#Behind Pyres’ Mask

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Fantasy Indies April Day 20: Saturday Snippet

Theme: Secrets

There are LOTS of secrets in BPM, making it the perfect choice for today's Saturday Snippet:

It was a small thing, but it made me feel better in this moment as I walked out to my car and turned the key in the ignition.

My family didn’t know how many lies I’d told them over the last [year and a half]. And with any luck, they’d never have to know what I’d been doing with my life since Bren died and I’d turned eighteen.

I just had to survive. I had to outlive any threat that this job posed. I needed to somehow take [main-villian] down, and live to tell the tale.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Everbody Loves a Clown | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ? )

Word Count: 5956

Warnings: Canon violence, canon gore, coping with parental death, clowns lol

A/N: Special treat since the first episode was kinda short! Happy reading, everyone!

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The only light in the middle of the clearing in the woods came from John’s wrapped, burning body. You stood wordlessly between Dean and Sam, watching as the pyre burned to ash. Dean stared silently while his brother fought tears.

It felt so odd to have spent so much time looking for John— a man you'd only met in passing during a hunt a little over a year ago— to now be standing in front of his burning corpse. It almost felt anticlimactic if you detached emotion completely from your situation.

On the very real and guttural side of things, though, you knew that having spent so little time with John after looking for him for almost a year was going to take a horrible toll on his boys, especially your Dean.

Sam spoke for the first time in hours. “Before he.. before... did he say anything to you? About anything?”

Dean refused to look at you or his brother, but said, “No. Nothing.”

An obvious lie.

***

Over a week after John’s funeral, you were watching Dean work on his car at Bobby’s. Bobby had been nice enough to let the three of you stay with him while Dean got the Impala back in working order.

Selfishly, every time you looked at Dean, you wanted to come right out with your feelings. Although, he was grieving, and you did not want to take advantage of his vulnerability. You wouldn't want your relationship to be born out of such a terrible tragedy.

However, you would continue to be there for him however he needed, even if that meant sitting next to him in the hot sun silently for hours and handing him a wrench every once in a while. You knew better than to ask if he was okay. You’d lost your father, too and knew he wouldn’t be okay for quite some time.

At first, he’d barely tolerated you sitting next to him. He fought you on everything you tried to do for him, but you got him to shut up after a few days. You knew he knew what you were playing at, and you could tell he appreciated it nonetheless.

Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as well-fortified against his emotions. You could hear him crying in the next room almost nightly, and it broke your heart. But you would rather Sam cry than build himself up against negative feelings the way his brother did. He was more into the touchy-feely-hug-it-out therapy style, and you were more than happy to give that to him. These boys needed you to be strong for them, and you would happily do so for as long as they needed. 

“How's the car coming along?” Sam asked, approaching you and Dean, who was under his car. You sat next to where his boots stuck out with a tool box in your lap.

“Slow,” Dean responded.

“Yeah? Need any help?”

“What, you under a hood? I'll pass.”

“Need anything else, then?”

Dean rolled himself out from under the car and stood up above you. You looked between Dean’s face, set in hard lines, and his brother’s puppy-dog stare. “Stop it, Sam.”

“Stop what?” the younger brother asked innocently.

“Stop asking if I need anything, stop asking if I'm okay. I'm okay. Really. I promise,” Dean scoffed.

“Alright, Dean, it's just—” Sam took a deep breath. “We've been at Bobby's for over a week now, and you haven't brought up Dad once.”

“You know what? You're right. Come here. I'm gonna lay my head gently on your shoulder. Maybe we can cry, hug, and maybe even slow dance.” You knew the bite in Dean’s voice was all a mask.

“Don't patronize me, Dean,” Sam returned. “Dad is dead. The Colt is gone, and it seems pretty damn likely that the demon is behind all of this, and you're acting like nothing happened.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say something, all right? Hell, say anything! Aren't you angry? Don't you want revenge? But all you do is sit out here all day long buried underneath this damn car.”

“Sam, let it go—” you tried, but Dean continued to talk over you.

“Revenge, huh?” Dean chuckled humorlessly. “Sounds good. You got any leads on where the demon is? Making heads or tails of any of Dad's research? Because I sure ain't. But you know, if we do finally find it— oh. No, wait, like you said. The Colt's gone. But I'm sure you've figured out another way to kill it. We've got nothing, Sam. Nothing, okay? So you know the only thing I can do? Is I can work on the car.” He got back down under it.  

“Well, we've got something, alright?” Sam crouched down next to you and handed you a cell phone. “It’s what I came out here to tell you. This is one of dad's old phones. Took me a while, but I cracked his voicemail code. Listen to this.”

Dean pushed himself out from under the car again and sat up next to you as you played the voicemail. “John, it's Ellen. Again. Look, don't be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me.”

“That message is four months old,” Sam explained.

“Dad saved that chick's message for four months?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

Sam nodded.

“Who’s Ellen?” you asked. “Any mention of her in your dad’s journal?”

“No. But I ran a trace on her phone number, and I got an address.”

***

You and the boys ended up taking one of Bobby’s beat-up minivans to the Roadhouse Saloon; the address Ellen’s voicemail led to. 

“This is humiliating. I feel like a fuckin’ soccer mom!” Dean groaned as he parked the car.

“It’s the only one Bobby had running, dude,” you reminded him. You followed the boys into the purposefully dilapidated-looking building.  

“Hello? Anybody here?” Dean asked loudly. No response ever came. All you could hear was a fly buzzing and a light popping. You caught sight of a man passed out on the pool table facing away from you. 

“Hey, buddy?” Sam said. He turned back to you and Dean. “I'm guessing that isn't Ellen.” He headed into a back room to look around. You walked a little ahead of Dean, only turning around when you heard him say. “Oh god, please let that be a rifle.”

You whipped out your gun and turned to see a pretty petite blonde holding a cocked rifle to Dean’s back. “No, I'm just real happy to see you. Don't move.”

“Hey!” you said. She looked to you, but didn’t move her gun from Dean’s back. “You shoot him, and you’re dead,” you told her.

“Well, he moves, and he’s dead,” she replied.

“Ladies, Ladies, please,” Dean smirked. “You know, you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don't want to put it right against their back. Because it makes it real easy to do…” He turned around fluidly and grabbed the rifle. “That.”

The blonde punched him square in the nose and took back the rifle. You cocked your pistol, catching her attention. 

“Sam! A little help, please!” Dean said. 

“Sorry, Dean, I can't right now. I'm a... little tied up.” Sam walked out with his hands on his head and a shotgun pointed at the back of him. An older woman walked out holding it. “Sam? Dean? Winchester?” she said.

“Yeah…?” Dean said.

“Son of a bitch,” the woman muttered.

The blonde spoke up next. “Mom, you know these guys?”

“Yeah, I think these are John Winchester's boys,” she answered, lowering the gun and laughing. “Hey, I'm Ellen. This is my daughter Jo.”

Jo lowered her rifle as well. “Hey,” she smiled.

“Oh, we’re just supposed to be cool now?” you remarked, still pointing your gun at the blonde.

“(Y/N), cool it,” Dean warned. You did as told and slowly lowered your gun, still stand-offish. 

“You're not gonna hit me again, are you?” Dean asked Jo. 

Ellen handed him a small towel filled with ice. 

“Thanks. You called our dad, said you could help. Help with what?” he asked as he took it from her.

“Well, the demon, of course,” she stated as if it was obvious. “I heard he was closing in on it.”

“What, was there an article in the Demon Hunters Quarterly that I missed?” Dean snarked. “I mean, who- who are you? How do you know about all this?”

The brunette scoffed. “Hey, I just run a saloon. But hunters have been known to pass through now and again. Including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once.”

“Oh yeah? How come he never mentioned you before?”

She looked down and softened her voice. “You'd have to ask him that.”

“So why exactly do we need your help?” Dean questioned.

Now you wanted Dean to cool it. “Relax, man,” you warned.

“Hey, don't do me any favors. Look, if you don't want my help, fine. Don't let the door smack your ass on the way out. But John wouldn't have sent you if—” Ellen stopped suddenly. “He didn't send you.” She looked frantically between Dean and Sam. “He's all right, isn't he?”

Dean refused to look at her, but Sam answered instead. “No. No, he isn't. It was the demon, we think. It, um, it just got him before he got it, I guess.”

Ellen looked sad. “I’m so sorry.”

“It's okay. We're all right,” Dean replied.

“Really? I know how close you and your dad were.”

“Really, lady, I'm fine,” he growled.

“Dean, relax,” you urged him quietly.

Sam continued the conversation with Ellen. “So look, if you can help, we could use all the help we can get.”

“Well, we can't. But Ash will,” she smirked.

“Who's Ash?” you asked.

“Ash!” she called.

You turned to the man on the pool table as he jerked up and flailed up. “What? It closin' time?”

Sam snorted. “That’s Ash?”

Jo hummed. “Mm-hmm. He's a genius.”

You looked at her, skeptical. 

“Sit, please,” Ellen said, and she and her daughter moved around the bar opposite you while you slapped a folder down in front of Ash. He sat across the bar from you.

“You've gotta be kidding me, this guy's no genius. He's a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie,” Dean remarked.

Ash grinned drunkenly. “I like you.”

“Thanks,” the older brother smiled, seeming slightly confused by the drunk.

“Just give him a chance,” Jo urged.

You opened the folder and pushed it toward Ash. “That’s about a year’s worth of John’s work. See if you can make heads or tails of it.”

Ash shook his head as he looked through the papers. “Come on. This crap ain't real. There ain't nobody can track a demon like this.”

“Our dad could,” said Sam.

“There are non-parametrics, statistical overviews, prospects and correlations, I mean, damn!” Ash’s cadence made you giggle. “They're signs. Omens. Uh, if you can track 'em, you can track this demon. You know, like crop failures, electrical storms— You ever been struck by lightning? It ain't fun.”

“Can you track it or not?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, with this, I think so. But it's gonna take time, uh, give me—” he thought for a moment— “fifty-one hours.” He got up to leave, but Dean stopped him. 

“I, uh, I dig the haircut.”

He waved his hair around dramatically. “All business up front, party in the back.”

Jo walked around Dean, flirting a little. You could’ve killed her. 

He offered Jo a polite smile, but you apparently were not doing a good job of hiding your jealousy.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean chuckled, shooting you a smirk. 

You could practically feel Jo checking Dean out. 

“She’s looking at you like a hunk of meat,” you replied, talking through your teeth. 

“What, you mean, like you do?” he replied, smirking.

“I do not!” You paused at his deadpan look. “I mean, sometimes, maybe, quite possibly, but not right now.”

He nodded. “And you know, I, uh, I appreciate that.”

“Do you really? Sounded like you had a gun to your head when you said that,” you giggled.

He looked back at you sincerely. “You know I do.”

"I do just have... one question, though," you said, unable to stop the words coming out of your mouth due to the sudden, subtle flirting coming from Dean.

He nodded for you to continue.

"I'm assuming you pieced together what I was gonna tell you back at the hospital," you trailed off.

Dean nodded again, the ends of his lips tugging upward.

"You're not... freaked out?"

He shook his head, still smiling. "Opposite of freaked out."

You could feel your cheeks heating, and you looked down at the bar in front of you. Dean's chuckle was music to your ears despite the way it spurred on your embarrassment.

Then, Sam approached you and Dean. “A few murders, not far from here, that Ellen caught wind of. Looks to me like there might be a hunt.”

“Yeah. So?” Dean asked.

“So, I told her we'd check it out.”

***

Dean continued to grumble about the “stupid minivan” the whole way to your next hunt. Sam did research as you scribbled in your journal. Helping the boys was a task you wouldn't give up for anything, but it was beginning to bring up some negative emotions and memories for you. Journaling was helping to calm the storm inside you.

“You've gotta be kidding me. A killer clown?” Dean scoffed.

“Yeah. He left the daughter unharmed and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually,” Sam responded.

“And this family was at some carnival that night?”

“Right, right. The, uh, Cooper Carnivals.”

“So, how do we know it’s not some psycho in a clown suit?” you piped up.

“Well, the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop. Alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course,” Sam explained.

“Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam. Why did it have to be clowns?” Dean mocked.

“Oh, give me a break,” the brunet muttered.

You smiled but refused to make fun of him, because “everyone is afraid of something.” 

“You’re scared of clowns?” you asked.

“Yeah, he still busts out crying whenever he sees Ronald McDonald on the television,” Dean told you.

“Well, at least I'm not afraid of flying,” Sam deadpanned.

“Planes crash!”

“And apparently clowns kill!”

"Boys—!"

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean mumbled. “So these types of murders, they ever happen before?”

“Uh, according to the file, 1981, the Bunker Brothers Circus, same M.O. It happened three times, three different locales,” the younger Winchester explained.

“It’s weird, though, spirits are usually bound to specific locales, y’know,” you said. “So how's this one moving from city to city, carnival to carnival?”

“Cursed object, maybe,” Dean suggested. “Spirit attaches itself to something and the, uh, carnival carries it around with them.”

“Great. Paranormal scavenger hunt.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“Well, blame Sam. It was his idea. By the way, why is that? You were awfully quick to jump on this job.” Dean threw a look to his brother.

“So?”

“It's just… not like you, that's all. I thought you were hell-bent for leather on the demon hunt.”

You eyed Sam strangely, too.

The younger Winchester softened. “I don't know, I just think, this job, it's what Dad would have wanted us to do.”

“What Dad would have wanted?” Dean turned his face to Sam.

“Yeah. So?” Sam challenged.

“Nothin'.”

***

You and the boys decided to join the carnival after the second family had been murdered to get a closer look at the happenings during the carnival. “Friends close, freak-shows closer,” Dean had said.

When you entered yet another tent in search of the show’s organizer. You found a man throwing knives at a target; all landing near but not quite on the bulls-eye. 

“Excuse me, we're looking for a Mr. Cooper; have you seen him around?” the older brother asked.

The man turned around and pulled off his sunglasses. “What is that, some kind of joke?” 

“Oh. God, I'm— I'm sorry,” Dean said.

“You think I wouldn't give my teeth to see Mr. Cooper? Or a sunset, or anything at all?”

Dean whispered to you, “Wanna give me a little help here?”

You shook your head. “Not really.”

“Hey man, is there a problem?” a voice interrogated from behind you. You turned to see a very short man in a red cape.

“Yeah, this guy hates blind people,” the knife-thrower said.

“No, I don't, I—” Dean’s gorgeous smile was doing nothing to help him in this situation.

“Hey, buddy, what's your problem?” the short man scowled.

“Nothing, it's just a little misunderstanding.”

“Little?! You son of a bitch!” The man went to charge Dean.

“No, no, no, no! I'm just— could somebody tell me where Mr. Cooper is?”

You and Sam snickered.

“Please?” you asked. 

The short man looked up at you, and his gaze softened. “Sure, sweetheart, follow me.”

“Thanks,” you smiled, looking back at the boys. 

Dean’s jaw was clenched for a reason you weren’t quite sure of. When you asked, he said, “Just don’t like anybody else callin’ you that.”

You smiled lopsidedly. He could be really sweet when he wanted to be.

Mr. Cooper met you at the door of his office and invited you in. “You three picked a hell of a time to join up. Take a seat.”

You looked at the available seating options, and Dean motioned for you to take the normal of the two chairs. You obliged, and Dean stood behind you, forcing Sam to sit in the obnoxious pink chair with a giant clown face on it. He sat on the chair hesitantly and refused to relax into it. 

“We've got all kinds of local trouble,” Mr. Cooper continued.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Oh, a couple of folks got themselves murdered. Cops always seem to start here first. So, you three ever worked the circuit before?”

“Yes, sir, last year through Texas and Arkansas,” Sam responded.

“Doing what? Ride jockeys? Butcher? ANS men?” 

“Yeah, it's, uh, little bit of everything, I guess.”

Mr. Cooper eyed your group strangely. “You three have never worked a show in your lives before, have you?”

“Nope,” Dean grinned. “But we really need the work. Oh, and uh, Sam here's got a thing for the bearded lady.”

“You see that picture? That's my daddy.” The showrunner pointed to a black and white picture on the wall of a man in a fedora in front of a ferris wheel.

“You guys could be twins,” you pointed out. 

Mr. Cooper smiled thoughtfully. “He was in the business. Ran a freakshow. Till they outlawed them, most places. Apparently displaying the deformed isn't dignified. So most of the performers went from honest work to rotting in hospitals and asylums. That's progress, I guess. You see, this place, it's a refuge for outcasts. Always has been. For folks that don't fit in nowhere else.

