“We have been flying for five. Minutes!” Vlad snapped back. “And I know you’re only asking that to annoy me!”

Dan chuckled. If Vlad didn’t regret taking the long way yet, Dan would make sure he did before they got home.

[acapelladitty]

Scriddler Fic: Gratitude

Summary: Concerned about his health, Edward tries to alleviate some of Jonathan's pains by purchasing him some mobility aids.

This fic was a commission from the utterly delightful @glorified-monster and it was a real pleasure to fill for them. Thank you once again for the opportunity xx

Edward surveyed the opened package with an uncharacteristic hesitancy that irritated him with its sudden appearance. The construction of the individual componets within were all beautiful; each bearing a final painted coat in deep hickory which appeared almost glossy in the poor lighting of the basement.

The joint braces were composed of comfortable foam, stiff enough to ensure support but with the necessary flexibility to allow rapid movement. A skeleton of rigid metal structured the brace into a custom fit, one which Edward had painstakingly calculated using his brilliance where a conventional tape measure proved impossible due to secrecy of the intention.

In an identical shade, the finger splints which lay alongside the braces were constructed from a fine aluminium that held an intricate series of hinges and plating which allowed for as much mobility as possible without compromising their intended purpose.

Winter had not been kind to Jonathan.

The chill had brought sickness with it and Jonathan, as susceptible as he was due to his willow frame and immune system which seemed to run on little more than fumes, had spent days bedridden. Not that it impacted his work, rather, he merely shifted focus to more theory-based experiments as yellowed notebooks soon grew fat with scribbles and chemical formulas that Edward found almost incomprehensible in their complexity.

Edward, his frame much more plump and able to withstand the cold snap, had no such difficulties. His own skin played host to thick thermals which trapped his natural warmth as he popped vitamins as freely as mints to prevent any illness from sinking its claws too deep.

But still, an unfamiliar concern feathered his senses and so he put another brilliant plan into play to ensure that Jonthan would allow at least a little alleviation of his pains.

Shifting the mobility aids within the box so that each were clearly visible, Edward dropped to his haunches as he snatched the box from the floor and strode across the basement. Reaching Jonathan's seated position, he dropped the box atop the wide worktable and waited for the response.

Jonathan Crane accepted charity with less grace than illness but Edward Nygma was more than capable of manipulation when necessary.

"The hell's this?" Jonathan grunted, his voice sliding hoarsely over the syllables as his rich Southern twang broke the stillness.

"Are you so dense as to not recognise such simple items?" Edward countered with a haughty sniff. "They are braces and splints, for your knees and fingers respectively."

Jonathan remained silent for a moment as his thin, willowy hands trembled within the box to wrap around one of the splints. A deep frown marred his forehead as he brought the small item to his face and it quickly dissolved into a snarl as he dropped the splint back into the box and pushed it away with a dismissive hand.

"I'm not an invalid and I do not require your pity."

"I never said you were. An ungrateful bastard, perhaps, but not an invalid."

Standing to his impressive height, Jonathan used the extra inches he had to fill the small space.

"I do not need these to work. My recent illness had passed and I am no longer feeling its effects."

Edward bit back his cruel reply, restraining the desire to immediately drag Jonathan down to size, and instead he crossed his arms defensively.

"You are not working to full efficiency. I see the tremble in your fingers when the winter chill sets into them and, since we work together more often than not, I will not allow for my plans to be delayed due to an easily corrected roadblock."

It was an out. An easy escape for Jonathan to accept the help without sacrificing any dignity. It was the closest thing to kindness which Edward could offer him.

A deep hum emitted from Jonathan's chest as he considered the words. His intelligent gaze, robins egg blue eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles, flashed for a moment as something between acceptance and amusement settled in his features.

"I see your mind is not to be changed." He growled. "Very well. I will consider their use."

"Excellent." Truly pleased, Edward allowed a wry smile to tug at the edges of his lips. "And if you find any discomfort with them then I can refit them for a more appropriate shape."

[agrazza]

AU ficlet

so if you're looking for something hurt/comfort from TG/Astarion and you are not in the discord (where I already shared), can I interest you in this probably-will-never-become-canon excerpt under the cut? setting is vaguely On Darkness era, in which Tav recalls a memory (probably the one from my most recent fic, but it's not specified) and... copes in an unusual way.

He wanted to get away from these memories. They were too big, crushing his mind under the weight and the grief and he hated them. Wanted to carve them out in a way that he hadn’t been tempted to take a knife to himself since he’d rejected Bhaal for good. He wanted to be small, too small for the memories to find him, too small to understand them, small enough to hide from them. 

He clutched at his head, gasping quietly as Astarion said something soothingly to him, a cool hand on the back of his neck, but it wasn’t enough. Tav couldn’t understand him over the buzzing in his ears. Tav didn’t want to be in this body that could now remember a hurt deeper than he’d been prepared to bear. If only he could just… not be. 

Yes. There had to be something. Some escape. Out of his head, out of this shape, away. “Darling, I really need you to breathe,” he heard suddenly, quite clearly, a voice that was tense with worry, and Tav gasped obediently, trembling, but only so that he’d have enough air to grasp for his flute and play. 

. . .

Astarion had no idea what was going on. First Tav had been clutching his head and crying, softly, so quietly that it broke Astarion’s heart more than if he’d been yelling in agony or sobbing. Like he was afraid to bring too much attention to his pain but couldn’t bear it any longer. No catharsis, just suffering. 

Then he started hyperventilating, which was very Not Good, as far as Astarion remembered. His bard needed air to breathe, to speak, to live. “Darling, sweetheart, it’s alright,” he tried, not wanting to smother, but needing Tav to know he was there. He settled for cupping the back of Tav’s neck, but it didn’t seem to help with Tav’s misery. “Darling,” he said, more firmly. “I really need you to breathe.”

Tav took a shuddering sort of breath, then another, then fumbled for something on the bed. His flute? What—? He played, something Astarion had never heard, yet it had real power in it: magic. There was a flash of light, and then his bard vanished. 

Briefly, Astarion panicked. That hadn’t been Teleport, or any of Tav’s spells that had a teleportation effect that Astarion knew. What had he done? Where—?

“Mrow,” the rumpled bedsheets said.

Astarion froze, then reached down and flicked back the blanket. A blue-eyed cat with a notched ear looked at back at him. 

“You didn’t,” Astarion said, and if he’d taken a moment to gawp, well no one could prove it. The cat had long fur, a broad head and a short neck, and its fur was a whitish light brown color, mostly cream with a darkening slightly at the nose, ears, tail and paws. He was not a delicate cat, broad chested with round paws, but he had a terribly-soft-looking coat. 

Astarion reached down without meaning to, and the cat began purring immediately, butting his head against Astarion’s knuckles. “Well,” Astarion said, not sure if he was amused, shocked, or worried. “My dear, I know we compete for most-effective way to ignore painful feelings, but spontaneously learning how to turn yourself into a cat seems a tad extreme.”

“Mrrp,” Tav-as-cat said helpfully— it wasn’t Wildshape, he wasn’t a Druid, so it must be Polymorph. Astarion really didn’t understand Bard magic— and went utterly limp when Astarion went to pick him up, half-expecting the cat to protest. Instead, it purred louder, draping itself dramatically over Astarion’s arm and curling its fluffy tail around his wrist. 

“Well,” Astarion repeated, helplessly charmed. The cat was terribly warm, and its fur was very soft under Astarion’s fingers. His whole body was practically vibrating with how loud the animal purred at Astarion’s attention. 

“Just for a little while,” Astarion said sternly, sitting on the edge of the bed and settling the puddle of an animal on his legs. Tav’s round paws kicked once, twice, gleefully, before he sprawled all across Astarion’s lap, getting cat hair all over his breeches, no doubt. “A short break can’t hurt you, I suppose,” Astarion mused, relieved at least the Tav-as-cat wasn’t crying and didn’t seem to be in any emotional pain. 

The cat meowed again until Astarion resumed scritching his ruff, rolling to bare his belly without shame, and Astarion gave in to the urge to coo; it was unlikely Tav would remember. “You handsome specimen,” he murmured. “Of course you’d turn into a great lazy, lummox of an animal who only cares about using me as a pillow,” he said, his tone at odds with his words. The cat’s startlingly blue eyes were lidded in animal pleasure as Astarion petted him, utterly lax. 

“Rest darling,” Astarion murmured, words almost lost under the sound of Tav-as-cat’s contentment. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

[copicwritesblabberblahs]

𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓

📌TomTord.. (i promise i cAn write other stuff, but also i like them so) uhh separation? losing someone (moving away)? unable to let go.

Basically an overdramaticised version of the "Tord leaves for the big city" scene. With history, duh. (ALSO I WROTE THIS LISTENING TO ROMANTIC HOMOCIDE FORGIVEME-)

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

Just like that... he was gone.

A goodbye that seemed to last all but a second was now to mark the end of an era. No choice but to stand beside the others, the ones he left behind, a perfect group of four wittled down to an imcomplete trio of sadness. Tom looked away, he couldn't bear to watch this person—his person—disappear forever into the foggy unknown of 'the real world'.

