#IT WILL NOT GET BETTER THAN THAT THIS SEASON I FEAR

[burrowdarling]

A New Tradition

Summary: You wanted to start a new tradition this Christmas by opening one gift early...and you both picked the right gift.

Pairings: boyfriend!Joe Burrow x gifrlfriend!reader

Warnings: Cheesy gifts and conversation, some fluffy Christmas content

Note: Hi everyone! Sorry for the lack of content recently, work was crazy with the holidays. I'm hoping to figure out a posting schedule for the new year. Enjoy this late Christmas post requested by this lovely anon. Better late than never, hope you enjoy! Happy gamedey!

Word Count: 2.3k

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Taglist: @burrowbarbie @definitelynotdomanique @one-sweet-gubler @plushkhiii @enchantedinfinity @iosivb9 @hellsingalucard18 Feel free to comment or message me if you'd like to be added to the list!

It was Christmas Eve, and the snow was gently falling outside, blanketing the world in a quiet, peaceful stillness. The winter wasn’t exactly your favorite time of year, but it was something you had grown more fond of since you and Joe had gotten together. You’d spent the afternoon in the kitchen, baking cookies together (though Joe mostly just ate the dough), and now you were getting ready to settle on the couch, mugs of hot cocoa in hand with Joe looking for a Christmas movie to play. Watching the snow slowly fall outside of your living room window brought you back to that night, the memories flooding back in of how your relationship had started.

You and Joe had started to grow closer at the beginning of the Bengal’s season a few years back, with Joe officially asking you to be his girlfriend shortly after Christmas. The 27th to be exact. He had an entire date planned out at this cute little cafe outside of the city in hopes for some type of reprieve from the usual spotlight and prying eyes. Joe wanted to keep things light and low pressure, fearing he would mess things up with you if he over-thought too much about it. The date went perfect, constant banter back and forth between you two with laughs and gentle touches. His humor and smile had you swooning.

You guys took a walk around the area after finishing up, taking in the lights that decorated the streets. The snow was lightly falling, making the whole scene in front of you feel like something out of one of those Hallmark movies. It was under the mistletoe at one of the decorated sidestreets where Joe had asked you to be his girlfriend, sealing your exclusivity with a kiss you think back on to this day. Since then, it has made one of your favorite holidays that much more special in your eyes. 

After a few years together, you decided to get your own place and work towards starting your own life together. This would be your first Christmas together in your home, having spent the time meticulously decorating it to your liking with Joe’s help. It had the perfect balance of cozy and comfort, two things you strived for in your shared space at all times. With the hectic nature of Joe’s job, it was nice to have this space together where the two of you could relax and unwind after a long day. 

Joe pulled you out of your thoughts and back into the moment as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind you. A small smile played on your lips at how perfect this man was, knowing he would do anything to make you feel loved.

“What’s on your mind?” Joe asked and he peppered a few light kisses along your neck, pulling you closer to his chest. You felt a soft blush rise to your cheeks before you spoke.

“I was just thinking back to our first date and how far we’ve come since then” you side, turning to face him while remaining in his arms.

“I want to start a new tradition, something small that makes today a little more special” you said, reaching up on your tiptoes to place a kiss to his forehead, a smile gracing his lips as you pulled away back down to your usual height. You watched him stand up a tad straighter, signalling that he bent down to help you reach.

“And what would you like that to be, sweetheart?” Joe asked, his eyes looking into yours with such a sense of adoration.

“I think we do a present early, just one. Something that’s a bit more intimate instead of opening everything at once with everyone else watching. We can save the rest for when family is here, but I feel like it would be nice to start something new in our place together” you said, hoping Joe would agree to your request. You kissed his cheek while he thought for a moment.

He placed a kiss to your lips in return before speaking, “I think that’s a great idea and I already just the one I want to give you early” Joe said with a hint of something in his tone that made you pull away to look at him. It was one you knew all too well, bracing for whatever Joe had in store for you. You knew he had a tendency to go elaborate at times for those he loved, you would just have to wait and see.