"But you three? You should go to school. Find a couple of girls. Marry this one, maybe.” The man gestured to you. “Have two point five kids. Live regular.”

Dean went to say something, but Sam leaned forward, his eyes serious. “Sir? We don't want to go to school. And we don't want regular. We want this.”

You turned to him skeptically, as did Dean. 

Mr. Cooper told the three of you to return in a few hours for training, which you were a little surprised by the suddenness of. 

“I guess they really are desperate,” you said as the three of you left the carnival holding your uniforms to go change into. 

“Were you serious?” Dean asked his brother.

“What?” Sam furrowed his brows at him.

“That whole, uh, I-don't-want-to-go-back-to-school thing. Were you just saying that to Cooper or were you, you know, saying it?” Dean pressed further at his younger brother’s hesitance. “Sam?” 

“I don't know,” he replied.

“You don't know? I thought that once the demon was dead, and the fat lady sings ,that you were gonna take off, head back to Wussy State,” Dean deadpanned.

“I'm having second thoughts,” was all the younger brother answered with.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think. Dad would have wanted me to stick with the job.”

Dean stopped Sam. “Since when do you give a damn what Dad wanted? You spent half your life doing exactly what he didn't want, Sam.”

“Since he died, okay? Do you have a problem with that?”

Dean’s voice hardened but remained sarcastic. “Naw, I don't have a problem at all.”

***

Later that day, you returned with the boys wearing a bright red “Cooper Carnival” jacket to begin your “janitorial job.” You were waiting for Sam or Dean to call you to tell you when to meet up with them for further investigation.

Before you had gotten a call from either, you noticed a little girl tugging on her mother’s jacket. “Mommy, look at the clown!” She pointed at something off in the distance. 

You followed her line of sight only to see nothing.

“What clown?” the mother asked. “Come on, sweetie, come on.”

You called Sam immediately. “Hey, dude. I got something.”

***

The three of you then chose to stake out the family’s home that evening. Dean had just relayed to you how the blind man overheard him calling Sam about the case and had to tell him you three were writing a book about the supernatural.

“Dean, I cannot believe you told Papazian about the homicidal phantom clown,” Sam snorted.

“I told him an urban legend about a homicidal phantom clown. I never said it was real,” Dean argued. He pulled a gun and cocked it. You jumped over the seat and shoved his arm down. “What are you, nuts? You’re gonna get us busted.”

“Oh, and get this,” Dean continued. “I mentioned the Bunker Brother's Circus in '81 and their, uh, evil clown apocalypse? Guess what.”

“What?” you and Sam asked.

“Before Mr. Cooper owned Cooper Carnival, he worked for Bunker Brothers. He was their lot manager.”

“So you think whatever the spirit's attached to, Cooper just brought it with him?” Sam questioned.

“Something like that.” The older brother shook his head and sighed. “I can't believe we keep talking about clowns.”

***

You and the Winchesters had been stalking these poor people’s home for hours now. Well, you and Sam had, at least. Dean, on the other hand, was dozing in the front seat. You shook him awake when you saw a phantom clown appear at the front door.

“Dee, look,” you said. 

He hummed and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He turned and looked at you when he saw the girl leading the clown inside. 

You jumped out of the car and went through the back entrance of the house. You hid around a corner down the hallway from where the little girl and the clown were.

“Wanna see Mommy and Daddy? They're upstairs,” you heard the girl say. At that moment, Sam leapt out and grabbed the young girl who screamed.

Simultaneously, you shot at the clown while Dean cocked his shotgun again. “Sam, watch out!” he yelled. 

The clown leapt out the window, turning invisible as it shattered the glass of the front door.

The parents ran downstairs and began shouting at you and the brothers. You and the brothers dropped the girl and sprinted away, hearing the girl whine, “ Mommy, Daddy, they shot my clown!” as you headed out.

***

A while later, you and the brothers pulled off the side of the road and ditched the crappy van Dean had been driving you around in. You pulled the license plate off the back of the van and stuffed it in your duffel bag.

“You really think they saw our plates?” Sam asked you.

“I’m not taking any chances,” you said.

“I hate this fuckin’ thing anyway,” Dean grumbled. He began to lead you and his brother off the side of the road. “Well, one thing's for sure.”

“What?” you asked.

“We're not dealing with a spirit. I mean, that rock salt hit something solid,” Dean responded.

“Yeah, a person? Or maybe a creature that can make itself invisible?” Sam suggested.

“I don’t know, man, I’ve never heard of a creature like that. And it’s definitely not a person. I have no idea what the hell it could be,” you huffed.

“Did it say anything in Dad's journal?” Dean asked.

Sam cleared his throat and said, “Nope,” pulling out his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” you asked him.

“Maybe Ellen or that guy Ash'll know something. Hey, you think, uh, you think Dad and Ellen ever had a thing?” Sam smirked.

“No way,” snorted Dean.

“Then why didn't he tell us about her?” retorted Sam.

“I don't know, maybe they had some sort of falling out,” the older brother shrugged.

“Yeah. You ever notice Dad had a falling out with just about everybody?”

You chuckled, but Dean simply nodded and looked at the floor. 

Sam lowered his phone. “Well, don't get all maudlin on me, man.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean this ‘strong silent’ thing of yours, it's crap,” Sam answered.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh, god.”

“I'm over it. This isn't just anyone we're talking about, this is Dad. I know how you felt about the man.”

Dean started walking a little faster. “You know what, back off, alright? Just because I'm not caring and sharing like you want me to.”

Sam caught up with his brother easily. “No, no, no, that's not what this is about, Dean. I don't care how you deal with this. But you have to deal with it, man. Listen, I'm your brother, all right? I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“Dude, I'm okay. I'm okay, okay? I swear, the next person who asks me if I'm okay, I'm gonna start throwing punches. These are your issues, quit dumping them on me!” the older Winchester said gruffly.

“What are you talking about?” Sam questioned.

“I just think it's really interesting, this sudden obedience you have to Dad. It's like, oh, what would Dad want me to do? Sam, you spent your entire life slugging it out with that man. I mean, hell, you, you picked a fight with him the last time you ever saw him. And now that he's dead, now you want to make it right? Well, I'm sorry Sam, but you can't, it's too little, too late.”

“Why are you saying this to me?”

“Because I want you to be honest with yourself about this. I'm dealing with Dad's death! Are you?”

You looked between the boys and knew Dean was handing Sam a load of bullshit. However, you decided to stow that conversation until you could get him in private.

Sam swallowed harshly, looking upset. “I'm going to call Ellen.” Sam walked a little ahead of you and Dean on the phone.

While Sam spoke to Ellen, you walked beside Dean wordlessly.

“(Y/N), you don’t have to act like I’m a bomb about to go off,” Dean said.

You looked up at him. “I’m not. I just thought you’d appreciate a little silence instead of me asking you to ‘share and care,’ as you put it.”

He nodded. “Thanks.” He intertwined his fingers with yours, allowing you to support him in that simple way. He rubbed his thumb over yours and continued to walk next to you. 

When Sam got off the phone, he turned back to you and his brother. “Wha—” He looked down at yours and Dean’s entwined hands and shook his head. “Nevermind. Rakshasa.”

“What's that?” Dean asked.

“Ellen's best guess. It's a race of ancient Hindu creatures. They appear in human form, they feed on human flesh, they can make themselves invisible, and they cannot enter a home without first being invited,” Sam explained.

“So they dress up like clowns, and the children invite 'em in. Why don't they just munch on the kids?”

“No idea. Not enough meat on the bones, maybe?”

“Well, that’s grotesque,” you noted.

“What else'd you find out?” Dean questioned.

“Well, apparently, Rakshasas live in squalor. They sleep on a bed of dead insects.” The younger brother grimaced.

“Nice,” you deadpanned.

“Yeah, and they have to feed a few times every twenty or thirty years. Slow metabolism, I guess.”

“Well, that makes sense. I mean, the Carnival today, the Bunker Brothers in '81—”

Sam cut his brother off. “Right. Probably more before that.”

“Who do we know that worked both shows?” You raised a brow.

“Cooper?” Sam replied.

“Yup.” You thought for a moment. “That picture of his father looked just like him. Maybe it was him.”

“Well, who knows how old he is?” Sam added.

“Ellen say how to kill him?” Dean asked.

“Legend goes, a dagger made of pure brass,” the brunet explained.

“I think I know where to get one of those.”

“Whoa, whoa,” you said. “Before we go stabbing Cooper, I wanna make damn sure it’s him.”

“Oh, you're such a stickler for details, sweetheart,” the older Winchester teased you. “Alright, I'll round up the blade, you two go check if Cooper's got bed bugs.”

***

You and Sam followed instructions and went to Mr. Cooper’s trailer. Dean had left the two of you to go find the blind man. Inside the trailer, you didn’t find any bugs he was nesting on. Just a plain, old twin mattress. 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” a voice called from behind you.

You wheeled around to see Mr. Cooper. “Oh, hi! Just the guy I wanted to—”

“Save it,” Mr. Cooper told you. “Get the hell out of here. Oh, and uh, you’re fired.”

You nodded. “I figured.”

You and Sam dashed out of Mr. Cooper’s trailer and over to where Dean had told you he’d be. When you arrived at the blind man’s tent, Dean stumbled out of the door.

“Holy shit, hey,” you said after he’d scared you.

“Hey.”

“So, Cooper thinks we’re Peeping Toms, but it's not him,” Sam explained.

“Yeah, so I gathered. It's the blind guy. He's here somewhere.”

“Well, did you get the—”

“The brass blades? No. No, it's just been one of those days,” Dean sarcastically replied. 

“I got an idea. Come on,” Sam said. You and Dean followed him to the funhouse. As you began to go through, the door slammed behind you between you and the brothers.

“Great!” you groaned. 

“(Y/N)!” Dean yelled, banging on the door. 

“(Y/N)! (Y/N/N), find the maze, okay?” Sam called to you.

“Okay!” you called back. You somehow stumbled your way through the maze and found the brothers. “Oh, thank god,” you sighed.

Sam broke a pipe off the organ a bit ahead of you. 

“Where is it?” you asked.

“I don't know, I mean, shouldn't we see its clothes walking around?” Dean answered. A knife flew right past your head, clipping your ear. “Fuck!”

“(Y/N)!” Sam called. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know, Sam, the thing’s invisible!” You jumped up, reached above your head, and grabbed a lever. When you pulled it down, steam poured out of the vent. 

“Sam, behind you! Behind you!” you heard Dean say. You began to run in the direction of Dean’s voice through the steam. When you arrived at him, there was a bloodied lump of clothes on the ground with a pipe sticking out from its chest. You turned to Dean who was pinned to the wall by two knives on his arm and helped him free himself.

“You okay?” he asked you. 

You nodded as you pulled the last knife out of his jacket.

“I hate funhouses,” he grumbled.

***

You sat next to Dean at Ellen’s bar, and she laid a few beers in front of you. “You kids did a hell of a job.” Ellen nodded at the brothers. “Your dad 'd be proud.”

Sam half-smiled. “Thanks.” He got up to walk over to Ash, and Jo took his place.

“So,” she cleared her throat.

‘Damn, this girl is bold,’ you thought.

“So,” you said.

She ignored you and focused on Dean. “Am I gonna see you again?”

Dean turned to her, surprised. “Do you want to?”

“I wouldn't hate it.”

You rolled your eyes and got up from your chair, heading over to Sam and Ash. You could feel Dean’s eyes on you as you walked away. You knew you had no reason to treat Jo poorly; she was just a young girl with a crush. She had no idea that you and Dean were at all involved. You truly didn’t even know if you and Dean were legitimately involved to begin with.

You noted Ash’s bizarre-looking laptop with exposed wiring and his stack of papers. “Whatcha got there, Pinky?”

He snorted at you. “I’d say I’m a little more Brain than anything, but where ya been? Been waitin’ for ya.”

“What, Ellen didn’t tell you about the clowns?” you asked.

“Clowns? What the fuck—”

You snickered as Dean walked up behind you. “You got something for us, Ash?”

“You find the demon?” Sam questioned.

Ash shook his head. “It's nowhere around. At least, nowhere I can find. But if this fugly bastard raises his head, I'll know. I mean, I'm on it like Divine on dog dookie.”

You laughed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, any of those signs or omens appear, anywhere in the world, my rig'll go off. Like a fire alarm.”

Dean reached for his laptop. “Do you mind…?”

Ash gave him a look, and Dean pulled his hand back from the keyboard. 

You smirked a little at the sight. “Ash, where did you learn to do all this?”

“M.I.T. Before I got bounced for... fighting.”

“No way!” you exclaimed.

He smirked at you and took a sip of his beer. 

“Okay. Give us a call as soon as you know something?” Dean said, suggesting to you and Sam it was time to go.

“Si, si, compadre.” Ash took the beer Dean had placed down and chugged the rest of it. 

You followed the brothers to the door. Ellen stopped you before you could leave. “Hey, listen— if you kids need a place to stay I've got a couple beds out back.”

“Thanks, but no. There's something I gotta finish,” Dean said.

***

“So, you get Jo’s number?” you asked back at Bobby’s junkyard. You sat cross-legged on the hood of one of the cars next to the Impala Dean was working on drinking a beer.

“What?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, she obviously likes you. Kid was shamelessly flirting with you, so I just assumed—”

“No, (Y/N).” He put down the wrench he was holding. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, okay, I just thought—”

He walked over to you and stood between your knees. He ran his hands up and down your thighs. “I’m telling you, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Dean, stop it. You don’t have to come over here and flirt with me just ‘cause I got jealous” you said. 

“I’m not,” he assured you. “Look, we haven’t had a chance to talk about everything—”

“And I don’t need us to. I know you need time after your dad—”

“Would you let me finish?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you muttered. 

“But I have no interest in Jo. She’s layin’ it on a little too thick for my taste,” he smirked.

"I don't know, Dean, your bar hookups always lay it on pretty thick," you reminded him.

"Yeah, guess you're right. But she's not you. So I'm not interested."

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go get some more beer. You want one?”

He nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

You headed back inside and passed Sam on the way. You found Bobby inside and began to update him on the situation with the brothers.

“I don’t know, Bobby, neither of them are doing well,” you said. “But it’s Dean I’m the most worried about.”

“Why’s that?” the older man asked.

“He’s just… bottling it up. He wouldn’t even let me sit next to him while he worked on his car for the first week we were here. He’s worrying me.”

“Sounds like Dean,” Bobby nodded. “But I think if anybody can get ‘im to open up, it’s gonna be you.”

You eyed him strangely. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s just… different with you. I think he puts up a bit of a front with Sam. But never with you.”

You nodded. “I’ll keep trying.” You grabbed two beers and again passed Sam as he came back into the house with tears in his eyes. As you approached Dean’s car, you heard slamming metal on metal and Dean grunting. You quickened your step to get to him, holding a beer in each hand. When you arrived, you saw him hitting the Impala’s trunk with a crowbar over and over again.

“Dean, what the f—”

He looked up at you and fought back tears. You put the beers on the car behind you and slowly approached him. You opened your arms to him and wrapped them around his torso, and he finally responded by burying his face in your hair. You could feel him still trying to stifle his tears, but it was clear he was unsuccessful. You let him hug you for as long as he needed to.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

stares at rollo with my autistic eyes like this

Rollo, that's not how you flirt/j

Like Fire, Hellfire.

“… What is it that you need?” Rollo asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. His mouth was hidden by a square of fabric—but surely it was arranged in a scowl.

You continued to stare at him with big, soulful eyes. The look was reminiscent of the expression of a puppy longing for a headpat. Any moment now, he anticipated a weak, trembling whimper out of you.

“Pathetic,” Rollo murmured, crossing his arms. “So desperate for a crumb of attention.”

You caught the ominously crimson glare of his ring as he tapped a finger. Patiently? Impatiently? It was so difficult to tell from a glance at the neutral mask he called his face.

Wait, no. His eyebrows were slightly scrunched now. An indication of annoyance.

"If you don't speak up, I'm left with no choice but to make unfavorable assumptions on why it is that you're ogling me," he sighed, faint disgust lightly dusting his tone. Still, there is a patience in them as well.

Rollo watched you carefully. "... The thought has crossed my mind before, but have you perhaps sought me out to confess your sins and beg for forgiveness?"