At least, that's what he had been told. That they were letting him go for a good reason, that it was best for everyone, best for him, best for Tom.

However, Tom couldnt care less. It was something he didnt want to happen, something he would give almost anything to prevent; and it may sound greedy to want to keep this soul to himself, selfish or cruel even. But Tom didnt care.

And neither, it seemed, did Tord.

The picture perfect life Tom once had was being drained of life as the car drove farther and farther. He felt utterly useless to prevent it from occuring, and he felt a horrible sinking feeling as the car grew smaller and smaller in the horizon. There was no hope. Nothing he could do. He was rendered useless, flooded by emotions so strong his knees were tempted to buckle under the weight of his feelings, memories too precious to let go of, flashing by him like a taunting ghost.

The ghost floated away from him, its shimmery opalesence dimming before his very eyes; much like sand escaping through his desperate fingers, unable to capture it as he himself fragmented into the very sands of times which he longed for, a part of him wisping away with the departing ghost.

In a second of desperation, a moment of weakness, Tom's legs sprung into action. His body reacting as he sprinted in the direction of this light, the calls of his name quickly left behind him as he took off.

He was going to catch it. He had to.

In a voice even he barely recognised, he began to yell what sounded like pleads to come back, to turn around, to hear him for god's sake—please. Running like a madman, chasing after the ghostly light that shone over the car that held the only thing he wanted, he realised; the only thing he ever wanted.

Suddenly, the car slowed. It came to a staggering halt, just before the turn that would've taken him away forever. Tom halted as well, huffing from exhaustion as he stopped to watch as the boy himself stepped out of the car.

Tom expected just about anything right now; he was expecting confusion, sadness, understanding, anger even.

The one thing he hadnt expected however, was exactly what began to happen. Tord, the ghost, the light; it started to walk towards him as if it had read his mind, simply acting out a script, written by Tom in the opera of his imagination. Soon, they came face to face again; like many times before, like the many times they will. It was an unspoken conversation, tears and sweat seemed to do the talking for Tom's part as Tord quickly caught on. He broke into a reassuring smile, a tear of his own falling unto his complexion.

Before he knew it, Tom had thrown himself into the light, hands finding solace wrapped around the warmth of his ghost, dressed in red; as it, too, wrapped itself around Tom.

"Stay with me?" Tom heard himself choke out before he realised; distracted by the notion of falling onto his knees in the arms of Tord; his light, his ghost, his person.

"Always" Tord muttered, sighing contently.

[heliads]

All By Design Chapter Seven: i can still make the whole place shimmer

Y/N L/N is Icarus incarnate, a falling star of a singer who only feels bliss when she’s burning down. Nikolai Lantsov is what becomes of golden youth when finally forced into harsh reality. Both of them need something to save their reputations. The solution? A relationship to turn the tide of the tabloids. The only problem is that they really, really can’t stand each other, and that makes faking endless love impossible to bear.

this chapter's song: bejeweled

chapter six / series masterlist / chapter eight

Contrary to popular belief, Nikolai Lantsov is not doing well at the moment. He might be the only person in the world who knows it, too. Nikolai has made sure of that. Every time he ventures out of doors, his appearance is perfect, his smiles are flawless. The reporters hurl questions his way and Nikolai answers all of them perfectly, even the curveballs specifically designed to trip him up. 

By all accounts, Nikolai has never been better. Those who fall prey to this perspective should take in mind one very important caveat to their musings, though:  they fail to get inside his head. Were they to actually get through to him, or, Saints forbid, get him to do a lie detector test and actually force him to shed his protective coating of lies for the first time in his life, Nikolai would be ruined. 

That, at last, is the truth. Nikolai has spent so much time running from brutal honesty that he’s scared to look it in the face now. If he stops pretending that he’s fine for even one moment, Nikolai will realize that he is as far from okay as he possibly could be. All because he lost his girl. 

It’s selfish to refer to Y/N as his girl, Nikolai has enough self awareness to know that. She stopped being his the moment they broke up, if she was ever truly his at all. What they had was never actually real, and that means Nikolai holds no more claim to Y/N than any other attendee at one of Hollywood’s Saintsforsaken parties. 

He tries to put her off his mind. Running has always been Nikolai’s best bet. There was that time years ago when he was certain he could leave it all behind, but he promised himself he grew out of that once Tolya and Tamar steered him back to reality. Right now, Nikolai has finally figured out that even that course correction was just temporary. Y/N has opened his eyes to how desperate Nikolai is for an escape, but he only knows now that she isn’t there to flee with him. 

They could do it, he thinks, if they really put their minds to it. Run away and never look back. He certainly considered it back when they were on their last legs before the ruse was up. If Nikolai had been just a little weaker, if he could have convinced himself that they would do it for the two of them and not just him, he might have actually done it.

Instead, Nikolai forced himself to walk right out their door and away from Y/N. It might be the worst mistake he ever made in his whole life. He’s tried to cover up for it, of course. He bares smiles as sharp as knives towards any camera in sight and acts as if he isn’t completely and utterly devastated by the love he no longer has.

He even tried to fall in love again. Nikolai soldiered through three weeks of solitude before he broke and begged Tolya and Tamar for something to make him feel like he wasn’t totally alone. He asked how bad it would be if he got back together with Y/N. Evidently that wasn’t what they wanted from him, so they not so gently guided him towards another alternative:  Alina Starkov.

Nikolai wasn’t counting on Alina. He doesn’t think anyone was. The day the paparazzi snapped those photos of the two of them exiting a club, the world was sent into a headspin. Nikolai dating Y/N came out of the blue, but it made sense in some strange sort of way. This doesn’t. Nikolai and Y/N were the same sort of hopeless case, bitter disaster that ended up killing them both, but Alina is genuinely good. Nikolai doesn’t deserve that.

Alina also doesn’t deserve to be alone. From what he’s heard, she’s just as far away from getting back the person she loves as Nikolai, so they agreed to a fake relationship. Nikolai holds her hand when they’re out in public and tries to convince himself that what he felt for Y/N was just the same as what he feels now:  the excitement of having someone to turn the lights on when you’re away, a person to ensure that you feel the most crushing sort of loneliness you’ve ever felt in your life. It doesn’t work. It never will.

Still, they keep trying to make it last. Weeks pass and Nikolai feels nothing. Not even the same spark of impossible vexation turned into reckless love that he’d enjoyed with Y/N. Alina is a wonderful girl, but Nikolai was not made for saints or heroes. He prefers the kind of girls he’ll never see again.

That doesn’t stop him from trying. When he was first photographed with Alina, Nikolai had walked out of the dark club and into a wave of camera flashes so bright he thought he’d permanently burned out his retinas. He has a vague recollection of raising a hand, trying to block out the bright lights, but for a few seconds there he was stumbling through the stunning whiteness in search of someone he’d never find. For a moment, Nikolai thought he saw her in the crowd.

Then he blinked and she disappeared, but that didn’t stop Nikolai from searching for her in every crowd, every busy street, every empty avenue. He joined the pop culture obsessed multitudes in analyzing every curve of her face in the paparazzi photos taken of Y/N the next day, wondering if there was any sign that he’d hurt her by moving on. 

She looked perfect, she always did. Y/N’s guard was up and stronger than ever. Of course she seems like nothing happened, Y/N is a mastermind when it comes to stuff like this. If anyone could recover from what they did to each other so quickly, it would be her.

That makes one of them, at least. Nikolai is a mess. He’s started going out more, showing up unannounced to the same parties he used to condemn Y/N for attending. He used to swirl through them, stone cold sober so he could watch and learn, but now he gives up and gives in. His favorite taste is the burn of liquor down his throat, any kind so long as it’s strong, although he does harbor a preference for kvas. If he can find something to cut out his memories with a blunt knife and give Nikolai a few hours in which he doesn’t remember that he broke up with Y/N, he’ll take it any day.

Nikolai doesn’t think he’s out of control, not necessarily. His only breakdowns happen behind firmly closed doors. The alcohol won’t be a problem, that’s the one thing Nikolai can guarantee. He will not become his father. He swore to himself that he would never be that man. Fading away into obscurity to hide from his problems isn’t a solution either. He can never become his mother. Are those really his only choices?

There was one time, though, when Nikolai’s rigid control slipped. He and Alina had come back late after a party. Too many people asking too many questions, Nikolai had one drink too many and couldn’t quite place the reason why the one girl he wanted to see never seemed to show up when he was trying to find her.

Alina had been trying to help him lie down, bless her too-kind heart, and Nikolai had been doing his best to go along with it when he made the mistake. She’d laughed about how she never expected a Lantsov to be such a lightweight, really. The situation had been similar enough in his addled mind that he’d rolled his eyes and told her to stop teasing him, Y/N, hadn’t he been through enough tonight?

He recognized his slipup the second the words curled off his tongue, but by then it was too late. Instead of getting mad at him for bringing even the mention of another girl into their wonderfully current fake relationship, Alina had nodded once, solemn as ever.

“Tell me about her.”

Nikolai had blinked in surprise. “What?”

Alina’s gaze stayed steady. “Tell me about her. About Y/N. I know you love her. I’ll tell you about Mal if you tell me about her.”