The two of you were sitting together on the couch, the dim lighting from the Christmas tree casting a warm glow over the room. The fire crackled softly in the background, adding to the atmosphere of calm. Joe, as usual, had that laid-back smile on his face. You could see his eyes twinkling with mischief, even as he pulled out the gift he’d gotten for you from under the tree beside him. 

“So, one gift,” he said, leaning back into the couch, his arm around me. “You sure you’re not going to sneak a peek at the others under the tree?”

You rolled your eyes and nudged him. “I’ll be good. I promise. But only one gift means you have to make this count, Burrow.”

Joe chuckled, looking down at me with his usual easy smile. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I nailed it.”

You smiled back, thinking the same thing. “Same here,” you said. “This is going to be the perfect gift, you’ll see.” You went under the tree and had yours placed next to you on the coffee table, wrapped and finished with a bow, the label read:

To: My MVP

From: Your favorite cheerleader

You thought the sentiment was cute with a hint of flirting, bringing up the thoughts of past intimate exchanges between the two of you. Joe seemed to be thinking the same as he read the label himself when you placed the present in his hand. He raised his eyebrows at you with a knowing smirk, only giving back a wink in return. The two gifts seemed to be about the same size which eased your nerves slightly. Joe handed you his gift, noting the look of uncontainable excitement in his features. You were proud of his wrapping job, his skills improving over the years as each christmas and birthday had passed. His tag to you read:

To: My princess

From: Your knight in jersey armor

You laughed lightly as you read his, Joe’s humor on full display even as soft and sweet as this moment was. You looked up at him as your laughter died down, Joe gestured for you to finally open the gift. You nodded and began to tear through the red and white paper. As you pulled more off, you revealed the classic red and white logo you both know and love. Inside was a custom Lego set, and as soon as you saw it, you gasped. It was a Lego replica of the small café where you and Joe had your first date five years ago — the cozy little spot tucked on a quiet street corner. The tiny Lego pieces meticulously captured every detail: the brick exterior, the little round tables with chairs, the glowing lights in the windows. There was even a tiny version of the street sign out front accompanied by tinier versions of the two of you.

“No way,” you breathed, holding it up in awe. “Joe, this is… this is amazing. How did you even think of this?”

Joe smiled proudly, his eyes lighting up. “Well, I know you love building things, and you always talk about that cafe where we had our first date,” he teased lightly, knowing how much you always beg to go back with the food being amazing. “I thought it would be something fun we could do together.”

You felt a lump form in your throat as you looked at the set in your hands. That night — your first date — had felt like a dream. You’d been so awkward, but somehow, you’d clicked together like puzzle pieces that had been lost and finally found. And now, five years later, here you were, still together, looking back at that moment with a sense of nostalgia and affection. You took in the box, a few small tears welling in your eyes at how thoughtful the gift was and a smile fell across your lips while Joe wiped your tears away, stroking your cheek with the biggest grin on his face.

“I couldn't wait to give that to you so I’m so glad you said about opening something early. I felt like I was gonna give it up any second "Joe rushed out, finishing with a sigh of relief. 

“You’re incredible,” you said softly, setting the Lego set down beside me and turning to him. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

Joe shrugged casually, though there was a softness in his eyes. “I remember everything about that night. You had that nervous laugh, and I think you spilled your drink at one point, but it was perfect. Just like this.”

You leaned over to kiss him, grateful for the thoughtfulness he always put into everything, especially when it came to us. When you pulled back, you noticed his eyes flicker down to the gift you had for him — the one sitting on the coffee table.

“Oh right, your turn,” you said, giggling as you picked the box up off of the table. 

You passed it over to him — looking quite similar, though wrapped in silver paper this time. Joe didn’t waste any time, tearing it open in his usual fashion. You laughed as he was the complete opposite of you when it came to unwrapping gifts, his usual high level of patience was out the window and nowhere to be found. When he saw what was inside, his eyes widened slightly.