"M-Maybe," you meekly muttered.

The corner of his mouth lifted into a bemused smirk. "It cannot be helped. It was only a matter of time before a crack formed in the clever deception those blasted mages wove. Fufufu, there is hope for your soul yet."

Rollo raised both hands in a gesture that appeared to be welcoming a hug--but there was no kindness behind it. Here was a patron saint, calling to a lost sheep.

"I would be more than happy to take you in with gracious, open arms. If not..." A dark shadow crossed over his features. "... I will have no qualms about casting you into the pits of hell along with the rest of them."

The air turned icy. Discomfort crawled down your back. You blinked, and your watery eyes had frozen over.

"Well? Which shall it be?" He smiled softly, but his words were as harsh as a judge delivering a criminal's sentence. "The decision is yours to make."

Me or the pyre?

[beauttifullife]

A Daughter.

In that instant, I was captivated. The baby blinked up at us, her wide eyes absorbing the world for the first time, and an overwhelming wave of emotion surged through me.

Visenya.

My daughter.

From the moment I first felt her stir within me, I knew she was a girl. The boys had always moved with a roughness, quick and bold, but Visenya danced within me—soft, subtle, like a whisper of hope. I carried her, cherishing each day as my anticipation grew. The thought of raising her, teaching her, molding her into a strong Targaryen woman filled me with joy. I envisioned the pride she would carry, the strength she would showcase to the world.

But before she could even take her first breath, before I could gaze into her eyes and see the colors that lay within, she was taken from me. The cruel hands of fate snatched her away, leaving a chasm where love should have blossomed. I still couldn’t comprehend it—the random cruelty of the world, the unseen force that pulled the strings of life, deciding who should live and who should die.

I grieved in silence, mourning for the daughter I could hold only for a fleeting few hours before placing her upon the pyre. The ache in my heart still echoed, a constant reminder of a wound that would never fully heal. Each day since her loss felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by a sorrow that whispered of all that could have been.

I often found myself lost in thought, imagining the sound of her laughter dancing through our halls, the warmth of her spirit filling the spaces around me. I pictured her as she might have grown—curly hair bouncing as she ran, the light in her eyes as she discovered the world, the joy she would have brought to our family. Every dream I spun around her felt both a comfort and a torment, each bright vision tinged with the sharp sting of her absence.

In quiet moments, I would find myself reaching for the memories, clinging to the idea of her, as if that could somehow fill the void she left behind. I saw her in the faces of the children around me, in the soft giggles of my boys as they played, and in the fleeting moments when I would catch a glimpse of innocence in them. It was both a blessing and a reminder of the life that had been taken from me.

And yet, within the pain, there was also a flicker of hope—a chance to honor her memory through this child, to give her the love and protection I had vowed to provide Visenya. I could not change the past, but perhaps I could shape the future, nurturing this new life with all the love I had once reserved for my daughter.

As I looked down at the sleeping girl in Elizabeth’s arms, the resemblance struck me, igniting a flicker of longing and heartache. This child—this innocent life—was a chance at the future I had dreamed of, yet it was tainted by the shadow of my loss.

I reached out, brushing my fingers gently against the girl’s cheek, feeling the warmth radiate from her. In that moment, I realized that this was not merely an echo of my grief; it was also an opportunity for hope. Perhaps I could honor Visenya through this child, nurturing her with the love and strength I had always wanted to share.

"Do you want to hold her?" Elizabeth asked, her voice breaking through my reverie, laced with both tenderness and understanding.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I knew what I would see in her eyes—the compassion, the quiet understanding of someone who had seen through my mask of strength. If I met her gaze, if I let myself see that look, it would undo me. The floodgates I had kept sealed for so long—the ones that had barely held since Visenya’s loss, since the war, since the weight of everything that had been thrust upon me—would surely shatter. And I wasn’t sure I had the strength to gather the pieces of myself again.

I stood there, frozen, torn between the raw ache of my grief and the tentative hope stirring inside me. This child was so fragile, so innocent, and yet holding her felt like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff. One wrong step, one moment of vulnerability, and I could tumble into the abyss of my own emotions.

“I…” The words lodged in my throat, tangled in the weight of everything I hadn’t allowed myself to feel. I wanted to say yes, to cradle the child against me, to feel her warmth again. But the fear—the overwhelming fear of unraveling, of collapsing under the grief I had spent so long burying—held me back. I had been strong for so long, but this moment, this simple act of holding her, threatened to undo me.

Yesterday had been different. I held this little girl for hours, carrying her through the village as I saw to the wounded, moving from one life to the next, trying to save what I could. She had been a constant presence, nestled in my arms as we flew on dragonback to Harrenhal, her small body pressed close to mine, shielding her from the biting wind and the cold of the night. She had grounded me, an anchor keeping me steady, keeping the fury and chaos swirling inside me from spilling out into the world.

But now… now was different. My fury still simmered beneath the surface, but it was tempered, controlled. And in this moment, holding her wouldn’t be about finding balance or keeping my rage at bay. It would be about something else—something deeper. I would be holding her as a mother would, cradling her with the tenderness that came from protecting, nurturing, loving.

And that terrified me.

The thought of holding her that way no longer felt like an anchor keeping me grounded. It felt like the very thing that could pull me under, drag me beneath the waves of grief, and drown me in it. The overwhelming loss of Visenya was too fresh, too raw, and holding this child now brought it all back. The helplessness, the longing, the sorrow that had no outlet, no release. Could I bear the weight of that again?

“I don’t know if I can,” I whispered, my voice trembling with the admission.

Elizabeth stood silently beside me, her gaze unwavering. She knew. She always knew. She saw through the cracks in my armor, saw the struggle beneath the surface. But she didn’t push, didn’t press for more than I was ready to give. Instead, she simply waited, offering me the space I needed to confront the war raging within me.

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to look at the child in her arms. She was so small, so fragile, and yet… she represented something I had thought I lost forever.

A future.

A chance.

Slowly, with hesitation still clinging to me, I reached out. My hands trembled as Elizabeth gently transferred the baby into my arms. The weight of her, so small and warm, settled against me, and it was as if something inside me broke apart—but instead of shattering, I felt a piece of myself come back together.

Her tiny hand twitched, her fingers reaching for my hair, curling around a lose strand, and in that moment, something shifted inside me. The anchor that had once threatened to drag me down now felt different, lighter.

I wasn’t sinking—I was rising. This child wasn’t pulling me beneath the sea; she was helping me stay afloat.

I cradled her closer, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing, the warmth of her small body pressed against mine. The fears and doubts still lingered, but now, they didn’t seem so insurmountable. In that moment, something else became clear: perhaps in protecting her, in giving her the love and care that had been stolen from Visenya, I could finally begin to heal.

Not just for her sake, but for mine.

[sonics-atelier]

Mirrors in the Flame

For @nerisweek Day 2 : Mirrors, Read on Ao3 here

In the dance of fire and ice,

Two souls meet, sharp and precise.

Nesta, cold with an inner storm,

Eris, the blaze in a restless form.

Both forged in shadows, both shaped by pain,

Two hearts that burn, two minds that strain.

One with a fury that shields her soul,

The other with secrets that never grow old.

Nesta’s edges, sharp and keen,

Hide a depth that’s rarely seen.

A warrior's spirit, scarred and tough,

But beneath, a heart that’s had enough.

Eris, a prince with a gaze of fire,

A face unreadable, a hidden pyre.

Cunning and ruthless, yet beneath the mask,

Is a soul that bears a different task.

They see in each other a reflection clear,

Not of weakness, but of strength austere.

For each knows the weight of expectation's chains,

The sting of betrayal, the echo of pains.

Nesta hides behind walls of ice so high,

Eris wears his flame like a defiant cry.

But both know the dance of battle and breath,

And the way it feels to stand on the edge of death.

In each other's gaze, a kindred spark,

A recognition in the deep, the dark.

For they are mirrors of the same fierce fire,

Driven by rage, yet pulled by desire.

A brother’s betrayal, a father’s scorn,

Two souls who’ve felt the weight of thorns.

And in that shared understanding, they find,

A silent bond that is perfectly aligned.

Mirrors they are, in fire and in fight,

Two solitary stars in the cold, dark night.

Nesta and Eris, flames intertwined,

Reflecting the shadows they each leave behind.

- @sonics-atelier 2024 ( do not repost or reuse in any way shape or form )

[fuedalreesespieces]

inuyasha's time on the tree is honestly a subject that fascinates me. imagine you were a kid in the village where this all happened, fifty years ago. you hear rumors of the hanyo skirting around the village, but your parents tell you that miko-sama will take care of it - after all, she's taken care of every demon that's showed on the village doorstep, so this should be no different. and then she dies - the woman you thought was invincible, that everyone told you was invincible, untouchable, dies. she bleeds out surrounded by people, and you hide behind your mother's wrap skirt while you watch the pyre burn, and the smoke pour into the sky. your village's only protector is gone, and in her stead is a little girl around your age, who up until now has only held her sister's quiver. is she able to hold her sister's mantle and all that comes with it? it's a question too heavy for you to think on.

kikyo-sama's murderer - that's what they say he is - is pinned to the tree in the forest. you are forbidden from playing there anymore, but there are days where the ball rolls out of the street and into the foliage, and you chase it over the moss-covered crags until you find yourself there. and at first you're terrified to go any closer, plagued with images of the hanyo stirring to life and attacking you. but he doesn't stir. he doesn't move. he almost doesn't seem to breath, and it is only by the slow rise and fall of his chest, punctured with kikyo's arrow, that you know he must still be alive.

you can't fathom how he still lives.

you ask around. it's a touchy subject, and nobody in the village has anything good to say. the rumors are shrill and inescapable, like cicadas during summer: he charmed her, he bewitched her, he played at being her friend and betrayed her. always, he is the betrayer. you learn nothing from them and there is nothing to unearth. the right people to ask are no longer able to respond. the ones old enough to give you answers speak with restrained anger, rage tightening the skin around their lips. you visit kikyo-sama's grave, leaving flowers with the other villagers, but her empty headstone provides no answers, either.

the hanyo is silent, and the forest grows around him. you had never looked at him before, only knowing his face torn apart in anger and shock, moments before the arrow's magic overtook him. you, against all the chastisements of your parents, and all the recurring tales you've heard of youkai, find yourself at his tree without thinking. and it is his tree, just as it's his forest, because nobody dares to step foot in it. nobody except you. you linger by the generous shade of the trees, watching from a distance, expecting something. but the tree he rests against may as well be a gravestone, too.

you find yourself in the forest doing menial things, like collecting firewood, even though your mother tells you that it's best to avoid treading too far. the trees by the hanyo are too thick for someone as tiny as you to put a dent in, anyway, but you imagine it would be easy work for him - his claws peek just under the fluttering rim of his sleeves, and again you imagine him tearing himself free of his prison and stalking towards you. he doesn't. no matter how much noise you make, his eyelashes lay low, and his body hangs limp, like your sister's rag-doll.

you imagine this may be a mistake, but you continue to make the same choices. perhaps it's the lack of answers, or the childlike curiosity that tethers you back into the forest. maybe it's the fact that while you were able to gaze upon kikyo-sama from afar, you never quite knew her. you admired her as everyone else did, but just like the gods themselves, she was distant. the closest you'd ever been to her was the day of her death, when her mask of serenity broke into a thousand pieces, and she clung to her sister's arm for the first time, begging kaede to follow her instructions. a face of pain, a twin with that of the hanyo's - a thread between them, sewn together by the death itself.

somehow, this hanyo is the last remaining piece of the village's deceased priestess.

you move on with life. you grow older, and get married to someone in the village, and watch your own children get married - but the hanyo is there, just as he was decades ago, as unchanging as a statue. it's an unfair comparison, you think - any statue you've seen is cold and immobile, but the hanyo's blood pulses under his skin, like he's constantly running. though he looks peaceful, you still believe, after all these years, that he could escape at any moment.

but inuyasha doesn't escape. a girl in strange clothes frees him, and when his eyes flash open, you see life enter them again for the first time in fifty years.

[verily-veve]

@hprecfest I wanted to do this and made my first rec list :)

1. A favorite fic under 5k: Still Life (Drarry, E, 3k)

No summary given.

2. A comfort fic : Orange Blossoms @danpuff-ao3 (Snarry, T, 4k)

These are foolish times to have hope, and more foolish still to be in love. 

3. A podfic : Deadheading the Odd Dahlia @cailynwrites (Drarry, T, 1.5 hours)

Harry is content to spend his days at Draco’s flower stall at the farmers market, burying his true feelings in artisanal coffee and rose bouquets. When forced to find new lodgings, he accepts Draco’s offer to live in a cottage at Malfoy Manor, and his long-hidden crush blossoms out of control. Turns out, proximity makes the heart grow fonder.

4. A fic with art: The Curse of Anteros @danpuff-ao3 @mrviran (Snarry, E, 53k)

When Harry is cursed, he seeks out Severus Snape. They have a long history behind them, after all, and they've always had so much between them. Who else would he go to?

5. A non-AO3 fic : If You Are Prepared (Snarry, E, 193k)

A task he can't refuse. A boy he doesn't want to refuse.

6. An unreliable narrator fic : Heartbeat by @phantomato (Tomarrymort, Harry/Orion, E, 23k)

Harry, dumped into the past, communes with dangerous men.

7. A canon-compliant fic : Rapture by @mia-ugly (Snarry, E, 48k)

Snape sees the man, for the first time, on his twenty-fifth birthday.

8. A canon-divergence fic : Certain Dark Things by @liladiurne (Snarry, E, 50k)

In which Severus takes a trip to Italy, thinking he'll have a quiet time at the Malfoys' villa, but Harry has other plans.

9. A rare pair fic (less than 2000 fics on AO3) : The Sword of Gryffindor (Sneville, E, 58k)

“Do you feel strong hitting me?” Neville spits out. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before, but there’s something else too. He wants to feel it again, the pain, wants to control it like he did last time. This isn’t like Amycus Carrow driving his wand into his shoulder blades while whispering about his parents, this isn’t sitting scared in a school bench while his sister rants about muggles with a crazy glint in her eye. A choice. He’s in control here, he can take it. “Do it again you fucking coward.”

10. A fest fic : Not All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w (Drarry, E, 110k)

Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot. But before long he finds himself with a thriving business, a nice flat, some actual (albeit irritatingly Gryffindor) friends, and a very satisfying sex life. What’s more, no-one is hexing him in the street. And Harry Potter is single, and gorgeous, and giving Draco decidedly interested looks. Stop taking the Felix? You must be joking…

11. A dark fic : Frigid by @mrviran (Harrymort, E, 3k)

In which one of Voldemort's Horcruxes is broken, and needs to be fixed.

12. A WIP you’re following : Pacify by @chickenpets (Snarry, E, ongoing)

Pacify: 1. To allay the anger or agitation of 2. To reduce to a submissive state He would do his duty. He would save Draco, if he could. He would protect the students, if and when the school fell to the Deatheaters. And Potter. As far as he was concerned, Potter could have whatever he wanted, now. What was the point of trying to tell him no if he was going to be sacrificed on the pyre of the greater good? If Potter wanted to learn, Severus would be his teacher. If he wanted a master, then Severus would make him submit. And if he wanted a lover... well. Severus would love him. And that was it. Anything else was a waste of time. And there was so little of that.

13. A fic with over 100k words : Another Mask Behind You (Drarry, E, 116k)

Draco is a high-end prostitute who hides his identity. Harry unknowingly hires him. And then there is porn, questions about identity, domestic bliss, more porn, and truth as seen through a web of lies. (And then more porn. Seriously, if you don’t want sex scene after sex scene you probably shouldn’t read this. And please read the warnings.)

14. A favorite series : Love Your Enemy by @danpuff-ao3 (Snarry, E, 50k)

Love...hate...Harry and Severus definitely hate each other (if only because they love each other so much.)

15. The most recent fic you bookmarked : Everything We Dream Can be Real by @vdoshu (Tomarry, E, 51k)

Harry had a life after Voldemort. He had a family. He had a career. And then one day it was all ripped away when he woke up at Number 4 Privet Drive. Or: Where Harry doesn’t exactly get that chance to do it over again. And things are Not Okay.