“That’s a fair deal,” Nikolai had decided.

They ended up spending hours talking that night, forgetting about the fact that they were both totally exhausted. What mattered most was getting all those memories out in the open. They had both tried so hard to bury their pasts, but nothing good likes to lay dead for long.

So Nikolai had spilled his soul out about the fact that he really had fallen in love with Y/N and he really had let her go. In turn, Alina talked about Mal, her boy from her childhood, the one she’d always loved and the one who hadn’t seen her until it was too late. She’d been separated from him when Aleksander chose her for his label, and although she’s been fighting to find Mal again, it’s hard for anyone in this life to go back to who they once were.

Nikolai harbors a hope that they’ll be able to get each other back, though, and he tells Alina as much. She returns the sentiment for him and Y/N. They both smile at the thought, knowing as well as the other that it’ll never happen. Their paths are curving relentlessly away into the future. No matter how much they wish they could get back the person they love, it feels impossible. Most times, Nikolai likes a good dash of impossibility to make his life interesting, but this is different. This is where his wildest dreams get crushed.

Their conversation was much needed, though. It lets Nikolai know that it’s okay to be as devastated as he is. Once he gets over that particular emotional barrier, Nikolai has free rein to be just as miserable as he likes. He certainly takes advantage of that, too. 

It’s just that he really needs Y/N, that’s all. He misses having her there with him whenever he needed to slip the weight of the world from his shoulders. Nikolai has lost track of how many times he’s opened up her contact on his phone, finger hovering over the call button until he manages to get himself together long enough to close the app. 

He doesn’t just seek out her presence over the phone. Nikolai finds himself drifting towards places they’d been together, hoping against hope that they’ll have a decent coincidence in their favor and he’d run into Y/N again. Perhaps it’s for the best that their paths never cross, though. Nikolai has a feeling that even his best attempts at patching himself up would crumble to ash were he to just see her again. 

Sometimes, Nikolai entertains himself with dreams in which he marches up to Y/N’s door and demands that she tell him just how close he got to figuring her out. Surely he must have been at least partially successful in that task.

There was one time when he thought he might have gotten lucky. Nikolai was out on a scheduled date with Alina at a local coffee shop. He had definitely chosen that place on a whim and not just because he had heard Y/N mention the place as her favorite, that would be ridiculous. 

Maybe that’s why he was thinking of her when he was in the shop. Maybe that’s why he swore that while he was sipping a hot drink, she came in. Nikolai would know the pattern of her footsteps anywhere, be able to pick her out of a crowd even with his eyes closed. If he swears that he saw even the barest glimpse of her leaving the shop when he turned around, would anyone believe him?

Regardless of his best wishes, Nikolai was wrong. He certainly stared at the surrounding tables long enough to be sure of that. Even if Y/N did happen to be there at the same time as him, she disappeared by the time he could double take. Maybe he’s just imagining things because he’s so desperate to see her that he would conjure up her image out of nowhere, but Nikolai swears he hadn’t been lying. Wouldn’t he know her? Surely he would. 

Nikolai keeps looking, though, but he’s not sure he likes what he sees. By all accounts, Y/N is doing far better than him. That thought is only solidified when her new album comes out some weeks later. It’s gut-wrenching and powerful and devastatingly good in a way that makes Nikolai listen to every lyric on repeat for hours on end. He scans every line for some sign of a message to him, but the only thing he gets is that Y/N is doing better than she ever was. 

Over the past few months, Nikolai has persuaded himself that he can tell the difference between Y/N’s acts and truth. That must have been nothing but a delusion, however, because Nikolai swore that she was just as broken as him when he left, yet she’s out there performing like nothing has ever happened. 

Nikolai watches everything. The live shows, the lyric videos, the interviews, all of it. He overanalyzes and underlines every word, yet in all that, there’s no sign that she’s anything but fine. Sure, some of the songs are sad, but the ones she plays now are relentlessly happy. 

In fact, Nikolai has the prime opportunity of seeing that firsthand. He has a friend who’s a popular DJ, plays sold out shows fairly often and all that. He invites Nikolai to one of his displays a couple weeks after Y/N’s album comes out. The guy is decently nice, but he really must not be following the pop culture trends. The night of the show, Nikolai and Alina have barely settled into their seats when the DJ announces that they’ll be having a surprise guest. 

That surprise guest, as it turns out, would be Y/N L/N. Now, Nikolai has seen her perform live before. When he and Y/N hadn’t quite started liking each other during the early months of the ruse, Nikolai had been mandated to attend at least one of her shows. Afterwards, he didn’t mind being there in the slightest. 

Needless to say, Nikolai is no stranger with Y/N’s live performances. She’s always passionate about what she sings, always on top of her game. Tonight, though? Tonight is different. Tonight is a thousand times better than anything Nikolai has ever seen before. 

From the moment she steps out on stage for her guest performance, Nikolai can think of nothing else. If he ever wanted proof that she’s totally over him, this is it. Y/N looks perfect. She shines up there on the stage, and for a moment Nikolai is back to being a little boy at his parents’ film premieres. He’s just a kid with everything to prove, watching everyone else in the world glimmer with the pearlescent shine of the silver screen.

Looking back on that show, Nikolai could not recall for certain which two songs she sung, whether they were from the new album or not. All he could think about during that show was her and her alone. Her eyes were lined, her lips blinding scarlet. Nikolai stared and stared until he blinked and dozens of replications of her image appeared across his consciousness, facets of a diamond he’ll never see except from an impossible distance.

The press, of course, goes wild about the whole affair. Photos from at least a dozen angles reveal how Nikolai looked up at Y/N as if she were his whole world. She winked at him once during it; Nikolai hadn’t known for sure if she was aware he was there until that one moment. Her grin was just as teasing as ever, and Nikolai was ruined in a heartbeat.

He visited her afterwards. He couldn’t stop himself from it. Nikolai had a few moments to think to himself once Y/N left the stage and he knew for certain that he had to see her again. After all these weeks of trying so hard to find her, he can’t leave now without saying something.

Alina knew it. That’s probably because she’s deeply aware of how it feels to miss someone with every fiber of your being. She laid a hand on his arm, leaning close to whisper something in his ear.

“Don’t do it,” she said simply.

Nikolai stared treacherously at the empty stage. “I have to,” he replied, “I have to.”

Alina sighed, then nodded once. “I’ll be waiting in the car.”

She leaves before he can apologize. Nikolai’s not sure that his words would have been anything except for hollow anyway, so maybe that’s for the best. He does her the favor of watching to make sure no one bothers her as she goes, then turns his attention towards the stage doors.

He greets his friend first, of course. Nikolai’s not so completely lost that he forgets about appearances. On his way through the backstage area, he snags a couple roses from a bouquet someone left behind for the opening act.

Heart pounding in his throat, Nikolai weaves through backstage workers and around twisting corridors until he finds a door marked with Y/N’s name. He knocks once. Belatedly, he wonders if she’ll resent him for showing up to her very room, for infringing on her peace one last time. Then she opens the door and Nikolai can’t think about anything but her, just her. 

She’s still got her makeup on from the performance. Glitter dusts her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose. It’s good to see that the shine was actually real, not just his pathetically pining brain attributing every bit of glamor in the world to her. 

A few seconds later, once Nikolai manages to stop getting lost in her eyes, he realizes that she has yet to say a thing. One brow arched, she’s waiting for him to explain what in the hell he’s doing here. After all, they did agree on no contact. 

“You polish up real nice,” Nikolai blurts out. 

Y/N grins at that, and damn if he forgot exactly what it’s like to have her smiling at him. He feels like he’s been knocked off his feet. 

“Still just as charming as ever,” she jokes. 

Nikolai tries not to feel too proud about that as he’s fairly sure that she’s being sarcastic. Y/N glances at his hand and Nikolai remembers the roses he shamelessly stole from the opening act’s bouquet. 

He pushes them towards her. “For you,” he adds somewhat needlessly. 

Y/N’s face shuts down, the glimmering hint of controlled amusement she’d allowed him earlier gone in a flash. She doesn’t look like she’s angry at him per se, just stunned. There had been a brief moment of shock but her walls had slammed up just as quickly. 

She stares at him accusingly, and it occurs to Nikolai that she probably despises him. He raises one hand in quiet goodbye. 

“You were wonderful tonight.”

It’s all the praise he can manage to muster at the moment. Countless more compliments swirl around his head, but he dares not voice them lest she not believe him. Nikolai does not think he could stand Y/N looking at him like he’s yet another one of the liars. 

She still has yet to speak, which is as good a sign as any that he’s worn out his non-existent welcome. Nikolai nods one more time and books it down the hallway again. He swears that Y/N moves a hand as if to stop him, but she remembers herself and retreats back into the dressing room before either of them can make another mistake. 

On the drive back, Nikolai is silent. The stars wheel overhead, the white lines of the highway flash by. Alina is long gone, already at her place. Nikolai is headed back to his, where he’ll be alone for the thousandth time since he left Y/N. It’s funny, isn’t it, that Nikolai has been grappling with her absence all this time, yet the moment he sees her face again he’s hit with the brunt of that hurt all over again. 