16. A fic that made you laughed: Harry Potter and the Problem with Potions (Harry & Snape, T, 184k)

Once upon a time, Harry Potter hid for two hours from Dudley in a chemistry classroom, while a nice graduate student explained about the scientific method and interesting facts about acids. A pebble thrown into the water causes ripples. Contains, in no particular order: magic candymaking, Harry falling in love with a house, evil kitten Draco Malfoy, and Hermione attempting to apply logic to the wizarding world.

17. A fic that made you cry: Epitaphs in Autographs by @vukovich (Drarry, E, 7k)

A series of works surrounding death, imperfect relationships, flawed coping, and humanity.

18. A fairy-tale inspired fic : Two Lockets (Snarry, E, 57k)

Harry, Snape, and the grim old house that keeps its secrets.

19. Fic with the hottest smut: Ruin by @chickenpets (Snarry, E, 12k)

Severus didn’t even want to contemplate how quickly he’d crumbled, or how incredibly satisfying it felt to have Potter immobilized and powerless that way. Because the boy he had under his fist right then was not the same one that had barged into his lab demanding attention and slinging insults. This boy was… different. He was silent, and wide-eyed. Flushed, and panting, and very, very still. It was almost like alchemy. The Golden Brat of Hogwarts - the Chosen One - transformed instantly into this new apparition. He’d gotten what he wanted, Severus supposed. Brutality.

20. A fic rated G: The Son by @perverse-idyll (Regulus, G, 5k)

First there were two sons. Then there was one.

21. A thought-provoking fic : The Things We Need by @kbrick (Drarry, E, 25k)

Three hundred and fifty-three days out of the year, Harry is in a monogamous, fufilling relationship with Draco Malfoy. Then there are the other twelve days.

22. An unfinished fic (hasn’t updated in 10 years or author stated it been abandoned) : The Marriage Stone (Snarry, E, 382k)

To avoid the machinations of the Ministry, Harry must marry a reluctant Severus Snape. But marriage to Snape is only the beginning of Harry's problems. Voldemort has returned, and before too long Harry's marriage may determine the world's fate.

23. A soulmate fic : The Left Words (Harrymort, M, 234k)

Harry has some weird words on his left wrist. That must be one of those strange things that Aunt Petunia hates so much. But it's okay! He likes them. Then, it all turns even weirder. Hogwarts, magic, a Headmaster and a Dark Lord await Harry - he would prefer if they all just left him alone, thank you very much. But when has it ever mattered what Harry wants?

24. A holiday fic: All I Want for Christmas (is for You to Stop Talking) by @femmequixotic and noeon (Drarry, E, 162k)

The Niffler's Garden is the most prestigious wizarding nursery school in England and has been for the last century or more. Harry Potter's boys are both enrolled as pupils at the Garden. When he volunteers to assist with the Yule pageant, he has no idea that he'll be working closely with another parent, Draco Malfoy. Although they haven't seen each other much since their own school days, Harry faults Malfoy for not being a hands-on dad to little Scorpius. Will the intense weeks of preparation fan the fires of enmity or something else entirely?

25. A fic rated T: Altered Course by @crowcrowcrowthing (Tomarry, T, 12k)

Tom Riddle has a problem. He has so many plans, so many things to learn and accomplish during his time at Hogwarts, but one professor—one charming, talented, maddeningly handsome professor—is determined to get in his way. How does Professor Potter seem to anticipate Tom's every move? How does he always manage to stay several steps ahead, knowing secrets about Tom he has no right knowing? It’s simply unacceptable, and Tom needs to do something about it before everything is ruined.

26. A fic with an ending you can’t stop thinking about : Nocturne by @necromanticnoir (Snarry, E, 54k)

A Gothic Snarry version of ‘Beauty and the Beast’, inspired by the dark and sensual tale from the Czech film version, ‘Panna a Netvor’. I follow some of the plot, but then diverge and do my own thing. Got to make it even weirder, right? An eerie, erotic, brooding, bloody, batty, haunting fairytale. ‘Underneath my skin there’s a human. Buried deep within there’s a human. Despite everything, I’m still human.’ - ‘Human’ by Daughter

27. A Muggle-AU fic : with great outbursts and lightnings by @liladiurne (Snarry, E, 148k)

They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. Harry has developed smoking to an art form that fascinates Severus. Everyone smokes in Paris, but he’s never taken up the habit himself. Watching Harry smoke, however, is strangely erotic. It feels like watching something that ought to be done in private. He wants to say something, anything, but he’s speechless. He’s a bloody poet, and here he is, standing speechless in front of a nineteen-year-old boy. March, 2013. In which Severus is a semi-famous poet with writer's block who moves back to London after the death of his lover and meets Harry, a prodigy struggling with his own demons.

28. An under-rated fic : An Eye for an Eye (Drapery, E, 42k)

Harry owes Draco a Life Debt.

29. A post-canon fic : Soup-pocalypse and the Great Curry Cataclysm (Drarry, E, 104k)

Eleven years after the war, Draco Malfoy leads a quiet, boring, and perfectly respectable life, thanks very much. Or, at least he does, until a sudden and very unexpected veela awakening causes him to throw soup all over Harry Potter in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria.

30. A pre-canon fic : He's just a Little Fixer-Upper (Snilch, E, 10k)

After Voldemort's first defeat, Snape's grief and guilt are overwhelming, and he starts thinking about ending it all. But there's someone in the castle who's been watching Snape since he was a child, someone determined to put him back together again.

31. A fav amongst favs: for this I have 1 for my 3 favorite ships :)

Wild (Drarry, E, 92k)

“No,” Harry said, by way of greeting. Malfoy’s blonde head rose slowly, carelessly. “Get out.” “I feel as though we’ve already established this, Potter,” Malfoy responded. “And I feel that what we established was that you telling me to get out of places really doesn’t make me more likely to vacate them.”

When the Rose and the Fire Are One by @perverse-idyll (Snarry, E, 81k)

Harry's haunted by guilt. Snape's warded by roses. Each must free the other in order to free himself.

Either must die at the hand of the other by @metalomagnetic (Harrymort, E, 260k)

Voldemort survives the Battle of Hogwarts because Harry Potter had not been the one to kill him, as the prophecy demands.

[avonne-writes]

Would you feel inspired to write something for #38 Multiverse? I imagine them falling in love with each other in every universe 🥹💓

Thank you so much for the prompt, lovelies ❤️ This is exactly why I have "In Every Universe" on my blog!

I'm so sorry but this got very angsty... This is a multiverse of two new and wildly different AUs. Tell me if it’s too much and I should delete it. I uploaded it to AO3.