His throat feels hot and tight. Instead of letting out a scream, Nikolai presses his foot down on the pedal and lets his car carry him even further away from her.

series tag list: @neelia-ficrecs

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy

[minteayoongimakesmewoozi]

The Akihiko stans are being so well fed!!(ty so much),what was Yohahiko's relationship with the Upper Moons and Muzan?I'm especially curious abt him and Douma(i just now realized he must have seen Kanae get killed,brb gonna cry)

thank u for stanning akihiko in the first place! the reason u guys are fed is bc i too am being fed. mutual feeding (not kinky)

Yohakihiko's relationships with the Upper Moons

Gyuutarou and Daki:

- yoha always found them disgusting. he doesn't understand why they would merge together like that. they've always been stronger than him together, even if he's pretty much on par with daki in terms of strength. still, wherever daki goes, gyuutarou is sure to follow, and yoha is no match for gyuutarou

- they share a sibling-like relationship on a very loose sense. they share a sire in that douma was the one to turn them into onis (even if yoha had forgotten how exactly that had happened)

- they're siblings who hate each other. yoha detests the idea of siblings; they make his skin crawl and he was never happier than when the combined upper six fell to those ridiculous demon slayers

- but it sure pissed yoha off to learn that gyuutarou and daki had been the first to make ayame bleed

- he's never forgiven them for that

- gyuutarou tolerates yoha bc douma does, but that's about it. he won't greet yoha when they pass each other, and they don't have much contact anyway

- except that time gyuutarou cut yoha for calling them disgusting

- daki adores yoha, but in a really annoying way. she enjoys the fact that she's technically his aneki, and she rubs it in his face any time she can. she stole his mask once and ever since she saw his pretty boy face, she was obsessed. she likes pretty things, after all

Gyokko:

- yoha doesn't care much for gyokko, and upper five feels the same for yoha

- they tend to ignore each other

- yoha does bear a grudge against gyokko for gifting his precious douma-sama that ugly vase. he hates all things to do with art. where possible, he tears it apart with his bare hands

Hantengu:

- yoha scares hantengu, oddly enough. there's something about the way yoha carries himself that makes hantengu's senses grow wary

- probably the fact that even though yoha forgot he was akihiko, he still carries himself like a demon slayer

Akaza:

- akaza cares very little for anyone who respects douma, so he's extremely apathetic about yoha

- this irks yoha to no end. especially since he sees akaza as his mortal nemesis. he doesn't like the way akaza commands douma's attention in the brief moments they meet. he especially hates the way douma-sama always tells him to play nice with akaza-dono

- yoha is still outwardly respectful of akaza, but he's plotted to overthrow akaza from the seat of upper three for the longest time

- it's thanks to akaza that yoha developed his obsession over ayame. it started with wanting to see the demon slayer that was so unremarkable but managed to gain the ire of akaza, but then he took one look at her and decided she was interesting beyond the rage she invoked in akaza

Douma:

- obviously yoha's relationship with douma is screwed up

- he's yoha's sire after all

- yoha thinks douma is fond of him because he was the one who decided he was worthy of becoming an oni

- douma doesn't feel such emotions. he acts like he's fond of yoha, but he's just fascinated by the particular way yoha broke because of his torture. he pokes and prods to see how he can make yoha worse, all under the guise of being a loving sire

- their relationship is seriously messed up. i don't even know how to go into the details

- douma rarely lets yoha out of his sight. (he needs to break yoha every day to feel some form of enjoyment.) he does loan out yoha to do muzan's bidding every now and then

- after all, no one can torture as well as the king of demons

Kokushibou:

- yoha's reaction to kokushibou is utterly fascinating

- he detests upper one with every fibre of his being. it's a revulsion that is written into his very dna, clinging to his skin and carved into his bones

- of course, yoha isn't stupid. he knows he's no match for upper one - he can't even fend off gyuutarou. he does his best to never look at kokushibou should their paths cross

- kokushibou feels nothing for yoha. i'm not sure he ever registered his presence. yoha might as well have been a speck of dust to kokushibou

- after all, for a demon-slayer-turned-oni, he's very dull. he doesn't even remember being a demon slayer

Muzan:

- ah. this is... it's hard to tell.

- yoha is an interesting experiment to muzan. nothing more, nothing less. a demon slayer who successfully turned into an oni but is useless otherwise. his power is unremarkable, and his ambitions are far too big for his body. his mind is in tatters and yet he still marches on

- muzan's decision to bring yoha along with him to okutama was nothing more than a whim. he was curious about how he might react away from douma's influence, but he brought kamado tanjirou and that girl he drags along into his life

- an unsuitable replacement for akaza. that's all yoha ever is to muzan

- of course, if it wasn't for muzan, ayame and yoha wouldn't have met again. he really shouldn't have fed yoha's obsession of ayame. it only ever made things worse for himself

- hindsight is twenty-twenty, eh?

and as for kanae...

- yoha was there was kanae was killed

- or maybe it's better to say that yoha is the reason kanae was killed

- kanae could have survived the fight with upper two. after losing a friend, after seeing the way sanemi retreats into himself after akihiko's death she trains harder than ever

- "i don't want sanemi-san to lose another friend" is what she tells herself, but the truth is that she fears what sanemi will become without her. she kept sanemi afloat after akihiko died, even when she knew it was dangerous to grow too close

- she loved sanemi, the way she loved akihiko. she could never choose. she just never expected fate itself to choose for her

- but obviously when she hears news of upper two on a rampage once more, she cannot stand idly by

- akihiko gave his life to stop upper two once. if kanae can kill him, then maybe she can redeem herself. (she had been to slow to come to akihiko's rescue. the sight of sanemi clutching akihiko's bloodied haori will forever remain ingrained in her brain)

- so she trained hard and could fight upper two to a standstill. she would even survive

- and then akihiko shows up and kanae is thrown off-guard

- then she was stabbed, cold freezing her lungs and causing her body to shut down

"see what becomes of demon slayers?" upper two tittered as akihiko's monstrous gaze landed on her.

utterly blank.

"pathetic," says the oni wearing akihiko's face, and kanae finds herself mourning akihiko all over again

- as shinobu holds her close and tears fill her eyes, she's struck with the cold realisation that, even in the afterlife, she won't meet akihiko

[foxqueen-katarian]

Even if you don’t want it you’re getting it because I need someone else to read it.

The unending hum of imminent destruction was growing louder, like a dirge rising toward a cacophonous crescendo. It wouldn’t be long now, an hour maybe two, before Zemniaz fell from the sky. Aldric stood still in the chaos, heart pounding in his chest, trying to burn the image of his family into his memory. His final moments with them had arrived too soon, the weight of his choice heavy in his chest. He pressed a last, lingering kiss to Una’s curls, the small girl's breath shuddering against him. Her grey eyes, wide and brimming with uncomprehending tears, searched his face, silently pleading for answers she was too young to understand. He couldn’t bear it, the raw innocence of her confusion as she clutched at his robes, asking him wordlessly why he was leaving.

Leofric and Percival stood just a few steps away, quiet but equally undone. The silent, restrained sobs of boys far too old for their years cracked something deep within him. It shattered his heart to leave them behind, his sons who were just beginning to grasp the brutal truths of their world. He hated this, hated that it was him who had to make the choice that no father should ever have to make. To leave them. To fight. To sacrifice everything.

But it was Leonette who broke him in ways nothing else could. She was standing apart, eyes blazing with fury, her rage cutting through the heavy fog of despair like a blade through thick smoke. Anger rippled off her in waves, directed at him, at the world, and at the bastards from Aeor who had brought this apocalypse to their doorstep. Saying goodbye to the children had been soul-wrenching, but facing Leonette, his love, his equal, the woman who had been the fire that kept his heart alive, was an agony of another kind.

He approached her last, and for a moment, they simply stared at one another, suspended in the stillness between breaths. So much remained unsaid, but there wasn’t time to unravel the knot of their unspoken words now. He knew it. She knew it. All he could do was pull her into his arms, their bodies pressed together in a last embrace. His forehead rested against hers as he whispered, “I love you,” the words escaping in a hoarse rasp, knowing that it could never capture the depth of his feeling.

Her breath hitched, a sound so small and fragile that only he could hear it. His brave little firebird, always burning bright, was trying so hard to stay strong. She wouldn’t break, not here, not now. She had to hold it together for the children, for the plan, for him. She would fight back her emotions, hold them off like she’d held off so many storms, until they were safe and out of reach of the destruction to come. But he knew her too well. The cracks were there, barely visible, but there all the same. She pressed their youngest, little Aldric, into his hands. Barely a year old, his soft, dark hair, the same shade as his, framed his delicate face as he slept, utterly unaware of the world crumbling around them. He would never remember this moment, never know his father’s touch, never truly understand what had been lost.

Leonette’s voice broke the silence, wet and thick with the tears she fought to suppress. Her hands cradled his face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones as she whispered, “In another life, Aldric, there is nothing I would have loved more than to plant green beans and watch our children grow.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but before the emotion could fully take hold, she leaned in, kissed him with all the passion and sorrow in her soul. It tasted of ash and fire, bitter and searing, and he wished, desperately, that they had time, time to savor it, time to say everything that remained between them. Just time.

“I’m sorry that’s not the world we were given,” she whispered as she stepped back, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but her jaw set with determination. For a moment, her grief was there, raw and plain, a glimpse of the woman beneath the archmage. But it passed quickly, replaced by the fierce resolve he had always admired in her.

“The world is already burning, Aldric,” she continued, her voice steady but weighted. “It’s not my fire they’ll need. It’s your hope. Don’t let them fall into despair.”

He blinked, the meaning of her words coming too slowly, sinking in like lead in his chest. Before he could react, before he could even take a step toward her, there was a surge of energy between them, the air crackling with the familiar hum of her magic. A barrier, shimmering and impenetrable, thrummed into existence, separating them. His heart seized with panic, understanding flooding him all at once.

“I love you, Aldric Ermendrud,” she said, voice steady despite the tears. “I’ve loved you every second of every day for as long as I can remember. You make sure they know how much I loved them.”

She turned, already moving away from him, her spellbook thrust into Siff’s hands as she passed. “Get them out, somewhere safe,” she commanded, her tone sharp, final. “And you don’t look back.”

Siff nodded, his voice gravelly with emotion. “Make them pay for every inch, Widogast,” he growled, accepting her orders. “Make them regret every decision that brought us here.”

Leonette Widogast, the Burning Light of Zemniaz, had given her final command, and now there was nothing left for to do but follow it. But the truth of it ripped through him. He had been ready to buy them time, to fight to his last breath, to let her and the children escape. But now, now she was the one going to her death, and he was meant to survive. To live without her.

“No!” he rasped, desperation clawing at his throat. “Nettie, no! You’re supposed to go with them!”

She paused, her shoulders tensing for just a moment before squaring again, her chin lifting. Gone was the tender flame of his firebird. This was the Archmage of Evocation, the unyielding force of nature who had held the line in every battle, every council meeting, every decision that mattered. She was the youngest archmage in Zemniaz’s history, and now she would defend it to her last breath.

She didn’t turn back.

With resolute steps, she crossed the threshold and stepped onto the war-torn streets, her robes twisting around her shifting into the official battle regiment of her station, and over it, an mantle of crackling, fiery feathers flared into existence. For one heartbeat, her eyes met his through the shimmering wall of magic, and he saw everything they could never say reflected in her gaze. The barrier between them flickered, but it was too late.

She was gone.

With a single word, “Brennan”, she summoned a towering wall of fire, sealing the entrance, ensuring he could not follow. It was her final safeguard, her last gift, leaving him behind as she walked to her doom.

Hey so you know how like two weeks ago I got a little too self indulgent and about a possible Calamity series set in Zemniaz? I may have a couple thousand words of fic, and was wondering if anyone would want to read it? It's not good, and for some reason I decided to add dialogue when I know I'm exceedingly bad at writing dialogue, but I'd be willing to share if literally anyone was interested.

[sunboki]

WEARING A SHORT SKIRT IN FRONT OF SKZ

including; bang chan, lee felix, hwang hyunjin, seo changbin, han jisung, lee minho, kim seungmin, yang jeongin

genre; suggestive, fluff

BANG CHAN didn’t initially notice the short skirt you wore to the studio until his eyes traveled down to notice the thin lacing of your panties becoming eerily visible with your walking movements. almost immediately as if it were a second instinct he hurried behind you, face slightly flushed from the encounter. the blushy facade maintained before he took note of the looks you received, the states. especially the stares. quite funny actually, how you hardly blinked—oblivious to the gazes while chan took his sweet time sending them a venomous glare. like some sort of protective bear, guarding its cubs. trust me, the ride home was a bit of a long one with chan ushering you into his lap to ‘save space.’ otherwise, he would’ve probably melted into the seat from the situation alone. it was a good thing you gave in.

FELIX was not anticipating such a sight whatsoever. that short cool toned skirt that hugged your waist and hips so well, flowing effortlessly with you. breathtaking couldn’t describe it well enough. despite this absolute jaw-dropping sight, felix couldn’t help but feel the need to hide you away, as if you were too pretty to be seen by anyone except for him. the thing being you were too pretty for everyone else in his eyes. “dove, you’re too good.” he sighed into your arms, head nuzzled into your neck in a warm embrace. felix’s embrace. “what do you mean lix ?” you sighed with him, confused at his statement. a long silence followed, the bbokari’s face tainted with red. “this, is too much.” he softly tugged at the edge of your skirt, your shoulders vibrating with amused giggles. too cute.

HYUNJIN tried his absolute hardest to conceal his expressions. but as we all know, the llama is as transparent as ever and there is simply no fix to his faces. it would’ve been fine if he was only shocked, but the looks he gave the people at the cafe became a bit hazardous at a certain point. “jinnie quit it .. we’re gonna get kicked out.” you tugged at his sleeve, nervously acknowledging the startled by-goers. “so be it.” he pouted, plush lips pursing outwards like a stubborn child. he looked like a ruffled puffin right now. after what felt to be an eternity, you were seated at a small two-chair-table sharing a cozy view of the flower shop befriending the cafe you inhabited at the moment. “should we go home then ?” you sadly pondered, wanting to spend this time carefree, but it seemed the experience wasn’t pleasant. this utterly broke hyunjin’s heart. feeling as if he ruined this fun date with you. “i’m sorry baby, i was acting out.” the jiniret fiddled with his fingers awkwardly, hiding his face in the menu. “…just wanted to make sure they knew you were mine..”

CHANGBIN had invited you to learn a choreography with the rest of 3racha, you’d been thinking about the offer and it seemed interesting, so why not tag along? well, your clothing choice was a measly amount foolish with the new short white skirt you’d purchased beforehand—but already arriving at the location it would be pointless to turn back now. “so, are we ready?” bang chan asked, nodding to han. the first few steps weren’t complicated, but did require a bit of hopping. luckily, changbin as attentive as ever placed his big hands on your hips, easing your back to his chest. “not a wise choice today.” he whispered in a hushed tone, quietly tugging down the fabric to barricade any inconveniences. “don’t worry, i’ve got you.” leaving a soft peck on your cheek out of the others eyesight. as cute as this was, it still didn’t keep from the choreography including more jumping and such. taking the safer route, you resorted to watching the three practice while sitting on the couch. “bored?” a sweaty changbin sauntered beside you, leaning over with his back facing you. “hop on.” — “huh?” — “it’ll make it less boring.” he implied, nudging you in his direction. this being the reasoning behind why you were practically soaring around the studio room on changbin’s back like some sort of horse. although chaotic, worth it.

HAN could hardly look at you, his chubby cheeks the color of the bright red shirt slacked comfortably on his form. he’d proposed the idea of shopping the day before after endless complaining about his lacking wardrobe. “i can’t be walking around with a model, that makes me look even more like an idol.” chuckling lowly to suppress his bubbling embarrassment. “you don’t have much to say, you look like this all the time.” you gestured to yourself from how he called you a ‘model.’ he was one to talk. only rolling his eyes half heartedly at your comment, he feebly attempted to shop normally to no avail. wherever he went it felt like your distracting mini skirt was magnetizing his eyes, the guilty gnawing fueling those reddened chipmunk cheeks of his. “how about this one?” holding the jeans up to your legs, he almost cried with relief at the coverage. “those are good.” nodding his head frantically, the han you knew returned for a moment, when you placed the jeans back and turned around abruptly though he was done for. to say less, he was more than ready to go home after this dreadfully teasing date.

MINHO is immune to your attacks. you’ve tried. skimpy shorts, tops, skin tight yoga pants, nothing. at this point it’s a question of whether he even is attracted to you in the first place. slightly concerning but nothing to worry about in all honesty because on the inside, lee minho leeknow is freaking out. legitimately throwing things and screaming at the top of his lungs over you. challenging if anything. and today, today was the day. the day you’d see minho lose control of the tame face he wore. as we all know leeknow, is not unfamiliar with alcohol. in this relationship, trips to bars around town are not foreign. even if you simply sit around on the bar stools and make small talk like strangers. today though was a bit frisky, also known as another testing session. a time you’d choose to wear something revealing or daring to grasp minho’s attention and hopefully steer him off the path—being a tiny black skirt. however your outfit wasn’t the reasoning behind his thrash out, it was the shameless mutters of an aged bar-goer which he could hear perfectly well. “if you have something to say about her, we’d all love to hear it.” he ripped the drink from the man’s hands, pulling him by his collar to face the sneering opponent. “nothing at all..” the other stammering incoherently. “that’s what i thought too, good decision.” very, very hot.

SEUNGMIN‘s low tolerance for your skin was easily laughable. simply off the shoulder shirts had this man flustered. he found your skin like porcelain, soft and delicate and the thought of random people gazing upon that of which was precious to him filled a sinking feeling in his chest. although this may apply, he wasn’t against you wearing only outfits he approved of, he didn’t want you to be restricted on your clothing—something he’d say for this would be “that’s up to your parents to decide, not me.” and then laugh at himself over the stickiness of the sentence. “ah, i’m fine.” he stiffly answered to your worried ‘are you okay?’ after all, he’d been prepared for this picnic with you to the local park; you informing him of your new purchase. handing the statue a sandwich gingerly, you both ate comfortably however when it came to walking he was stiff once again. “i promise i won’t spin.” you soothed, fingers intertwined giving his a light squeeze. this apparently laxed the nerves jumbling in seungmin, the end of the path nearing. “we’re here! yes!” you twirled, bewildering all the peaceful behavior. “you said no spinning…” he groaned depressingly. a puppy.