Warning for angst, MCD and suicide.

~~~

It's no harder to die in sunshine than in rain. It’s a fat fucking lie that tragedy avoids the light. In fact, in John's experience, heat and blue skies bring more pain striking at unsuspecting hearts than a storm or nighttime. This is why today is so fucking perfect - not a cloud in sight above the wide plains of the desert. The wind whips past his ears as he pushes his chopper to speed on towards the valley as fast as it can go.

The road is straight and empty. A path devoid of life.

Nothing makes John feel more alive than staring that gaping nothingness in the face and accelerating. The sun tilts towards the earth with sharp, cheerful rays the colour of the marigolds in the front yard of John's Ma. The marigolds he trampled to death when Gale told him he was going to 'Nam, the marigolds that grow in the park where his love rests now. It's the same hazy, warm sunset that shone when Gale’s Huey was shot down.

A light John will never forget. Fire under blue skies, his own bird straining to stay up high. The same heat that rose from the pyre of Gale's helicopter wreck that day will see John off on this last flight. His bike's engine roars like a cry of rage, and he laughs even as the tears spill out his eyes.

"That’s what you get for being sentimental." Gale's deep drawl says in his mind. Then a kiss, the last one, pressed hastily to his lips behind a jeep in the deep, silent night, his gift for remembering a simple date in the calendar. Not much.

If he had known, he would have given his own life instead, but he couldn’t, so here he is now, rectifying that mistake even if it doesn't bring Gale back. Down to the exact date. Still sentimental to the bone. He promised Gale they would ride these roads together one day - it feels right to end it here.

John lets his focus slip as his bike flies towards the end of the road, the wind in his curls, sunshine warming his side, and Gale’s voice riding with him, "still with me?" His dog tags feel heavy on their chain. He blinks, and his sight blurs. Reds and blues and marigolds rust together into one glistening swirl of colour. Light shatters in his eyes, and the blood in his ears deafens him to the screech of his skidding bike, do you hear me? John John -

"Bucky!" Gale's voice rings loud and clear through the sudden silence that snaps into clarity around John. He closes his eyes for a moment to fight down a wave of nausea, then sits up with a groan.

Around him, all he sees is a sleek, dim cabin with dark furniture and an oval window like a ship's, only larger. Outside, the night sky. A strip of teal light lines the feather-soft bed he’s sitting on, and ink black clothes as soft as silk rustle as he bends his arms. Somewhere off to the side, he hears the sound of a shower running.

Is this the afterlife?

"Gale?" He calls out tentatively, his heart stumbling painfully over every breath, scared to believe but helpless to hope.

"Finally." Gale mutters.

John's lips twitch into a smile. This isn’t the heaven he imagined but nothing matters, as long as they're together wherever they are. He’s sorry it took him so long to make it here. He’s sorry Gale had to wait two whole years for him to follow.

"I know that you're sorry, but come over here already, will ya?" Gale says impatiently.

"I'm coming!" John jumps up, then promptly falls back on the bed when something yanks him down. Something flexible around his neck with a transparent mask dangling from it, connected to the headrest behind him. He’s curious, but there’s no time. He needs to get to Gale, he waited long enough. He needs to hurry.

"Damn right, hurry up." Gale says, then part of the seamless black wall hisses open to reveal a doorway with rounded corners. Warm air and steam rushes out, and a golden glow radiates from the space inside.

John extricates himself from the strange tubing and pads towards the light on bare feet. Perhaps, the space he’s in is Purgatory, and he’s headed to Heaven now. He just needs to follow the voice of his love. His heart swells with joy as he steps inside.

Behind the curtain of steam, Gale laughs that stifled chuckle of his that John has always loved ever since they met at the country fair three years before they went to war. It's him. John's best friend, his love, his man - everything. John rushes towards him but he stops dead in his tracks when the air suddenly clears at the press of a button and Gale turns to face him head on.

He looks older than John has ever known him, closer to thirty than the twenty-one of his death. There’s light stubble on his jaw and twin scars on his cheeks. Silky-smooth, sleeveless blue pajamas cover a frame a touch too thin but familiar. His hair is long enough that he could pass for a hippie, well over the regulation cut he said he would grow out again once their tour was over. But he never got to do that, not John's Gale, so he doesn’t understand -

"Whoa!" John exclaims.

A pair of hand-sized... things flare out behind Gale's ears. They look like iridescent palm leaves. They twitch, ripple, then fold away as Gale winces and turns to the mirror on the wall.

"That bad, huh?" He says. Then, whispered in John's ears, disappointed. His lips don’t move, but John hears him as clearly as if they were standing inches away.

John's heartbeat speeds up. When one of the appendages on Gale’s head flares out again, John jumps.

Irritated, Gale's voice says without uttering a word.

"It’s just a goddamn haircut, not the end of the galaxy. No need to panic." Gale says, holding a device up to his hair. Blond locks fall to the shiny grey floor with a swish. "I thought you'd like it."

Insecure. Sad. The whispers echo in John's ears. When Gale shakes himself and gives him a faint smile from the corner of his eyes, the murmuring changes to hopeful. "Come here and tell me how much I should cut."

John takes a step closer, then another, until he’s close enough to touch. His trembling hand finds Gale's shoulder. When it connects with solid, warm muscle and the jut of an unbroken bone, skin healthy and not burnt, John's breath hitches around a suppressed sob. His eyes water again.

"Buck." His voice cracks. He raises his fingertips to Gale's cheek. Saltwater runs down his own. "Is it really you? Are we in heaven?"

This time when the flaps flare around Gale's head, he expects it and only jumps a little before he leans in for a kiss, long and desperate because he spent two years wishing he held Gale longer the night before his death. He never wants to let go of him again. It barely even registers in his brain that Gale keeps whispering feelings close to his skin even though his lips are pressed to John's.

Confused, confused, happy, affectionate -

John figures it's something about this place that lets him hear Gale's thoughts. They're one in God - must be, if their souls are tangled like this. A shared heaven. Peace. The pain of John's grief is nothing compared to the slowly spreading happiness he feels.

"How about this?" Gale mumbles, pulling John's hands to his hair. It’s longer in the back and shorter on the top, an unusual style but John likes it, but he doesn’t know why Gale is so preoccupied with his hair. Don’t they have more important matters to discuss?

"Gale." John says quietly, running his thumbs over Gale’s cheek scars. He wonders how they got there. He didn’t think they’d still have marks like that after they die. "Do you remember Vietnam?"

Gale draws his eyebrows into a severe frown. Irritated, John hears him again. "Don’t tell me you named that mutt and smuggled him aboard."

"What?" John replies. His pulse starts racing with his confusion again. "Aboard?"

The appendages behind Gale's ears flutter wildly as Gale stares at him with those bright blue eyes of his. His expression is one of surprise and bafflement before a look of realization passes through him.

Alarmed, exasperated, John hears in his ears, then, calm. Pitying.

Gale's voice, when he speaks again, is patient and reassuring. "Is that where you come from? Viett-namm?"

He takes John's hands and pulls him gently towards the bedroom, too gently not to be suspicious. John's scared now. He doesn’t know what's going on or what he did wrong. Perhaps he only hit his head and didn’t die like he wanted, and these are the last fever dreams of his mind. Or, what if he didn’t say the right thing and he’s expelled from heaven?

"What are we doing?" He asks, chest rising and falling rapidly from the fear he tries and fails to control.

"We're just going to lie down, and you'll put your mask on." Gale says. "Calm down. Tell me about Viett-namm."

"I don't want to." John swallows, sitting on the mattress when Gale pushes him down. "You died." He grabs Gale's hand again. "Figured I'd follow you."

The anguish washing over John doesn’t feel like his own, but Gale’s face is kind and unreadable as he keeps pressing on John's shoulders until he lies down.

"Tuck these in." Gale says, sitting by John's hip and touching something around John's head.

"Ah!" John yelps when he feels a part of him flutter. He has those feeler things too, he realizes, gobsmacked. He reaches up to touch them, and they flare out against his pillow again.

Fond, heartbroken, he hears before Gale reaches up and tucks the things away again. When John tries to raise his hands to them once more, he pushes them away. They keep swatting at each other until Gale cracks a smile.

"Stop playing with you antennae."

"Yes, sir." John grins, but Gale just gives him a confused look as if he doesn’t understand.

He pulls the tubes around John's head again, then tries to put the mask on him, but John resists. "Wait, wait a second. What the hell is going on?" John tugs at the device. "What’s this? Where are we, Buck?"

Gale gives him a sad look and strokes John's face. "I'm not your Gale."

When John gapes at him, he slides the mask over John's face. He presses a button, and a sweet smell fills John's nose. Like a meadow. His limbs grow heavy, and he tries to protest and fight this strange, alien Gale off, but his strength drains from his limbs, and all that's left to him is to blink at Gale through drooping eyelids. His fingers flop on Gale’s thigh.

"My Bucky likes to use this device to see things happening to him in other times and other places. But this thing -" Here, Gale’s jaw clenches. "- is so goddamn old that sometimes it fails to wake him up properly. So you need to go back to sleep." He leans over John and strokes his head.

When John's antennae flare open again, he gives John a fond, amused smile. "In every universe, huh?"

The world starts darkening around the edges. Shadows cling to John's vision, narrowing it down to Gale's face, then only his eyes. A drop of wetness trickles down John's cheek.

"Gale..." is all he manages to say.

"He's waiting for you in your world." Gale says quietly. "Just go to sleep."

He's dead, John wants to say, but the words don’t make it to his lips. His eyes close, and he can’t open them again.

The soft touch of a kiss brushes his forehead. I love you, Gale’s voice whispers, but John isn’t sure if he really hears it.

Darkness descends, and he leaves.

[super-paper]

Do you think Hawks will die to save Toga?

Personally, I wouldn't like it if either of them died. Like, the potential narrative payoff here would be strongest if both of them lived, imo. I would rather see a situation where Keigo donates just enough blood to stabilize them both, rather than a situation where one person completely exsanguinates themselves and leaves behind a rash of trauma and unresolved feelings in the person they "saved."

I'm definitely not the best when it comes to Hawks meta, but I'll try my best to break down my personal feelings on why I feel both Keigo and Himiko need to live in order to "break the cycle":

1. You Can Start Over. I'll Help You.

This one's the biggest, most obvious point in favor of them both living imo. Hawks made an offer to help Jin start over, but rescinded that offer and immediately went for the kill the moment Jin showed signs of resistance. This was Keigo's biggest failure as both a hero and as an individual, and something he has yet to atone for.

In turn, Himiko believes there are no second chances-- that her only options are death or being locked away forever. So, she chooses death. She needs someone to offer her a third option.

The set up is there.

There's also the matter of Keigo and Himiko both stating that they want an "easier world" as their core motivation, and both of them state that they want to be the ones who help make that world.

Their goals only sound simplistic on the surface and serve as a mask for their respective traumas, but... ultimately, a world that's easier for Himiko to live in (where she is consensually given blood by someone who loves her and she is allowed to give her blood back to the world in return) is a world where heroes can finally take it easy-- because it's a world that nips the endless creation of its own "villains" in the bud, through unified acts of compassion and understanding.

Both characters have caused others intense pain and hurt others in their attempts to take shortcuts to the creation of an "easier world"-- Hawks is the hero that's "too fast," and Himiko is also associated with her near-supernatural speed. They're both too impatient and want the quickest possible results. Having both Himiko and Keigo living and learning the "right way" to create their ideal world-- and then, getting to be a part of that world as they both continue to atone-- feels much more meaningful than having one or both of them die before they can see that future reach fruition.

2. The Big, Suicidal Elephant in the Room

The majority of the LOV members all struggle with suicidal ideation-- Touya wants to set everything Endeavor ever chose over him ablaze, and he wants that inferno to also serve as his funeral pyre. Tomura has got a dissertation's worth of issues regarding his own mortality and self-perception/identity, and his whole "let's-just-destroy-it-all/we-don't-need-a-future-actually-lol" schtick has always been a symptom rather than a legit proposal for a cure. Himiko wants to disappear into the identities of the people she loves, because the world treats her a little more kindly when she isn't "Toga Himiko." The LOV trio's arcs all revolve around "death of the self" to some degree. (That said... resurrection and rebirth are also heavy themes within Tenko, Touya, and Himiko's arcs, soooo....)

Keigo also struggles with suicidal ideation and places the worth of his own life far, far, faaaaar below that of everyone else.

This has already been said, and shouldn't really need to be said in the first place, but-- people have every right to feel uncomfortable and criticize a story that attempts to validate suicidal characters by portraying their suicide in a noble/redemptive light.

Next!

3. It's All About All Mi-- Err..... Tomie?

"I was fine with that-- not saving her, turning my back on her. Me, who claims he wants to help people." - Hawks, about Tomie.

"I tried to go about things the right way" is a good line that touches on one of the core conflicts of Keigo's character: He suppresses so much of his natural instinct to do good so he can do "right."

Keigo knows in his heart of hearts that "the right way" doesn't save people like his mother, it didn't save Jin, and it's not going to save Himiko. He's been groomed into upholding the society and status quo that caused him and Tomie to nearly fall through the cracks in the first place-- and I've always found it both fascinating and sad that Keigo seems to equate choosing "the right way" (i.e. becoming a hero) to abandoning his mother. Keigo effectively being *sold* to the HPSC is what took Tomie off of the streets and gave her a roof over her head-- it gave her "a chance to start over." But Keigo doesn't seem to view this as true saving. With that in mind, his attempt to "save" Jin by essentially giving him the same offer the HPSC gave Tomie was always doomed end in failure.

Keigo: "My mother feared punishment for harboring a criminal, so she took me and ran."

Tomie first ran out of fear of being arrested after Takami Thief was captured-- which led to both her and Keigo being homeless for an extended period of time. She ran again after Dabi/Touya threatened her for information on Keigo, this time out of fear of her son-- a son who had became synonymous with "the law" she feared so much in her eyes. She can't bear facing him after her betrayal and implicitly fears punishment/condemnation from him (even though Keigo had *no* intention of punishing her)-- Tomie readily leaves behind the "normal" home and "normal" life that Hawks obtained for her through "doing things the right way," bc the imaginary threat of punishment and condemnation is something that comes across as worse for her. This only further convinces Keigo that he failed to save his mother, even though he's the one who's being betrayed and hurt by her.

I can't help seeing similarities between Tomie & Himiko's decisions to run out of an intense fear of punishment/imprisonment, and how this inevitably ties to Keigo. Keigo subconsciously realizes that he can't truly save people like Tomie, Jin, or Himiko as "Hawks" because "Hawks" is part of the problem. He longs to save others as himself-- as "Takami Keigo" (which is why the loss of his quirk kind of has me like "👀 👀 👀 whatcha gonna do next, turkey boy...,,..👀 👀 👀" )

As an aside, I seem to recall that transhawks made a few meta post where they talk about how there are traces of Jin's design in Tomie (esp her eyes, which have the same dead-eyed thousand yard stare) and that their resemblance is likely intentional (edit: link to one post pointing the resemblance out)-- It's not as overt, but imo, Himiko also resembles Tomie (just a little!) when she has her hair down.

Anyway! Both Jin and Himiko dying after Keigo A) has spent his whole life agonizing about how his own mother wasn't able to survive in their current society, B) has expressed guilt about how he didn't even try to save her and didn't make attempts to involve himself in her life, C) has talked at length about he wanted to be "more like Bubaigawara" and then proceeded to roleplay him, badly, for a good third of Act 3 (ohhhh boy ☠️☠️☠️), and D) had demanded that Toga be killed immediately after she arrives in Gunga, only for Ochako and Tsuyu to explicitly challenge and reject the idea that killing was the only option available.... idk, Himiko dying while Keigo does nothing would just feel massively incoherent at this point??

TL;DR The resolution to Keigo's arc currently hinges on addressing his origin, his identity, his guilt, and his ties to these three characters. Keigo feels that he failed with Tomie, and he explicitly failed with Jin-- and I personally don't think his arc can have a satisfactory ending without addressing those failures through Himiko, or without him trying to right where he went wrong by helping her in some capacity. This is a chance for him to finally follow his innate drive to do good over doing what their society dictates as "right."

----

All that being said, if Hori did decide to have Hawks sacrifice himself: Hawks choosing to sacrifice himself because he wants to believe in the future that the hero kids are creating and wants to believe that children like Himiko have a place in that future feels WAAAY more tonally consistent with mha's themes than Himiko choosing to sacrifice herself because she doesn't think she has a future

One message is about healing and hope and belief, the other is about failing to truly save someone who was already suicidal from their inevitable self destruction.

MHA has been defining true saving as "going above and beyond" for hundreds of chapters now-- true saving means saving a person's heart, body, and soul. It means giving them a future. By mha's own definitions, Himiko choosing to kill herself means she wasn't saved. Pure and simple-- You can't save the heart but not the body/soul (Himiko), you can't save the soul but not the body/heart (Touya), and you can't save the body but not the heart/soul (Tomura). There's a lot more work to be done here-- but that's fine, bc MHA has never depicted true saving or true healing as some magical, instantaneous thing. (#recoverygirldni)

[desos-records]

Magic's not allowed in Gotham, but Jason's never been one to follow rules. // Jason Todd helps out the local exorcist.

Jason Todd/Reader

Chapters: First

Word Count: 1,866

Warnings: blood, some mild violence, demonic possession

-

Jason helped you through the window of his apartment, then slid the blackout curtains shut and flicked on a lamp. The warm gold light pushed the darkness gently away. He heard you laugh softly before he turned around.

"Do you ever use a door?" You smiled crooked at him. 

You'd walked into the kitchen, turned on the lights, and now stood there with your coat dripping thick black liquid over the tile. It pooled around your boots like crude oil. One of the kitchen ceiling lights shone just behind your head, giving you a halo.

"Can't you literally teleport?" he asked, slipping his helmet off and setting it on the coffee table.

You shook your head, eyes briefly flashing, and gestured at his domino mask. "Still don't trust me, I see."

"You're standing in my apartment. Not a safe house. My apartment. Where I live."

You opened your mouth to retaliate, then stopped, frowned, and pressed a hand to your head, swaying on your feet. He jolted into motion, catching you and holding you steady, trying to ignore the warm buzz of magic under his hands.

"Easy, sweetheart. I got you."

"Sorry," you mumbled, eyes squeezed shut and hands braced tight against his arms.

"Don't be. Your adrenaline probably just crashed."

"I'm tracking demon's blood everywhere."

"Explains the smell."

When he got you to laugh, however slightly, he felt briefly invincible, unconquerable. You opened your eyes as you smiled up at him and something settled in his chest, like a bird flying home.

"I always smell like death or hadn't you noticed?" you said, standing so close that it was starting to get unbearable—and you were right, it was the smell of war-time trenches and pyre smoke—but he could see the details in your eyes, illuminated from within like old spell books, and that made up for anything else.

"Too busy getting lost in your eyes." His tone made it a joke, his own magic trick of hiding the truth by showing it off.

"I bet you say that to all the exorcists," you said, matching the teasing bent in his voice. Then you groaned as you swayed on your feet again, resting your head against his shoulder.

"Come on," he said, wrapping an arm around you to help you stand. "Think you can make it to the bathroom?"

You grumbled something unintelligible, but followed when he started walking. Once in the bathroom, you sat down on the edge of the tub, hands braced against it like talons. Under the bright fluorescents—he noticed when they made you wince and close your eyes—he could see what had hidden in your shadows.

Jason knelt down beside you, brushing strands of grimy hair out of your face. Something had scratched your cheek up, bruises bloomed over your jaw, and dried blood crusted around a cut in your temple. "Jesus Christ, kid," he said softly. "How long were you in Hell?"

"I'm older than you, jackass." You opened your eyes long enough to glare at him. "Time doesn't exist there, but it spat me out six months after I went in."

"And how old is this?" He gently pulled back your coat and pointed to the blood seeping into your shirt.

"How old is what?" You looked down and flinched with surprise. "Shit."

Three long claw marks cut along your ribcage, the skin around them turning black even as he watched.

"I have a first aid—"

"No." You shook your head and winced from it. "Won't work. That's necrosis. That..." You took a deep breath and it tore at your lungs. When you met his eyes, he felt his heart free fall into his stomach. You were afraid. You fought demons for a living and you were afraid. "Did you keep my emergency kit?" you asked.

A familiar protective instinct pulled at him, like a cord attached to his heart, a need to keep you safe and keep the panic at bay. Before he stood up, he brushed his thumb along your uninjured cheek and planted a kiss to your temple.

"Of course I did."

He took out his knife and pried up one of the floor tiles, revealing the hidden storage compartment where you'd stashed a duffel bag of extra supplies—holy water, candles, lighters, boxes of chalk, locked books, and a black onyx mirror in a case. He set it on the floor beside you.

"You've cauterized a wound before, right?" you asked as you slid off your coat with a sound like stripping paint.

"Yeah."

"Same principle. Take one of the lighters in there and the holy water."

He unzipped the bag and dug through it, pulling out a heavy golden lighter and a glass bottle.

"And take this." You handed him a knife, long and narrow, symbols carved along the blade. "Heat the knife with the lighter, hold it to the wound, and when it's closed, pour the holy water over it."

As he flicked on the lighter, sparks flashing in his hand, you pulled your shirt off and laid down on your side, leaving the claw marks exposed. The tattoos etched around them were hard to ignore. What was it with exorcists and tattoos? You usually kept them covered, but you had dozens—words and symbols and diagrams—until little space remained unmarked. Scars weaved through them, mostly claw and knife wounds, a couple round bullet holes, and a large burn over one shoulder blade.

A little part of him ached to know you'd be earning three more.

"I might pass out," you said, voice wavering but still entirely too calm. "But you'll know it's working when the necrosis fades."

"Do you want something to hold on to?" he asked, already taking off his jacket and handing it to you.

"Thanks." You held tight, fingers digging into the leather, and closed your eyes.

The knife started to glow red in his hands, so Jason snapped the lighter shut and took a deep breath, laying a hand on your shoulder. Your skin burned against him.

"Ready?"

"Just get it over with. You don't have to—"

He pressed the flat of the knife to the first gash. He expected you to scream, but you only gasped and clutched his jacket tighter, eyes briefly snapping open again. A short crack echoed through the room and off the tiles as the mirror fractured. The lights flickered. You kept your eyes firmly closed as he worked, the rest of you tense as a bridge cable. Once the wounds had all been burnt shut, he uncorked the holy water and poured it over. The loud hissing sound surprised him, following a smell like burning hair.

Slowly, the necrosis stopped spreading, then faded altogether. You sighed in relief as if you could feel the life returning to you. He set down the knife and the glass bottle.

"Still with me?" he asked, touching your shoulder again.

"You aren't rid of me yet, Red." Your voice sounded like it had burned away too.

Jason put his arm around you to help steady you when you tried and failed to sit up. He could feel you shaking down to your bones, betraying the pain you'd refused to show. He brushed hair out of your face, letting his hand linger as long as he dared.

It's okay, he wanted to say. If you're hurting, then hurt. I'll be here. But it sounded stupid even in his head, so he didn't. Instead, he draped his jacket over your shoulders and hoped that would say it for him.

A smile curved gently over your face as you leaned against the tub. For a moment, you just looked at each other, as if making sure you were both still here. The tattoos caught his attention again. He'd known about them for ages, as long as he'd known you, but they surprised him every time. Maybe because you always managed to make him feel human, almost normal, he always forgot that you were just as strange as him.

Jason cleared his throat and stood up, then held a hand out. You stared up at him. A chill ran up his spine when he couldn't read your expression, but you reached out and took his hand, letting him help you to your feet.

The space between you both seemed to hum with energy—the aligned atoms between magnets, the burning ozone just before a lightning strike, the weight of a loaded gun. He wanted so badly to pull the trigger, close the gap, tilt his head and kiss you until he couldn't think straight.

But he could feel you shaking still and see the shadows under your eyes and it didn't seem right.

"If you want to take a shower, I can get you a change of clothes," he said.

"You don't have to do that," you said, giving a sad smile. "I should probably... I should get out of your hair."

His hand still tangled loosely with yours, but now he held on a little tighter. "I still owe you dinner."

"Another time then. When I'm not bleeding on your floor," you said, but you didn't move away. You couldn't meet his eyes either, instead staring at your abandoned coat and its trails of black liquid spreading over the tiles like tentacles.

Jason didn't know what could've possibly possessed him, but he reached out and placed the side of one knuckle under your chin. You looked up.

"Dangerous waters, Red," you whispered, but you still didn't push him away.

"Why don't you stay just this once? Let someone look after you."

"It's not your job."

He let his forehead rest against yours, feeling your breath crash into him. "What if I want it to be?"

"Hm. You never did have a sense of self-preservation." Your other hand drifted up to settle on his chest, the three points of contact burning like stars—hand, head, heart.

Somehow, he could tell this would be his last chance to convince you. He raised his head enough to meet your eyes again, then pulled off the domino mask and set it on the bathroom counter. Your expression stayed fixed, or it tried to. Your eyes flashed wide, but your voice was calm, if low with exhaustion.

"Now, what would you do that for, Red?"

"Jason," he said. "My name is Jason."

You took a hard breath and something glimmered at the edges of your eyes. Tears, he realized. You blinked furiously, trying not to cry. He waited for some signal, a direction to move in. When you swayed forward ever so slightly, he took the cue, cradling your jaw with both hands and brushing silent tears from your cheeks.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he said softly. "I'm here. You're safe."

Your short laugh came out strangled, but you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, but careful not to disturb your wounds. You exhaled all the tension out of your muscles and little sparks—like the lighter, like a match head about to burn, like the golden flash of your magic—burst inside him.

"Stay this time," he murmured, curling around you protectively, gently placing his head over yours. "Please."

[world-of-fire-and-flight]

Fantasy Indies December: 21-23

A/N: Playing a little bit of catch up because this week got away from me😅

First up is for Snippet Saturday today, this time with a snippet from my current WIP: Behind Pyres' Mask. I can't explain why this is my favorite scene, but I can say that this is one of the last scenes I wrote before putting this on the back-burner to publish Embers of Eternity and Winds of War. Now if only I knew what happened next...(I know the important bits but the middle, now that's where I'm lost😂)

The snippet:

My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. Every muscle in my body went rigid as he came to stand respectfully near—but not too near—me at the order pick-up station. I snuck another peek at him. Oh god, I knew that jawline too. Of all the coffee places in all of New Haven, and at this ungodly hour of the morning to top it off, Jason/Firewall what’s-his-last-name had to show up and then order the exact same coffee as me in the exact same Black Crow as myself. It was official: the Universe hated me.

Day 21: Mental Health in my WIP & Day 23: Free Friday

Day 21: BPM covers a lot. There's grief (that's not shocking, is it?) and heartache (y'all I have scene planned and I already know I'm going to cry....maybe that's why I've been procrastinating this project🤔) and anxiety. There's going to be stuff about self-confidence issues and learning to how to live again/return to yourself after tragedy/healing, so I'm really excited for this one. I think it's going to hit hard because the scenes I have planned out already are super emotional, for better or worse, and I think a lot of people will connect to Lottie and Jason and the whole gang, just like people have been connecting with the Heirs of Tenebris crew💖

Day 22: Not only will you get Hell's Eyes by signing up for my newsletter, but you'll still receive the free digital companion guide to my Heirs of Tenebris trilogy, which includes series-inspired artwork and two dessert recipes inspired by the foods featured in the series! There are A LOT of great fantasy stories included in the Indie Fantasy Adventure BookFunnel Promo, so be sure to check it out here!

[alaska-mii]

ᴅᴇᴄᴋ ᴏғ ᴄᴀʀᴅs | ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛs x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

〖 . . . 〗ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ dottore creates a carbon copy of himself in every stage of his growth that he undertakes. to address the elephant in the room — your reputation amongst the segments is, to be blunt, quite the lunchtime dispute.

〖 ᴀ/ɴ 〗more of a character study per say, than an interaction between reader and segment squad.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: heavy descriptions of gore, obssesive behavior, pet names

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴋᴀᴘᴘᴀ

bearing quite the zealous streak, the verdant scholarly robes you often spot cascading behind him as he scrambles to and fro between endeavors betrays the years he had spent in the field during his legal reign of research.

absurd as it seems, kappa's prone to donning his heart on his sleeve, evidenced by the fawning, nigh tenderhearted nature he moulds over the blasphemy of his character rooted in each segment for your sake. and whether it be tainting the nonchalance of his genius or, in the scholar's case, festering beneath his bygone clean record, you reap the benefits of the devotion you've sowed.

despite the reputation he had garnered as the resident goody two shoes, a notion that even the others seem to gloss over as a half-baked jest, you've barely dug into the details of the open book you once pegged kappa to be. peering into the carmine eyes above the flush that dusted his cheeks if he happened to so much as glance at you — a cast to his palor you had once upon a time pinned the blame of to a candid crush, during the youth you had spent as a student yourself — they beheld such raw infatuation and frenzy in the razored grin below. both served as a wretched reminder of the doctor's sheer lunacy, buried beneath the cloak of a young, foolhardy scholar.

the scholar — though he sports the crammed role of the errand boy, bossed around and treated like another meager masked fatui agent — always seems to knit together occasions to gift you near heart attacks whenever he stumbles upon you as he flocks haphazardly throughout the palace, moments that he, of course, takes guilty delight in. the shock that bolts through you when he pinches you into an embrace from behind never ceases to send your composure into haywire, a secret the cheeky bastard devours.

you beam at the pitter-patter of steps echoing throughout the brittle corridors. it is always a delicacy to see a crumb of energy against such drabness within these halls, but kappa's stifling zest is a flavor you'd prefer not to taste.

as the rhythm of tapping trails away, you mark the coast as clear. alas, when you bite back a shriek as arms slink around your waist — much to his jovial laughter — you had ventured far into the den of the vulture's playground.

he chuckles breezily, nuzzling further into the racing thrum at your neck without shame. giddiness seeps from him in waves, "you'll have to forgive me, love,"

he squeezes you against him once more, lapping up the morsel of your choked rasps, before untangling the grasp he snaked around you. he stows those hands behind a cape of silk as if to conceal their breaching acts moments before.

the scholar flashes a serrated smile, ear to ear, "the feast you made yourself to be was an invitation far too appetizing to ignore."

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴅᴇʟᴛᴀ

the rogue has a penchant for brandishing the cold shoulder towards you, evidently due to the fresh memory of the rejection sustained from his homeland that seared into the soles of each gloomy traipse he treaded. no matter the hours you spend interrogating delta between the mounds of research — really piles of clutter atop his equipment — he entombs himself in, your pyring inquiries always seem to be greeted by blunt hums and the dreary rustle of a shrug. the vague responses you manage to wring from him are victories you savour.

in moments of weakness, after an onslaught of questions — fueled only by the desire to fathom such detatchment encapsulated within each twitch of his person — are thwarted by matching stubbornness, the urge to cleave his head from the column of his neck and chop at his candy blue curls if only to peak at the dense fog that clouded him so often entices you. the utter gloom he stokes is painted boldly on your poise, yet unbeknownst to you, the rogue's macabre thoughts mirror yours precisely, merely concealing it behind his bleak demeanor.

delta mulls it over when the muse strikes him. one time, he had halted when his gloves were soaked in gore to the elbows, gaze gliding over to your fidgeting. today, the droning sentence that had caught his attention, a murmur you sandwiched in yet another ramble: to prompt you into abandoning him would be yearning to peel a parasite from its host. a ludicrous — yet somehow touching — sentiment.

the rogue truly does ponder about it, balancing the options upon a scale chained by the hours you spun yarns of storybook tales and mundane chores throughout your days. you color him puzzled, weaving such a labyrinth between him and the coherent course of choice. the fleeting deranged idea plagues him though, tugs at him to wonder if you really are a species of nonhuman that initiates conversation to harvest some form of energy from him.

a mellow snore drags him from his sulking — ah, it seemed you've cruised into a drowse yourself. gingerly draped across a surface swept from rather noteworthy gadgets and documents, you nestled your chin into tucked sleeves. that particular tangled thread of thoughts is for another day.

the chair scratches along the ground as he unfurls from his seat. he ambles towards your slumber, focus latched onto you.

delta looms above you, reaching a languid hand to the crown of your head. how he yearns, yet he reigns his own talons in, collecting himself. then, as he observes you stir from your doze, it happens upon him like a whip.

your glossy, sleep ridden eyes meet his.

he wouldn't be bothered — he thinks as a tender, questioning, sleepy keen escaped those lips—were you a leech feasting upon his blood. so long as you needed a part of him to breathe.

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴏᴍᴇɢᴀ

omega's been favouring a curious hobby, as you've gauged as of late, which was his habit of dangling bait before you, humoring in your battle against the hook, and after he tugs you out of your element, judging if you'll squirm or yield as the gambler gobbles you up.

not a sole segment of ghastly skin tattered with scarred ingravings of past experiments, adorned with pale blue locks draping across sharp pristine wardrobe, coupled with those eyes granting only a shred of the endowment packed into his mind scratched beneath your skin more than that damned gambler.

an odd monicker, yet not without background — since it had always been a routine matter of chance with him. whether you had unlucky dealings with the others and if he was feeling rather malicious when he encounters you, or whether he'd notice the bounce in your step as his mood was bizarrely indulgent for once. each jest he sends is designed to coax an answer, not to dictate any of the perturbed backlash you let slip through the crevices of the etiquette you sculpted into your behavior.

and in exchange for obediently playing along with this game of his, you craft a mock of your own — the high and mighty gambler.

the morbid satisfaction that racks through you whenever you bear witness to the smugness draining from him is a trophy like no other. you know he loaths it as the harbinger bestowed with the second seat is infamous for his schemes founded upon logic harvested from centuries worth of shrewdness beneath his belt. only then does he clench his mouth shut, refusing to hand his pride to you on a silver platter without a fight.

how you both entertain yourselves by spewing barbed quips to one another is beyond even you. omega does seem to find amusement in your ruffled feathers, however. such a stark unlikeness to the spineless skirmishers who quiver at the offer of his honeyed venom.

you hear the rhythm of his clacking footfall only due to his current indulgence, you know he'd leave no hint of his incoming presence otherwise. the gaze boring onto your back bothers you too much to ignore. even through that beaked mask of his.

he notices the brake in your hastened stride. to tempt his dormant pestering tendancies would not be wise.

"going somewhere?" he drawls, moseying into place beside you. before you could respond, he drones on, "perhaps a stroll outside the palace would do you well. you cage yourself inside these walls so often that i've been meaning to ask the last time you've seen the sun."

the lure beckons you to throw another jab back. although, one-sided banter is one of the more pleasant things you'll encounter in his company. you hum instead, "but i've heard the weather tonight is the least bit inviting. besides," — an olive branch — "won't you join me either way?"

the question hangs heavy in the static air between the pair of you. you wonder if you should've held your tongue.

then, omega haughtily scoffs, "break away from the delusion you've fooled yourself into believing. you are not entitled to my presence."

he nears you, then. arms clad in moonlit silver tucked behind his back, a soft glow emitting from the liquid encapsulated in his glass earring, the sharpness of antiseptic and iron and the faintest, fleeting whisper of a floral aroma, all just swallowing you whole.

"however," he tilts his head, breath fanning at your cheek, the sharpened tip of his crow's mask a hairsbreadth away, "make no mistake, darling. the time i spend with you this evening is of my own free will."

he resumes his amiable snail's pace stroll, leading the trek to nowhere in particular, leaving you to scramble behind him.

〖 Ⅱ 〗ɪʟ ᴅᴏᴛᴛᴏʀᴇ sᴇɢᴍᴇɴᴛ: ᴇᴘsɪʟᴏɴ

if the bandwagon of torture was a worshipped diety, epsilon had taken it upon himself to employ his torment upon you as a sacred custom.

despite the frequent visits he suffocates you with, abiding by the disheveled schedule he had demanded you to heed, panic creeps into you whenever his mood sours at the farthest thing from you. few and far in between, the poor outcome of an experiment — a glass chamber had broked beneath the rampage of his hand, you had quivered quietly as you watched — other times yet often enough, the errors of his assigned researchers — there had been a bloodbath when he finished, you faintly smell the tang of copper clinging to you still — or, heaven forbid, a fault of your own.

the trecherous memory haunts you, a ghost forever paralyzed in sweltering agony and numbing horror clutching at your heels, never to forgotten and submerged from your mind. he remembers, too. yet it is an unspoken rule amongst you that both butcher and carcass would play pretend, unless you choose to relive the nightmare of a cleaver's blade.

ah, but that vexes him too. he doesn't wish for a corpse to be his everyday companion, rather, he urges you to sew together a semblance of an ordinary bond shared between a pair of animated lovers: to be a taxidermied toy, stitches and staples and a ploy at being alive. his scholarly days had been the target of his unadulterated disgust for ages, and he was not about to alter such inner resolve within him over a silly fantasy, but perhaps.

perhaps, a lifetime ago, he could have graduated from that wretched hellhole with his hand intertwined in yours, looping through one another in matrimony. perhaps you could have travled the lands together, never quite quenching your hunger for the unknown, never settling as wanderlust tainted the both of you. how charming — you would be the only home that daren't chase him away with pitchforks and torches. he hates that such enchanting dreams will always be a distant fairytale.

yet in a cruel twist of heart, epsilon does find solace in having you within arm's reach, ready to be beckoned at a moment's notice. he had been stripped of his prestige, now forced to operate within inky shadows — should there be a single aspect of his former life that would never escape his grasp, it would be his lover. the only one who could hold him wholly within the palms of your hands.