I.N encouraged you to wear this ne skirt, he’d noticed how enticed you were by it so why not? either way, he was looking forward to seeing your happy face shine with glee when he drove to get ice cream ( something he’d promised earlier ) with you. “it’s really flattering on you, i like the white.” he complimented with a shy fox-like smile. the smile that jeongin wore endlessly. the innocent little fox paid for your ice cream along with his, but as innocent as it may appear, he was not expecting how much the clothing piece would rise up. so upon recognition he jerked his head away, avoiding eye contact at all measures. “huh? what is it?” you nervously looked to your left and right, mildly confuzzled. “oh i see..” you hummed, grinning from ear to ear. “innie, you’ve seen me it’s okay to look.” — “uhmm i’m good...” you concealed your joking expression, trying hard not to laugh. so so innocent.

thank you for reading <3

all rights for this work are owned by @faulix

[marchtothefuckingsea]

Bitter Water - Geralt of Rivia

My Masterlist.

I usually don’t do this kind of thing, but this was heavily, heavily inspired by some songs, so I included them as they’re used if you want to listen. If not, that’s fine too! They’re not needed at all the get the jist of the story. 

Geralt x fem!Dandelion (Jaskier still exists, it’s mostly just a placeholder name that I thought fit her really well. she’s a bard too!) 

Bittersweet fluff. 

Word count: 5.6k 

Warnings: None. This is my first time writing in something other than first person, so excuse any mistakes. 

Summary: It’s the utterly stupid song that makes Geralt realize that he’s in love with the bard. Undeniable, irrevocably, helplessly in love with her.

He watched the fire dance in her eyes as she stared at it, while a light smile graced her lips from something the male bard to her right had said; most likely a jab at the witcher sat across from them. His own lips curled up in a barely noticeable smile.

The close trio had spent the last week traveling in search of another beast, and had finally caught up to it and defeated it the day before. They had been paid with a bag of coin for their efforts and-though they had more than enough to rent a room or two in a tavern- the witcher and, most especially, the female bard had insisted upon sleeping outside while the weather was still nice, much to Jaskier's disapproval.

 And, like always, Geralt would give her the world if she asked. Not that she ever did; she was a simple person. She didn't judge harshly, and she wasn't loud or obnoxious like her fellow bard. In fact, she was quite quiet, only speaking what was needed most of the time. She only came out of her shell during times like these, and when she sung. Gods, was she beautiful when she sung.

He immediately shook his head at that thought, as if shaking away a fly. The witcher turned his head back to the two bards, who had fallen quiet, now whispering to each other, Jaskier with a wide grin on his face, and Dandelion with the beginnings of one on her own, both looking at him.

"What?" He grunted, glaring at them half-heartedly. 

"Nothing. Just having a good old chat." Jaskier piped up, unable to wipe the grin off of his face.

The witcher snorted. "I'm going to bed." 

"Bed? You mean like the one I- I mean we- could have been sleeping on if you two weren't being fools?" Jaskier had suddenly included Dandelion  in on his jeers. She rolled her eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully. 

"Where's your adventurous spirit, poet?" She mocked him back just as teasingly. Geralt just grunted again, leaving the two to have at it. He sunk into his sleeping bag a sigh, listening to the bards joke with each other. After a while they quieted down and, with his elevated hearing, he heard the crunch of leaves beneath her quiet footsteps. His lips quirked up in a small smile; she had learned well, unlike the other bard. Had he the normal hearing of a human, he would not have heard her at all. Feigning sleep, he listened as she slid into her sleeping back with a contented sigh, sidling up closer to him. 

"Geralt?" Her voice was quiet, not wanting to wake Jaskier who had already passed out several feet away. His snoring broke through the background noise of the last remaining crickets and cicadas of the warm season. 

He considered pretending to be asleep, but he couldn't. “Yes?” He asked back just as quietly. Something about the moment felt intimate, and he couldn’t bear to be the one to ruin it. 

“I- I thought you were asleep. Sorry-” She began to apologize, but he cut her off. 

“What were you about to say?” 

“I was going to ask you if..ugh it was stupid. Forget it.” The moment had been ruined.

-

“Geralt, I have to talk to you. It’s important.” Dandelion had crept up behind the witcher, surprisingly unbeknownst to him. Had he not traveled with her for over a year now, he would have took her tone for being serious, but her voice was just a few octaves higher than it would have been if she was actually, in fact, serious. He wondered why he knew that, and cleared his throat, clearing the thought away with it. The witcher was suddenly aware of another pair of footsteps; they were relatively quiet, but still clumsy and uncoordinated. 

“No you don’t.” He grunted, returning to sharpening his hunting knife. 

“No, I do.” She insisted impatiently. “I told you, it’s important.” Her voice grew louder as the clumsy footsteps grew closer, and he could tell she was trying to cover up the other bard’s footsteps with her voice. 

“Is it about Jaskier trying to be quiet and sneak up on me once you have me occupied?” He retorted sourly. 

“It’s- what are you even talking about?” Her voice wavered for a split second, giving him all the confirmation he needed. 

“The gods only know what he has in that bucket of his. It smells sour.” He frowned, scrunching his nose up at the faint smell. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She took two steps back, unable to contain her nervous laughter. He couldn’t help the smug grin that crept onto his face. 

“Oh come on!” Jaskier exclaimed, dropping his pail onto the ground and making himself known. “What a killjoy!” 

Geralt’s nose really scrunched up then, the fowl smell becoming stronger. “What is that?” 

“Mud.”

“From where??” 

“The swamp where the zombies were.”

“That would explain the rotten corpse smell.” Geralt stood, towering over his companions, who were now backing up quickly, before he could retaliate. 

How he ended up with two annoying bards was entirely unknown to him. 

- 

The next night, the witcher leaned back against a tree, distancing himself from the fire that the two bards huddled close to. His muscles ached from fighting the rest of the zombies that had managed to evade them earlier in the day. Another day, another job well-or not so well- done. 

A soldier, a poet, a king

Dandelion  strummed her guitar quietly, experimentally, glancing over to the seemingly sleeping witcher. Jaskier sat across from her, clearing his throat as he began to tap softly on the body of his lute, creating a soft drumming sound. The witcher listened quietly, feigning sleep as he rested his sore body. Iris had fought too, but she was far from tired.

“There will come a soldier, who carries a mighty sword.” She sang softly. “He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” 

“Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord. He will tear your city down, oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” Jaskier joined in for the chorus, but not playing his own instrument the way it was meant to be played. He still tapped on the side of it, and Dandelion began to tap her heel against the log she was seated on in time with the rhythm. 

Geralt, who had actually been drifting off to sleep, tensed in surprise. He had never heard the self-proclaimed bard sing before. He had heard her hum tunes before, and even that was music to his ears. Her soft voice carried to his ears easily.

“There will come a poet, whose weapon is his word.” He cracked his golden eyes open, and he found his gaze meeting hers. “He will slay you with his tongue. Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” She smiled gently, her face illuminated warmly by the fire. His heart seized in his chest unfamiliarly. Had he been bitten? 

“Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lord. He will slay you with his tongue. Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” Jaskier, at that moment, had been completely forgotten by the two of them, their eyes locked on each other. It was strangely intimate.

“There will come a king, whose brow is laid in thorn. Smeared with oil like David’s boy. Oh lei, oh lai, oh lord.” He watched her soft lips form the words of the familiar song he had heard sung by a number of different voices before. But her voice easily eclipsed the others; it was magic. 

“He will tear your city down. Oh lei, oh lai, oh….” She trailed off, ending the tune with a last strum of her guitar that lingered in the air. She did not break her gaze from his, staring back at him with just as much intensity. 

He didn’t want it to end. 

-

Several nights later, after another job well done, the witcher sat in a tavern, watching his two companions sing. Jaskier played his lute, which had a higher pitch and produced a distinct timbre than Dandelion’s own stringed instrument that resembled a guitar. Not her energy nor her instrument matched the bard’s, but they played together well anyway. She strummed out the last, deep note to the tune, before Jaskier tilted his head towards hers, and a smile graced her face as she nodded, agreeing with whatever he had said. Jaskier strummed out a note that sounded vaguely familiar, and when Iris joined in with her guitar, Geralt groaned at the realization. Not this song again.

 Toss a Coin To Your Witcher (Female voice)

He listened with an indifferent frown as they played the intro, stretching it out longer than they usually did. He noted that Dandelion looked nervous; That was unusual. 

“When a humble bard graced a ride along with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song.” His jaw dropped against the brim of his mug as Dandelion began to sing the song, in that sweet voice of hers. Every muscle in his body tensed in surprise, and he gripped the handle of the beer mug until his hand ached and his knuckles were a deathly white. 