it's that truth that drives each word lashed towards you, every vice grip he latches onto you. he wouldn't part from you if death came to seize his soul, yet how effortlessly you could just let go unnerves him to his bones. surely you of all crowds would understand this overbearing character he acts behind — no doubt, you would read between the lines of the scripts he spouts.

no matter if epsilon gets lost within the scenes, melds with the butcher who lusts after the wounds he tears and stitches back together upon your flesh. nevermind if he feels a twinge of glee whenever tears are shed from eyes squinted with pain. you would be the needle of his haystack audience, always meant to throw yourself into a standing ovation at the end of his preformance. always meant to tell the butcher from the knife he wields.

splatter paints him another coat of skin.

he stares, the smothered trembles on your figure are earthouakes to him. eyes flickering to the puddle oozing from the crack of the door, to the mangled bodies that lay mauled behind it, anywhere but his own that fixes on the grimace crinkling your face.

shattering the moment frozen in the dead of the evening, he dares a step forward.

he stops before you — a bundle of nerves packaged by the stun of his scrutiny — and peels his soiled gloves from his hands. sprinkling dots of blood on your cheek.

he tosses the pair at your feet, you startle with a hitch of your breath. he catches your jaw, and at last, you timidly peak at his towering form above. you thought you would perhaps glimpse a note of the mayhem that plagues him, yet you only find a sickeningly soft glint glossing his twin crimsons.

epsilon kneels like a knight in a pool of dribbling blood. he presses his forehead to yours, chanting your name a prayer, "be not afraid, my dearest. so long as you stay by my side," he signs, hysteria bleeding into his voice, "i won't lay a hand on you."

a lie, stemming from the desperate need for stability, an offer to a fake haven that wouldn't crumble into the depths of the evening. you know the invitation is merely another slight of hand biding time for the other to lash out, for the other shoe to drop.

yet you can't help but take the bold-faced lie with greedy hands.

〖 ᴀ/ɴ 〗disclaimer, delta and kappa are my own. had a blast writing this, so please leave a note below!

[cptains]

‘it’s not worth the trouble,’ ghost says, eyes averted.

you lift your palm to his jaw anyways, cradling his head through his mask. and treacherous, his body betrays him in the slope of his shoulders and the shifted weight melting down over your palm, molding into you the way his voice says he will not.

because beneath it all, he’s just a man, flesh and blood and the oh-so human desire to love still pulsing defiant from behind calloused walls. for every rejection, every betrayal, every part of him he sacrificed in the hopes for something better that never came, there was never another hand to salve the wounds left behind. and despite everything, he’s still ten years old, hiding under his bed and wondering why love just isn’t enough.

‘it’s not worth the trouble,’ he says again as if to convince himself that he is undeserving of the warmth on the other side of his mask. his voice thins and trembles, and he turns his head to curl closer into your touch.

a sickening pool wells in his gut. as early as he can remember, the greed of others has only caused him the kind of excruciating pain that carves its anguish in wounds that forever refuse to close. he should have learned his lesson. who is he to hunger? who is he to swallow the monster whole, and, in doing so, become one with the cruel urge to insatiably take, take, take? such vicious cycles cannot be broken when he, too, desires from the deepest parts of his heart.

want is a fever that burns its own pyre, but he has been cold for so, so long.

yet the hand that feeds him does not strike him, this time. you bring your second hand to cup his head in your palms like a precious stone, and that wretched, wretched want grabs him by his throat and rips him under the tide. and he itches to claw open his chest and tear his beating heart from the cage of his ribs because the violent intimacy of hurt might just let him ignore the simple fact that for the first time in ages, love is an unconditional generosity that solely gives. because the tide has swept him somewhere where the waves are still, and the water is warm, and your hands are so, so soft through the worn fabric of his mask.

‘i’m not worth the trouble,’ he rasps, because third time’s the charm, and maybe this one last heave will finally stifle the ache of life banging against the walls of his chest. it doesn’t. he buries his face in your hands, and even through the bony armor stitched over his mask, he swears he can feel you running your thumbs over where the highest points of his cheeks lie. his heart doesn’t quiet. of course it doesn’t.

his mind stills in defeat. resignation for a victory undeserving. maybe something in between. but where his words fail, you speak instead, your voice strong and clear as you press your brow against the brittle bone shielding his skin.

‘it’s worth it to me,’ you say softly. ‘you are to me.’

[jack-the-nibbler]

Voretober Day One: Mask/Safety

Yharnam is a death trap for a borrower, but there are a rare few who may shield you from the dangers it holds.

The Night of the Hunt is no place for a borrower. It was a horrific enough time for anyone unfortunate enough to be caught out in the street as the sun went down, but it was particularly harrowing for someone as small as yourself. It was all too easy to be stepped on, stumble into a pyre, or snapped up by a beast or crow. Safe places were few and far between.

You hurried along through the darkened streets of Yharnam, leaping at every noise. A rusted axe being dragged along the ground, the snarls of hungry monsters, the shouting of hunting mobs. You huddled against a corner, shielding yourself from view and from the cold. If you could just find a safe place to sleep through the terror of the night…

The sound of footsteps caught your attention, and you quickly huddled in on yourself. A human was approaching, a hunter…but from what you could gather, he seemed stable. No lurching, stumbling gait of a deteriorating madman, walking with a cautious, yet collected posture. His long coat and saw cleaver were lightly spattered with blood, but he appeared untouched by infection…for now. But you were intrigued by this stranger. Was he an outsider like yourself? You peeked out, trying to get a better view.

You swiftly realized your mistake when he paused, turning to look in your direction. Had your movement given you away? You quickly shrunk back, but he was already approaching. The hunter tilted his head, leaning down to inspect the trembling little borrower trying to blend in with the cobblestones. It seemed your curiosity and his perception would be the death of you…

The hunter reached a gloved hand close, but to your shock he didn’t grab you. He just held his hand out, as if inviting you to step on. You frowned, daring to look up at him. Most of his face was obscured by a feathered tricorn hat and a mask that covered just about everything except for his curious blue eyes and a bit of his brown hair. Deciding that you were cornered anyways, you carefully stepped upon his hand, hoping he’d be nice enough to give you a swift end.

The hunter cupped his hands around you, gazing down at your tiny, shivering form. He wasn’t crushing you, and didn’t seem to have any malicious intent. Slowly and with great care, he brought you against his chest, cradling you close. It was warm, blocking out the cold of the night. You huddled against his chest, giving a soft little sigh.You were confused, but had to admit that this was nice.

The hand cradling you suddenly lifted you up to the mask that wrapped around most of his face. His free hand reached up to pull down his balaclava, and to your shock, opened his mouth wide. This hunter was going to eat you! You knew it was too good to be true! You shook your head, but his hand pressed you further. His tongue slipped out, giving a slow, gentle lick up along your body. You shivered, giving him a pleading look. Again, you couldn’t sense any ill intent…he wasn’t just shoving you into his mouth either. What was he planning?

You were gently slid onto the hunter’s extended tongue. It was so slimy…but rather soft. His warm breath washed over you, completely eliminating the chill of the night. The hunter’s tongue pulled you inside, his teeth and lips closing shut behind you. He pulled his mask back up, giving you no chance to escape if you got cold feet. You took a deep breath, trying to keep yourself calm as his tongue swished and wrapped around you, tasting and coating you in saliva. At least he wasn’t chewing you up…

You were soon pushed towards the back of the hunter’s tongue, peering down into his throat. It looked dark and wet, pulsing as if in anticipation to pull you down. Shuddering, but accepting the inevitable, you let yourself slide feet first into the hunter’s gullet as he tilted his head back. With a gulp, the squishy flesh hugged your legs, one more engulfing the rest of your body. A whimper escaped you as the peristalsis dragged you downwards.

The motion of the hunter’s throat squeezed you all over, almost taking your breath away. You weren’t getting suffocated, thankfully, but your mind was racing with all sorts of possibilities. Would you run out of air in his stomach? Would you have to suffer a slow, slimy end from digestion? The trip down felt like forever, but you were soon yelping as you landed within the belly of the beast hunter.

You pressed yourself up against one of the fleshy walls, your eyes wide. You couldn’t believe it…you had been swallowed. All around you were the gurgles and groans of his innards, his heart pounding right above you. What should you do? Try to force your way out? You couldn’t just lay here and let his body absorb you!

You flinched as you felt a gentle pressure and motion from outside. The hunter was rubbing his stomach…for a moment you feared that he truly saw you as nothing but a snack, but it didn’t feel that way. There was a sense of reassurance to it…like he was trying to tell you that you’d be okay. That you would be safe with him.

Well…maybe this wasn’t so bad. He’d been careful with you, much more than he needed to be, not to mention you had yet to feel any signs of digestion. You sighed as you nestled into one of the slimy, yet cozy folds of the stomach. Better to end up here than in the guts of some horrible beast. It was dark, but it was a comforting, warm darkness. Not anything like the chilling, ominous darkness of the Yharnam streets, where danger lurked around every corner. You curled up and gently kneaded the slippery flesh, letting yourself drift off.

The Hunter rubbed his stomach again, stifling a burp. He’d already cleared out this area, so he’d have a mostly safe, if lengthy walk to the nearest Messenger Lamp. He’d planned to spit you out within the safety of the Hunter’s Dream, but given how you were resting peacefully inside of him, it couldn’t hurt to rest up there for a while. The Hunter’s hand lingered over his middle for a moment before taking his gun from his hip. He needed to protect his new little friend.

[ghoulsstolemyheart]

Fade Into You

hurt/comfort, comfort sex, blowjobs, anal fingering, anal sex, body dysmorphia (kind of), Dewdrop hates himself

4.3k words

“You’re so beautiful,” Aether said breathlessly as he reached down to palm at Dew again.

“Even now?” Dew’s eyes were unsure, desperate. He suddenly remembered that he was naked and, despite how dark the room was, he felt like he was under a spotlight. The only thing that kept him from running off was the soft, fluttery feeling he got when Aether smiled at him.

“Especially now.”

———

Dewdrop makes a mistake during a ritual and, on top of everything else weighing on his mind, it’s just a little too much for him to handle and he turns to Aether for comfort.

Sometimes Dewdrop needed to be soft. For all his harshness and aggressive attitude, he was still an incredibly troubled ghoul who needed comfort. Ever since he had been forced to change his element, there had been a certain sadness that followed him. A yearning for something that he could never have again, something he could never be again. The others noticed. They watched him collapse in on himself as he lost the exuberance they had known him for and become a quiet, solitary ghoul who was reluctant to let anyone in. Well, almost everyone.

He braced himself against the sink in the ghouls’ shared dressing room and stared his reflection down in the mirror. His warm blond hair was sweaty and hung loosely from the ponytail he’d thrown it in after locking himself in the bathroom to change. The thought of the others seeing him right now was just too much, too exposed. He’d forgotten his hoodie on the bus and had nothing to hide his charcoal arms from prying eyes. The water flowed much hotter than Dew would have been able to handle before his transformation and he soaked a wad of paper towels in it before scrubbing the grease paint from around his eyes and mouth. He let the water scorch his fingers as he rinsed his hands, the pleasantness of the burning still strange as he tried to get used to his new heat tolerance.

There was a lot about him that had changed when the clergy made him swap his elements and it all left Dew feeling like there’s something missing. His fins were gone and his gills sealed up leaving jagged scars all across his body like deep claw marks. His hands and feet were blackened. When he was transforming it felt like he was burning on a pyre and all the screaming had torn his vocal chords to shreds. It took a long time for him to be able to look in the mirror without sobbing and even longer to let anyone else see him. It was like he’d been torn apart and rebuilt, atom by atom, cell by cell, but somewhere along the line something went wrong. The kind of wrong that no one else notices except you.

All of this culminated in a deeply troubled ghoul who spent half of his time floating around the abbey as if he were in a trance. When he goes on stage, however, he’s more confident than he’s ever been. The lights hit him, his guitar rings out over the screaming crowd, and no one has to see his face hidden behind his mask. He can throw shit at Aether and pretend to choke Rain and not think about the pitying way they looked at him when he tried to walk the day he finally woke up after the ritual or how Copia told him to rest his voice when he let out a croaky noise in place of his words. 

But the rush of a ritual only lasts so long.

His solo was coming up, he was going over the chords in his head, preparing to have his turn in the spotlight, but he was so caught up in his thoughts that he missed his cue. Frantic, Dew started playing and hoped that people didn’t notice the panic in his eyes or the way his legs started to shake underneath him. The crowd cheered but he could barely hear them over the terror in his mind—

A knock at the door brought him crashing back to the present, making his head whip around and panic rise in his chest. He still wasn’t ready to face the others yet.

“Dew, can I come in?” Aether’s soft voice asked from the other side.

He shut off the water and dried his hands, switching off the light before flicking the lock on the door and turning away so he wouldn’t have to see anyone else. Aether slipped inside quietly, locking the door again behind him, and gently took Dewdrop by the shoulders to turn him around. Dew shot forwards to wrap his arms around his torso and bury his face in Aether’s chest, the fabric of his shirt so nice and soft against his cheek.

“Everything alright?” Aether’s voice was muffled by Dew’s hair as he pressed his lips to the top of his head.

“Don’t want them to see me,” he murmured.

“Okay, we can stay in here for a while.”

Dew melted into Aether’s arms with a sigh. Aether never made him feel like he had to do things he wasn’t ready for. He didn’t tell him he was blowing things out of proportion like he so often told himself. Instead, he did things like this, waiting with Dewdrop until he was ready to face whatever had been overwhelming him. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head. Quintessence couldn’t distract people from the charred black that stained his arms, nor could it make Dew forget about what he was convinced was a career ending mistake.

They stayed there in the bathroom until Sunshine’s voice beckoned from the other side, telling them they were due to leave in thirty minutes. Aether watched as Dew tensed up, his hands immediately going to his arms as if he was trying to hide them.

“Where’s your clothes, firefly? I can help you change,” Aether offered, his voice soft and calming as always.

“I left them in the bus.”

Dewdrop swallowed nervously, his eyes wide in the dark bathroom as he gazed off into nothingness.

“That’s okay, I can go get them for you, how’s that sound?”

He nodded and Aether pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be real quick, just wait here.”

Aether slipped out of the bathroom the same way he came in, quietly and calmly, opening the door enough that he could get out but not so much that the rest of the ghouls could see Dewdrop who quickly locked the door behind him again. He waited in the dark, the muffled conversations and laughter of the other ghouls still gnawing on him and making him more anxious. But Aether didn’t take long, always true to his word. Dew let him inside again, taking the clothes from him as Aether pressed a quick kiss to his forehead before turning his back and facing the door, giving him some privacy.

Dewdrop quickly shed his uniform, pulling on his jeans and a t-shirt Aether had snagged for him from the merch booth one night, covering up the charcoal fade on his arms with a hoodie he stole from Omega back in the day. It still smelled like him, barely.

“Will you come through and sit with us, or would you rather stay here? I don’t mind,” Aether asked when he felt Dewdrop’s hand slip into his.

“I’ll come through,” he said quietly, closing his eyes as Aether pressed another soft kiss to his forehead.

He didn’t want to. He wanted to leave the tour entirely. To go back to the abbey and crawl into his bed where he didn’t have to worry about whether or not he was going to be kicked out of the Ghost Project. But he knew that staying in the bathroom until it was time to leave would just kick his paranoia into overdrive.

Aether unlocked the door and led him through to the dressing room, settling down into the couch with Dew at his side. He stayed silent while the rest of the ghouls talked and laughed, watching them with tired eyes as he curled up against Aether. They were in various states of undress, uniforms thrown on hangers and deposited on the rail in favour of t-shirts and jeans and sweatpants. Swiss whistled as Rain pulled his shirt over his head revealing lithe muscles and the little dorsal fin that ran the length of his spine, disappearing below the waistband of his pants. He used to whistle at Dew like that. Used to run his finger down the length of his fin and make him shudder. Now he’s latched onto the pretty, new water ghoul and, while he and Dew were never especially close even after Swiss joined the band, Dew can’t help the jealousy that rises in him when he sees Swiss do the same with Rain. Aether pressed another kiss to Dew’s head and tightened the arm that was around his shoulders. He knew how Dewdrop felt about his appearance these days.

“How long till we leave?” Dew asked quietly.

“Only fifteen minutes, then we’re heading to the hotel,” Aether whispered back.

“Share a room with me?”

Aether didn’t need to answer, they had agreed long ago that the two of them would always share a hotel room on tours. He leaned down to nuzzle into the side of Dew’s face, kissing him again softly on the cheek this time.

Dewdrop didn’t let go of Aether once on the journey to the hotel, their fingers intertwined the whole way from the dressing room to the hotel lobby. He locked the door of their hotel room and flicked the lights off, pulling Aether over to the bed and under the covers where he clung to him again. They lay there in silence for a while, Aether’s hand stroking gently up and down his back. He didn’t dare say anything in case he set Dew off, but after a while he felt tears soak into his shirt and Dewdrop trembling in his arms. He couldn’t take the silence much longer.

“Dew, what’s wrong?” He asked quietly, sitting up so he could see him.

Dewdrop sniffed and wiped an eye with the heel of his hand.

“I fucked up! I was late on my fucking solo and now Copia probably thinks I can’t handle lead guitar anymore.”

“I promise you, if Copia really thought that he’d have stormed into the dressing room and told you so. So you missed your solo by a couple seconds, at least you still played it.” Aether spoke softly, his hand coming up to twirl a lock of Dew’s hair in an attempt to comfort him.

“What if I do it again? What if tomorrow night I fuck up so bad I get kicked out then and there?”

“Dewdrop,” Aether reached down to take Dew by the jaw, “you’re a good guitarist. They wouldn’t have picked you if they didn’t think you could handle it.”

“But what if they were wrong?” Dew’s voice was so small and quiet now, so unsure of himself that he was almost unable to speak.

Aether used his grip on Dew’s jaw to maneuver him onto his back, straddling his hips. 

“Do I need to say it again? Dewdrop, you are good at what you do. You’re fucking great at it! You played so hard the other week you bled and then kept going , that’s dedication that proves you’re more than worthy to be in the Ghost Project.”

New tears began to spill down Dew’s cheeks and he pushed himself up on one elbow, his other hand grabbing the back of Aether’s neck and pulling him into a deep kiss.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he mumbled against Aether’s lips over and over again between kisses, his voice shaky and desperate as he pulled him down on top of him. Aether responded with soft moans and hands that grabbed and pulled, his touch turning Dew’s words to little whines as he felt his way under his t-shirt and up his chest.

“Are you sure you want this right now?” Aether asked and Dewdrop nodded enthusiastically, wiping the tears from his eyes and mumbling a soft “please”.

With that, Aether began to undress. He pulled his shirt up over his head and threw it to the side, giving Dew a full view of the thick, dark patch of hair that ran from his chest down the centre of his torso and below the waistband of his sweatpants. He rolled his hips down against Dew and smiled as the ghoul below him let out another whine. Aether had to climb off of him to kick off his sweats, giving Dewdrop the chance to finally remove the jeans he had still been wearing when he crawled into the bed. He threw his hoodie and shirt to join the rest of their clothes and quickly pulled the duvet over himself, arms tucked underneath as he sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. Aether had to get used to that after his transformation, the way Dew had to hide his body from himself when they slept together. He knew why he did it, the sight of his charred limbs and the scars where his fins had once been was too much for him most of the time, but sometimes Aether wanted to be selfish. Sometimes he wanted to pull the covers away and spend the whole night just looking at Dewdrop’s body. Admiring the soft gradient from jet black to the warm-toned gray on his limbs. Fingers tracing across the scars as if they were maps to distant lands. But he wouldn’t do that. Not until Dew was ready to be seen like that again. 

Aether slipped under the covers with him, lips finding his throat effortlessly as he rolled one of Dew’s nipples between his fingers. Dew practically mewled for him, breathless whines and his little stilted moans drawing Aether back up to kiss and bite at his lips. Now that he was distracted, he reached out of the covers to tangle a hand in Aether’s hair. He could feel his cock getting harder as Aether’s teeth nipped at his bottom lip and he couldn’t help but buck up into him.

“You want me to touch you? Show you how good you’ve been?” Aether’s voice rumbled deep in his chest as he spoke.

“Yes. Yes please.”

Aether’s hand was already on its way down from Dewdrop’s chest to palm at his hardening cock, pressing against him firmly.

“I’ve got a better idea,” he said with a smirk. Aether moved backwards, letting himself disappear beneath the covers as he kissed his way down Dew’s body. 

He stopped just above the base of his cock, taking his time to stroke him some more before placing wet, open mouthed kisses along the side of his shaft. All the while, Aether could hear the desperate moans of his little fire ghoul. It was too dark for him to see anything, but judging by the muffled quality of his partner’s sounds he guessed that Dew had clapped a hand over his mouth. With his mouth still on him, Aether reached up and pulled the hand away so he could hear him properly. Dewdrop gasped when he finally took him into his mouth, tongue flat against the underside of his head, and let out a shaky moan as he hollowed his cheeks. 

Dew squirmed under his touch, his hands reaching down to tangle in Aether’s hair and push him a little further down his length, arching his back to get even closer to him. It was moments like this, as Aether lavished him with attention, that Dew could finally let himself forget how much he hated being seen. Their eyes closed, both so focused on each other’s pleasure, neither of them could see the parts of him that brought him so much shame. He tightened his grip on Aether’s hair and thrust himself deep into his throat, pressing his face against the neatly trimmed hair around his cock and making Aether gag for a second. Dew held him there and rocked his hips against Aether’s mouth before pulling him all the way off. He didn’t want to cum yet.

“C’mere,” he breathed as he pulled Aether up to eye level again and into a heated, possessive kiss. Aether cradled his face as they moved together, all lips and tongues and gentle thrusting against each other as they settled into a familiar rhythm that brought him so much joy. If there was one thing he was thankful for when it came to the Ghost Project and the church, it was that they had brought them together. He loved Dew, something he thought that he wasn’t capable of as a demon. He loved him in all his forms, all his moods no matter how extreme. He loved the noises he made when they were together like this. Aether knew Dewdrop hated talking about his feelings, but he didn’t need to talk for Aether to know that he loved him too. Not when he clung to him so desperately, like he wanted to crawl into his skin, and kissed him as passionately as he did in that moment. He felt his nails dig into his back as Dewdrop clawed at him and Aether groaned into his mouth, grinding down against him even harder and making Dew pull back and whine. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Aether said breathlessly as he reached down to palm at Dew again.

“Even now?” Dew’s eyes were unsure, desperate. He suddenly remembered that he was naked and, despite how dark the room was, he felt like he was under a spotlight. The only thing that kept him from running off was the soft, fluttery feeling he got when Aether smiled at him.

“ Especially now.” Aether dipped his head back down to kiss Dew’s neck while his hand moved further down, the tip of his finger circling Dew’s entrance and making him whine in anticipation. He let out a moan of his own against Dew’s skin as he felt his lover return the favour, stroking his cock with skilled fingers that teased him with devastating precision. They’d been together long enough now that even in his most strung out moments, Dew could touch him exactly the way he needed. Aether thrust into his hand slowly, continuing to tease him as he gently pressed his finger into him and pulled back out to circle him again. 

“Aether please,” Dewdrop whined, his back arching again and pressing his leaking cock into Aethers hip.

He smiled against Dew’s skin, giving him a playful nip with his teeth before finally pushing his finger into him properly. Dew bucked his hips again, a loud, needy moan tearing from his throat and making Aether press deeper. He moved slowly, working Dew into a whining mess as he eventually added another finger and began to get more enthusiastic. His cock throbbed under Dew’s touch, already so worked up and desperate for release after a little teasing.

“I ne- I need you, Aeth.” Dewdrop was struggling to hold back now. His free hand grabbed at Aether, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.

Aether withdrew his fingers and reached down to slip his hands under Dew’s thighs so he could lift them, hooking his legs over his shoulders as he positioned himself at Dew’s entrance. They both moaned when he slowly pushed into him, bathing in each other’s pleasure. Aether’s hands gripped Dew’s thighs as he thrust into him, building up to that same rhythm they had earlier.

“You feel so fucking good,” Dew whined. Aether smiled and dipped his head to place a tentative kiss to Dew’s leg as he kept it propped against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the soft skin there when he didn’t squirm or pull away. Instead he watched Aether, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown in the darkness almost blotting out the soft orange-yellow glow of his irises. He reached down to stroke himself, lewd, slick noises mixing with their moans and sighs of pleasure. For the first time in a long while, Dewdrop wanted to be seen. He threw his other hand back over his head to grip the headboard, the angle of his arm giving Aether a good view of the long scar that ran the length of where one of his fins had once been.

Aether picked up the pace, furrowing his brow as he felt his orgasm begin to build in the pit of his stomach. Dew was clenching around him, his back arching again as he desperately bucked into his fist. His eyes were screwed shut and his mouth was hanging open, allowing every little whine and moan and gasp escape his lips as he neared his release. Even in the darkness of their hotel room, Aether could see the flush of Dew’s cheeks that crept down his neck.

“You close? You gonna cum for me, huh?” Aether grunted, his own orgasm growing closer with each roll of his hips.

Dew gave a whine followed by a breathy “uh-huh” as his grip on the headboard tightened. Aether pulled away his hand before beginning to fuck him even harder, the last thing he wanted was to jam Dew’s fingers between the wall and the headboard. He pinned his hand against the pillow above his head, his thumb stroking across the charcoal skin of his wrist.

A loud, shaking moan tore from Dewdrop’s throat as he came, followed shortly after by Aether who let out a low groan. He continued to slowly roll his hips against Dew as they rode out their respective highs before finally pulling out. Dew looked so beautiful beneath him, eyes shut as he took slow, deep breaths. He couldn’t help himself as he gently put Dew’s leg back down on the bed and instead lifted his hand away from his cock to suck Dew’s fingers clean. Dew opened his eyes at the new sensation, blushing even harder as Aether made eye contact with him while he ran his tongue across Dew’s hand. It was like he was making a show of it, soft moans escaping him as he tasted his partner. Once he finished with his hand Aether leaned down to lick across Dew’s stomach, drawing more sounds from him as he tangled his hand in Aether’s hair.

Finally finished, Aether moved to lie beside Dewdrop, wrapping an arm around his middle and pulling him close. They didn’t talk for a while after that, didn’t need to talk. The way they held each other, Aether’s fingers stroking gently up and down Dew’s spine while his little fire ghoul curled against him, his face tucked into the crook of his neck, it was more than enough. Dew let his hand rest against Aether’s chest, exposed rather than hidden away beneath the sheets. He didn’t pull away when Aether reached up to take his hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles before holding it in front of his face as he peered through the darkness. His thumb stroked across Dew’s knuckles as he looked at the deep black skin, sharply contrasted by the off white of his claw-like nails.

Dew pulled his hand away, but instead of hiding he leaned over Aether’s body and switched on the dim lamp on the bedside table, returning to where he had been lying and tentatively reaching his hand out to him again. Aether gave a soft smile and took Dew’s hand to press another kiss to his knuckles. He ran his fingers across his skin, admiring the soft fade from jet black to warm grey as his gaze ran further up his arm. He could see the veins disappearing under his skin as the colouration grew darker towards his wrists, hiding the little freckles that would sometimes appear before he changed too. The pale scars that Aether barely ever saw seemed to have a pearlescent shimmer to them. Running up the outside of his forearm and lining the inner sides of his fingers where the delicate webbing had once been like shocks of lightning in a midnight storm. Aether felt tears prick his eyes as he trailed kisses over the long scar on his arm as if they could take it all away, overwhelmed with anger that they had forced Dewdrop to go through with his transformation.

“It’s weird,” Dew murmured, drawing Aether’s attention back to his face bathed in the dim light of the bedside lamp. “Sometimes I wake up and think they’re still there.”

He looked at his hand, splaying his fingers out so he could see the scars between them.

“It’s like I can feel them.”

Aether reached up with one hand and cupped Dew’s face, his thumb gently stroking over his cheekbone. 

“I meant it earlier… when I said you’re beautiful,” he says softly. “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Nothing can take that away from you, Dewdrop.”

Dewdrop felt his lip quiver a little and bit the inside of his mouth in an attempt to stop it before pushing forward to catch Aether in a deep, loving kiss.

“I love you,” he murmured against his lips, his voice breaking a little as he forced down the tears.

He’d said it before, always during the night while they were lying together as they were in that moment, but never had Aether heard so much emotion in Dew’s voice. Usually it was quick, mumbled while Dew was already half asleep and not so concerned about upholding the reputation he’d built. Aether’s heart ached for him. He wanted to record that one I love you and listen to it on repeat for the rest of his life. But for now he would settle for just hearing it the once, the affection in Dewdrop’s voice enough to keep him going for a long, long time.

“I love you too,” Aether whispered back, pressing a few more kisses to his lips before pulling away to turn off the lamp.

Once they were in darkness again, he wrapped Dewdrop in his arms and buried his face in his hair, breathing in that cinnamon-campfire scent that he carried around with him. Dew melted in that moment, Aether’s arms keeping him safe from all of his fears and insecurities and letting him relax as he let it all go. He nuzzled into Aether’s chest, a soft purring sound emanating from him which made Aether smile. 

“I’ll always love you. No matter what,” Aether whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he continued to hold him close to his heart, right where he belonged.

[it-happened-one-fic]

Dead of the Night - Diluc (Part 2)

Author Notes: The second part of my Halloween/October fic series for Genshin Impact! Much of what applied to the first part applies to this part as well. I wrote and edited this Vampire! AU series exclusively to "Is this Love" by Whitesnake which did kind of influence how this series came together. As per usual, Reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender-Neutral Reader/ Vampire! AU/ pining/ romance/ some drama/ fluff with a touch of angst

Word Count: 1711

{Part 1}, {Part 2: You're Here!}, {Part 3}, {Part 4}

Also available on AO3 (link deleted due to glitches)

Trigger Warning: Reader does get attacked by a vampire, but all is well.

I blinked up at Diluc, not entirely sure of what to say, as the vampire that had just attacked me collapsed into ashes mere seconds after ignition.

Thank you? You’re a vampire?! How on earth did you get here this quickly??! 

They all seemed like reasonable reactions, but I faltered as he turned to look down at me, backlit by the remains of the burning pyre behind him.

His face was a mask of worry as he looked down at where I remained. Sprawled on the ground from where the vampire had tackled me.

He dropped down into a crouch at a distance that I realized was to ensure I felt safe with him. Almost like he somehow knew that I’d seen his fangs and was worried that I was afraid.

 It was a realization that brought a pang to my heart because it was true. Even though he’d just saved me, I was afraid.

“Are you alright?” His voice was cautious, but the undertone of worry was there, and I could clearly see the concern in his eyes.

And slowly, I nodded before, at long last, finding my voice, “Yeah… I’m okay.”

I watched as some of the tenseness left his frame and he stood once more, reaching down towards where I still sat on the ground, “Can you stand?” That was a very valid question, I realized, as I finally noticed my legs were trembling from the adrenaline crash that I was currently experiencing. 

A crash that I really didn’t want to be dealing with right now since I’d just found out that my childhood friend, who’d just saved my life, was a vampire.

“I… I don’t know.” He frowned at my words and started to lean down before I panickedly started trying to stand. My legs were still trembling, but they held me up as I straightened and took a step backwards, “I’m good, yeah… I’ve got it.”

Diluc frowned at my words, watching me closely as I wrapped my arms around myself in some sort of feeble embrace.

 I slowly steadied my breathing and looked back over to where he stood. The worry in his red eyes was still easily visible as I forced myself to get a grip on the situation and calm down.

“Thank you,” I at last managed, squeezing my arms slightly as if to ground myself. It was surreal, though. 

I’d just been thinking about how, even despite the distance between us, Diluc would never truly be a stranger simply due to our shared childhood, but here I was learning he was a vampire. And who knew how long he’d been one? It made me wonder what else I’d been wrong about.

Perhaps I didn’t and hadn’t known him as well as I’d thought, and perhaps that was why a distance had sprung up between us.

I exhaled, my gaze still holding his as I wondered what he was thinking. I knew that I should probably be thinking about how I’d almost been killed just now, or perhaps about how to get away from the potential new danger that came in the form of an old friend.

But instead, I just quietly voiced the question that I already knew the answer to, “You’re a vampire?”

He tensed almost immediately, his eyes widening slightly, before a guarded expression washed across his face. And for a brief moment, I thought that was going to be it. That was going to be the end of it.

But then he turned away with a sigh, almost like he was trying to hide what I’d already seen as he spoke, his voice quieter than it had been, “Yes. It happened quite some time ago.”

Some time ago…. My mind immediately took me back to that rainy day when Crepus had died, when Diluc and Kaeya had their falling out, and when the distance between me and Diluc had first made its appearance. 

But had it really happened then? It was true that Diluc had not changed much in appearance since that day, but that didn’t necessarily mean that was the day that he’d been bitten and forever changed into a creature of the night. 

Perhaps it had happened while he was away? After all, Mondstadt wasn’t the only place with vampires; it was just that ours were less well-controlled. A fault of the Knights of Favonius, I was sure Diluc would argue. 

I watched him, though. Finding that since I’d calmed down from my incredibly recent brush with death, I was not actually afraid of Diluc, even though he’d just confirmed my suspicions. 

I’d been terrified of the vampire that had attacked me, but not of Diluc.

It was possible that it was because Diluc had saved me, but it was more likely that it was just because Diluc was Diluc.

 Because, for better or worse, I cared for Diluc. Even if I’d failed him in the past when he’d needed comfort and, despite everyone’s best efforts, had decided to leave home to find it elsewhere, I still cared.

“Did you get hurt?” My voice was quiet, but it had Diluc turning to look at me with obvious surprise. 

And I supposed that made sense. Any other sane person would’ve fled his presence rather quickly after finding out his status as a vampire. But I couldn’t. Not when he’d saved me mere moments ago, and not when he was my friend. Even if, to him, I was just a friend from the past.

“When it dove at you, I mean.” I gestured vaguely towards where the vampire had been as I attempted to fill the heavy silence with my voice and explain my previous question all at once, “Did you get hurt then?”

Something about his stare changed, almost like it softened as he continued to look at me before he shook his head. Twisting so that he was facing me fully once more. “No, I’m fine.”

He frowned as he finished, looking off towards something in the distance that only he could see. But perhaps there really was something there. I had heard that vampires could see in the dark far better than the average human.

“You should get home…. I’ll walk you there,” His voice was firm, confirming that he had indeed seen something that he didn’t like.

I hesitated, almost wanting to refuse and go on my own, but the memory of that vampire showing up and chasing me was right there in the back of my mind. A reminder of what was out there and what it was that Diluc might have seen.

“I… thank you,” I at last accepted and I saw a frown flicker across Diluc’s face. But he was no doubt realizing that I was hesitant to be near him, and the information that he was a vampire was still fresh and new in my mind.

Though, admittedly, it wasn’t his status as a vampire that made me hesitant, and more my general awkwardness around him.

But he turned, without any further words, and started leading me down the path towards where I lived. 

And I followed him silently. Glancing nervously behind me before trotting after him and falling into a steady stroll once I caught up. 

Similarly, he remained silent, adding to the weighty atmosphere. But somehow I still couldn’t help but recall that when we were young, we would come dashing up this very same street hand in hand. 

It had been different then. A bright smile on Diluc’s face had been a common thing, as he would hurriedly ask my parents, with shining eyes, if I could go to his house. 

But we’d also been kids then. Frolicking together alongside Jean, Barbara, and Kaeya, when he wasn’t sick, in the vineyard under Adelinde’s watchful eye.

“Um… I really can’t thank you enough,” I started, only to be cut off as Diluc stopped to look back at me over his shoulder. Seemingly unwilling to face me fully.

“There’s no need. Anyone else would have done the same. There was no way I could just leave you there while you were under attack,” His words were polite, but the unsaid meaning was there as well.

‘Don’t push yourself. I know you’re scared now that you realize I’m a vampire.’

I frowned, my fingers curling into my palm as I watched him turn away and start down the path again. It wasn’t a strange sight to see Diluc walking on his own. But I now wondered if that was by choice. 

Perhaps, after being turned, he’d gotten into the habit of shunning the presence of others in order to keep his secret. It couldn’t be easy, after all, to avoid sunlight, run the winery, and keep up with day-to-day life.

And perhaps those thoughts were why I found myself trotting after him and reaching out as I grabbed him by the arm impulsively. Causing the young man to turn with wide eyes as the words came rushing from my mouth, “I won’t tell anyone!”

I faltered under his gaze, withdrawing my hand from his arm as my voice softened from one of desperation to awkward reassurance, “I won’t tell anyone that you’re a vampire, I mean.” 

My gaze flickered up to meet his, watching him carefully and hoping my words put him a bit more at ease. Because I didn’t want this gap between us to grow any larger. It was awkward enough as it was, and if I didn’t handle this carefully, it would only get worse.

“So you don’t have to worry about that, at the very least,” I finished quietly, forcing myself to keep looking up at him despite how awkward I felt.

 And Diluc stared at me, half-startled, before his gaze softened once more. Almost like he was relaxing as I pushed myself to accept this change and let him know it was fine. 

Because even if he was a vampire, he was also still Diluc. And the Diluc I knew would never hurt anyone in Mondstadt. Not me nor anyone else. 

The only people he’d ever be a threat to would be those who threatened his home. And if what occurred a few moments ago was anything to go by, that number included the other vampires.

@vera-deville