“From when the white wolf fought a silver tongued devil, his army of elves, at his hooves they did revel.” Her voice was hesitant and tinged with anxiety that was only noticeable to the witcher that sat quietly against the wall, almost in a trance. “They came after me, with masterful deceit, broke down my lute, and they kicked in my teeth. And while the devil’s horns minced our tender meat, and so cried the witcher, he can’t be beat.” He smiled, noticing that the female bard had changed up the song, filling it in with the correct word that he remembered her and Jaskier arguing over constantly weeks ago as the bard had worked on the song. 

“Toss a coin to your witcher, o’ valley of plenty, o’ valley of plenty.” Jaskier’s voice joined hers at the chorus, giving Geralt the smallest bit of control to rip himself out of the trance she had put him under. 

“At the edge of the world, fight the mighty hoard that bashes and breaks you, and brings you to mourn.” She wavered slightly when Jaskier trailed off, shoving the spotlight back onto her. Geralt could tell she was nervous, and he recalled her admitting that, although she was a self-proclaimed bard, she rarely sang in front of people. Though Jaskier had encouraged her since she had joined them in their travels, and she had grown comfortable singing around the fire with the witcher and the other bard. 

“He thrust every elf far back on the shelf. High up in the mountains from whence it came. He wiped out your pest, got kicked in his chest. He’s a friend of humanity, so give him the rest.” Her tone was defiant as her eyes swept over every person in the room in the same glare that several of them had given Geralt when they had entered the tavern. 

He wondered if any of the others in the room were affected by her voice like he was. 

“That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed. Defeated the villain, now pour him some ale.”

“Toss a coin to your witcher, o’ valley of plenty, o’ valley of plenty. Toss a coin to your witcher, a friend of humanity.” Her voice filled the tavern, the anxiety that had tinged it at the very beginning of the song dissipating as she grew more confident. She continued the chorus on her own this time-in that sweet, entrancing voice of hers- and Geralt felt realization hit him like a brick wall. 

Geralt had never felt helpless, had never felt so uninhibited, in his entire life. But now that it was there, he couldn’t shake the feeling. He was frozen in place during her song, but as soon as she drew out the last note breathlessly-with a smile on her face that made the witcher breathless, too-he stood abruptly, leaving the room and ignoring her quizzical glance that he felt on his back. As much as it pained him to do so, he needed to be alone. He needed to gather himself and his thoughts, his emotions that he had absolutely no control over like he had thought. He was painfully aware, now, that he had lost the ability of control ever since he had met her. 

He was in love with her.

He was utterly, irrevocably, helplessly in love with her. 

-

“Fuck.” He breathed out. He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as he breathed in deep breaths in an attempt to regain some semblance of control. He had danced around his feelings for a while now; months, perhaps even longer. Ever since that night that he had heard her sing, she must have put a spell on him. After that, her normal voice even sounded sweeter to his ears. 

Geralt was the last person that would believe in fate. But maybe, he thought, maybe she was his fate. He cursed himself under his breath again for thinking like a damned fool. 

-

Dandelion watched as Geralt stood up and abruptly left the room, confused. She ignored Jaskier calling her back for another tune, walking after the white-haired witcher before suddenly stopping in the hallway, uncertain. What right did she have to go after him like that? He wasn’t hers to worry about. She needed to get that into her head.

With a sigh, she turned back to the tavern, Jaskier’s lute traveling to every corner of the room as he started the next song without her. She sat at the bar, ordering a mug of ale. The bartender opened her mouth as if to make a comment, then shut it, sliding the drink across the counter to the bard. She gulped down a third of it in one go, only parting from the glass for air. 

She struggled with her emotions, tears welling up in her eyes, then anger taking over. Anger at herself for even allowing herself to develop feelings towards the obvious lone wolf.

 “ I guess they call him the white wolf for good reason.” She muttered to herself with a bitter laugh, downing the rest of her drink with a forlorn feeling settling in her gut as the alcohol began to work its magic. She ordered another glass, running her hands through her hair in frustration before Jaskier sidled up in the seat beside her. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asked, sensing her distress. 

“Yes, yes I do.” She slurred, her face tearstained and her voice strained. 

“Is this about Geralt?” Jaskier was straightforward with his question. He could see the chemistry between the bard and the witcher, even though the two of them were completely oblivious-or in denial. Any fool could see it.

“Wha? ‘Course not.” The bard stumbled over her words, spinning on her stool to face him and nearly falling off in the process. He steadied her by her biceps, letting go when she jerked away from him. 

“I think it is.” He insisted as she turned back to the bar, slumping over the counter and resting her head in her arms. 

“No, ‘s just about me being an idiot.” She mumbled.

“Look, why don’t we just get you to bed. I’m sure you’ll feel better i-” He tried to tug her off of the stool, scrambling back in surprise when she spun around to face him, narrowing her eyes at him.

“No.” 

“I’m not leaving you here, you’re going to end up doing something stupid.” 

“I’m not going.” She said stubbornly.

“I’ll get Geralt.” Jaskier threatened. 

“I don’t care. Go get the big oaf. He’s probably busy with some other woman anyway.” Dandelion muttered, disappointment clear in her voice. She turned back to the bartender, ordering another drink. Jaskier left the room in a hurry.

-

It felt like minutes later-maybe hours, he wasn’t sure at this point-that he heard a knock at his door. He almost thought he was imagining it, until the knocking came again, louder this time, and more urgent. He cursed under his breath, crossing the room and opening the door.

“Fuck off bard.” At the sight of Jaskier, he slammed the door shut. Jaskier shoved his foot in the door though, hissing in pain at the strength of the door slam and glaring at the witcher. 

“What do you want?” He growled. 

“It’s Dandelion .” Geralt's heart skipped a beat at the mention of her name and he silently cursed himself. 

“What about her?” He asked flatly, leaving the door hang open and walking back into the room. Jaskier took this as an invitation, quickly following him. 

“She’s drunk.”

“And? How is that my problem?” 

“I- I don’t know, it just is. I don’t want to deal with her! She won’t listen to me!” Jaskier pleaded. 

“She’s an adult, she can take care of herself, Jaskier.” 

“You know what happened last time she got drunk and we left her there.” He deadpanned. Geralt did; she had gotten herself into a nasty fight, earning a black eye and a busted lip. 

He huffed in frustration, pushing past the bard. “Fine.”

-

Dandelion  saw the witcher approach out of the corner of her eye as she chugged down her second mug of ale. She slumped over the bar with a groan, hiding her head in her arms.

"Dandelion." Geralt grunted, taking residence on the bar stool to her right where Jaskier had been not half an hour before.

"Geralt." She greeted him, her voice muffled by her arms. She didn't want him to see her tear-stained face. 

"You're drunk." He said plainly.

"'s that obvious?"

"More than. Come on." Grabbing her by her shoulders, he hauled her out of her seat despite her muttered protests. 

"No, I'm not done." She protested, pulling against his grip. He just shook his head, towing her out into the hallway. 

"Don't make me stay with Jaskier, he snores." She complained, slouched over his arm that supported her by her shoulders. He froze, realizing she didn't have a room. Looking down at her, he saw he'd head slumped forward, nearly passed out. He towed her over to Jaskier's room-right across the hallway from his-and began pounding insistently on the door.

"Go away!" The bard shouted. "She's all yours!" He could hear the grin in the bard's voice, and he scowled. 

"Fuck." He grunted, hauling her across the hall to his room and clumsily kicking the door closed behind him. Dumping her rather unceremoniously onto the mattress, he immediately fetched his water canteen. By this time, the female bard had curled into a ball on one side of his bed, fast asleep. He sighed, debating if he should wake her or not, until she made the decision for him. She raised her head tiredly, blinking at him with glassy eyes. 

"Here." He thrusted the canteen to her, and she took it, looking confused until she tilted it back and the cool water ran down her throat. She pulled back with a cough, gagging.

"You drank too fast." 

"Someone cares?" She teased boldly, her throat still scratchy. The alcohol in her system gave her a new kind of bravery.

He grunted in response and she frowned. She had wanted a better reaction than that. 

"Why'd you come back to the bar?" She asked.

He groaned in annoyance, pulling up a chair beside the bed and settling into it as she waited impatiently. "For you." 

"Like I'd believe that." She snorted. "No pretty ladies?" 

"What?" 

"I said, no pretty women?? No one catch your eye?" 

"Nope." He replied shortly. 

"Come *onnn. You can tell me."

"Jaskier told me you were drunk, so I came to get you." 

"I don't believe it, I can see it in your eyes." She insisted, leaning forward and dramatically locking eyes with him. "You're so smitten. But for who…" She trailed off, raising her eyebrows, encouraging him to spill his guts to her.

And spill them he did.

"You. Alright? Happy?" Geralt bit out, his tone sounding sharper than he had intended. 

"Me?" She looked taken aback.

"Give it some time, alright? I just need to reign it in. I know you don't-" She leaned forward the rest of the way, cutting him off with an impulsive, forceful kiss. Her lips tasted of the strong ale she had gotten drunk off of earlier. 

"What if I don't want you to reign it in?" She asked quietly.

"You're drunk." He muttered, pushing her away. His heart was about to beat out of his chest.

"That doesn't mean I don't know what I'm talking about." She argued, but she didn't press it. She sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples and groaning as her head began to pound. "I'll take the couch." She mumbled to no one in particular, staggering around the dividing wall. He listened as she flopped onto the couch, and as she shifted around. He listened until her breathing evened out before daring to move from the chair. Quietly getting into the bed, he laid there, feeling as if he had just ruined everything.

-

Dandelion  was gone from the room entirely before he awoke. He found her in the dining area of the tavern, at a table in the corner by herself with a forlorn look on her face. He ignored the way his heart clenched painfully in his chest, walking by the table and grunting out a "We're leaving" as he passed, not trusting his voice. Jaskier waited outside by Roach. Iris nodded, looking up to see the witcher was already out the door. She sighed uncomfortably, almost considering staying behind.

Finally pushing that thought away, she left her payment on the table and followed in Geralt's footsteps out the door, finding him loading their things onto Roach. He barely spared her a glance, afraid of his eyes revealing too much.

It was after that night at the tavern, that Geralt had absolutely no clue how to approach her; especially after what he had admitted to. They set out on the road again, and she was oddly quiet as she fell into step beside Jaskier, only nodding along to what he said, and occasionally responding shortly when he prompted her to. 

"What's going on?" Jaskier asked her, hesitant to touch on the subject, but his nosy nature allowed him to leave it no longer. 

"Nothing." She muttered. 

"Come on, I'm your friend, your fellow poet! You can tell me."

"It's nothing, okay?" She didn't mean to snap at the bard, who now wore the expression of a kicked puppy. "I'm sorry I just- I'm sorry." She mumbled, falling even further behind him; an indication that the conversation was over. The bard sighed.

Dandelion trailed behind the witcher and the bard, feeling nauseous and her head pounding in a painful hangover. Her body ached when she realized they would be traveling a long way that day. With her head hung and eyes trained on the ground, she barely realized when they had stopped, almost colliding with Jaskier. She raised her head, squeezing her eyes shut when her head pounded from the sudden light. 

"We're stopping here." She frowned. They were supposed to make it to the next village by nightfall, and they still had plenty of daylight left. But she didn't question the witcher's decision, nodding slightly in response. She was just grateful for the chance to rest, her aching body desperate to lie down.

She unloaded her sleeping bag from Roach, flinching when her fingers brushed Geralt's as he tried to help her. His eyes met hers for a fraction of a second, and she saw no hostility. With a sudden bout of bravery, she laid her sleeping bag beside his as she always did, before volunteering to fetch wood and kindling for their fire. Jaskier stepped in, volunteering instead and immediately setting off before anyone had the chance to argue. Now left alone with the witcher, she stood awkwardly, shuffling her feet away from him.

"Wait." He said, making her raise her head at the emotion in his voice. She swallowed thickly.

"Did you mean it?" She asked quietly. "Because I- I did."

The female bard found her feet rooted to the ground as the witcher stepped closer to her, giving her every opportunity to step away and decline his advance. But she did not. He carefully reached to cup her face, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone before leaning down and capturing her lips in a kiss. She immediately kissed back, only pulling away eventually for air. 

"I meant it." He told her, his voice low and sincere. "I've never meant anything more in my entire life." 

-

Bitter Water

The witcher and his bard watched from their table as Jaskier danced and sang his tune, trailing the final note out before leading into another song. Geralt couldn’t help but to roll his eyes as he recognized the song from the first note now. Thanks to Dandelion, the entire, foolish song now held a place in his cold heart. He watched a small smile grace her features as Jaskier played out the tune, humming along. The song held a dear place in her heart, too; it had been the first time she had ever sung in front of people she didn’t even know. 

“When the humble bard, graced a ride along, with Geralt of Rivia, along came this song.” The witcher listened as she hummed along quietly, the smile on his face growing ever present. 

“From when the white wolf fought a silver tongued devil, his army of elves, at his hooves they did revel.” The witcher found himself humming along quietly, and his eyes met the female bard’s, her smile breaking out into a grin. 

“They came after me, with masterful deceit. Broke down my lute and, they kicked in my teeth. While the devil’s horns, minced our tender meat. And so cried the witcher, he can’t be bleat.” Geralt grinned back at her now, remembering the time she had first sung the song, and how she had changed the lyric up. It was a fond memory between the two of them.

“Toss a coin to your witcher, o valley of plenty, o’ valley of plenty.” Geralt cleared his throat, dipping his head down to his mug. 

“You know,” He started. “This song has grown on me.” 

Dandelion smiled. “It has, has it?” 

The witcher nodded fondly. “It’s when I realized I love you.” The words that had been impossible for him to say before, tumbled out of his mouth easily now, as they did the past several months of their courtship. She reached across the table, taking his larger hand in hers and tenderly tracing the lines of his palm. He sighed, relaxing at the now familiar feeling. He had found himself relaxing more in the past few months than ever before in his life.

Their intimate moment was interrupted, however, by the obnoxious bard who came bounding up to them like a loyal dog, a grin on his face. “Dandelion! Join me!”

The female bard hesitated, before she smiled at him, nodding. “Sure. I’ll be right there!” She matched his enthusiasm, before turning back to the witcher at her side with a much wider smile on her face, her eyes gleaming. 

She left her guitar, and stood beside Jaskier now. “May I?” She asked him, gesturing to his lute. He gave her a slightly confused look before nodding. Strumming the instrument experimentally, she began the tune, a nervous lump in her throat. 

“Oh-oh-oh. Oh-oh-oh.” Her voice wavered, and she stopped, stretching the tune out to allow her to collect herself. 

“Oh fair and flighty love. My aerolite above, the only dove I see.” She sang, referencing his pet name for her and making his heart skip a beat in his chest. 

“Could you love me more, if by the sun and moon I swore, that I would never flee?” Her eyes quickly met his before she closed them, unable to meet his gaze without her voice wavering. She had put the song together weeks now; everything she felt. Each line referencing something he had said to her, doubts he had expressed, doubts she felt, and things left unsaid. 

“Well I still taste you on my lips, lovely bitter water.” In his trance, he remembered the time she had gotten injured on a job. He remembered when she drank down the healing potion, and how she had grimaced, saying it tasted like bitter water. He had kissed her then, nodding and agreeing. 

“The terrible fire of old regret is honey on my tongue. And I know I shouldn’t love you. I know I shouldn’t love you.” Her eyes finally opened, meeting his in an intimate stare. At that moment, they were the only two in the room. “I know I shouldn’t love you; But I do.” 

“I feel it in my soul, I feel the empty hole. The cup that can’t be filled. I feel it in my blood, in the fire and the flood.” She closed her eyes again, melting into the song. “The beast that can’t be killed.” 

“Even now, you mark my steps. Lovely, bitter water. Oh the days of our delights, are poison in my veins.” She turned away from him, beginning to pace as she became one with the song, her body unconsciously swaying to the tune. The witcher, his back leaning against the wall, sat, once again entranced by her voice. She never failed to leave him breathless; in more ways than one. 

“I know I shouldn’t love you. I know…” She trailed off, strumming the other bard’s lute and turning back to the witcher, a sad smile on her face. 

“I am not a fool entire. No, I know what is coming.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “You’ll bury me beneath the trees I climbed when I was a child.” He remembered their first argument, while he had been digging the healing potion out his bag. 

-

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” He had growled, his sharp golden eyes snapping up to meet hers. 

“But I didn’t! I saved your ass!” She retorted, sitting up and swinging her legs over the bed in the tavern, even though the action caused her to grimace.

“I don’t care! I don’t want to have to bury you!” He burst out, unable to contain it anymore. “I love you, don’t you get that? I can’t lose you!” His voice wavered.

She immediately softened, a guilty frown forming on her face. “I’m sorry.” She apologized quietly. “I wasn’t thinking.” 

“No, it’s my fault. You shouldn’t even be traveling with me.” Her eyes widened.

“Geralt, don’t even go there.” She said softly, sternly. He refused to meet her gaze, his eyes glued to the leather bag even though he wasn’t searching anymore. Gripping the hide in his fist, he sucked in a shaky breath. “Geralt.” He looked back up at her, eyes filled with pain. 

“You don’t understand, it’s a curse. My entire life is a curse, and it spreads to those around me.” His voice was flat, but the bard could hear the strain behind it. 

“Don’t say that.” She leaned forward to embrace him, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deeply. “Don’t you ever say that.” She repeated fiercely. 

He sucked in another breath, composing himself before pulling away from her and handing her the potion. She scrunched her nose up at it as she uncorked it, but downed it in one gulp anyway. 

“It tastes like bitter water.” She grimaced. The witcher suddenly captured her in a kiss, swiping his tongue across her lips before pulling away and nodding. 

“I agree.”

-

“I know I shouldn’t love you.” He was pulled out of the memory when her eyes met his once again, a bittersweet feeling spreading through him until it faded entirely, leaving nothing but love in its wake. He had never felt so…so- He couldn’t explain it. He swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“I know I shouldn’t love you.” She strummed the lute, swaying to the song. He was just as entranced by her as the day he realized he was so helplessly in love.  The pause was unbearable as she drew it out, maintaining eye contact with the witcher she loved so dearly. 

“But I do.”