“You didn’t,” he said, already guessing where this was going as he tore through to find the same logo plastered in the corner of the box. Joe burst out laughing, his deep chuckles filling the room. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said between laughs. “We bought each other the same thing?”

You softly chuckled while wiping your few stray tears away, “Oh, I did. Go ahead, open it.” You couldn’t help but laugh too, the absurdity of it making everything feel even more perfect. “How is that even possible?” you asked, shaking your head in disbelief. “We literally thought of the exact same gift?”

Joe tore off the wrapping with a sense of both amusement and disbelief. And sure enough, as the paper fell away, there it was. A custom Lego set — the exact same one he’d just given you. The exact same design, the exact same tiny figures of you and him in the outfits you wore (as close as they could be in Lego style).

Joe shook his head, still laughing. “I swear, I was so sure I was being original! I even went through all this trouble to make sure it was one-of-a-kind!”

“I guess we’re just *that* in sync,” you teased, holding up the Lego set like a trophy. “Maybe we’ve been together too long.”

“Definitely not long enough for me, that’s for sure” Joe grinned, his voice full of affection. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we both have great taste. Maybe we should’ve just gone shopping together,” Joe joked, voice still sincere. “But hey, we both nailed it.” he said while still processing the absurdity of it all.

It was funny how we could end up with the same exact gift, but in that moment, you realized that it wasn’t about the present itself. It was about the thought behind it — how we both valued memories and the little moments we shared. That first night was just as important to you as it was to him.

“I guess we both really wanted to remember this time,” you said, looking at him with a smile, “and now we’ll remember our first Christmas Eve here together. It’ll be known as the night we both had the best present ever” 

Joe nodded, his eyes softening as he reached for my hand as he spoke, “​​yeah, and every Christmas after this one. Asking you to be mine was still the best decision I ever made and now we’ll have it as a physical memory…twice” he finished with a laugh, making you laugh too.

“Okay,” you said, still chuckling as you nudged him shoulder to shoulder. “We should probably build these together, right? A Lego night like old times?”

Joe raised an eyebrow, clearly up for the challenge. “I’m game. But if you mess up my mini-figure’s hair, I’m going to have to throw down.” tackling you into the cushion behind you as he maneuvered his hands to tickle you.

Joe sent you into a fit of laughter and joking screams, begging him to free you with a promise you’d be good. He finally let up, air filling back into your lungs at a normal rate. You pulled him down by the neck into a kiss, “If you do that again, Joseph, I’ll lose your minifigures hair on purpose”.

Joe acted fake appalled by your statement, “alright, a deal’s a deal. Let’s have a truce and enjoy the rest of the night. I don’t want to worry about a bald miniature of me on Christmas” he joked as the two of you snuggled up for the rest of the night. Looking at the identical gifts on the coffee table, you knew that you were building the life you always wished for with the man of your dreams, one tiny brick at a time.

[lovesick-desires]

VALETUDINARIANISM

YANDERE!VIKTOR X IMMUNOCOMPROMISED!READER — CHAPTER TWO

‎‎‎‎PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⇠ ✩ ⇢ NEXT CHAPTER (coming soon)

ABSTRACT: After escaping Viktor's clutches, you hide away in your humble abode in Zaun. Unbeknownst to you, that is not where the story ends. Oh, it is only the beginning. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for not finishing this chapter yesterday, I was in the emergency room for appendix pain (turns out I have norovirus D:). CONTENT WARNINGS: gender neutral reader, season two spoilers, yandere behavior, manipulation, cult behavior, no mentions of "y/n", no descriptors for reader/"y/n", coercion. stalking, abuse of power, weapons (knife), foul language, reader has panic attack, breaking and entering, foul language, use of Google Translate for Czech, attempted forced brainwashing, sensual touching, hints of savior complex, semi-rushed ending (sorry) (N)SFW?: mildly NSFW WORD COUNT: 2.0k VIKTOR'S YANDERE ARCHETYPE: delusional, protective

All you could think about was getting home and forgetting this all happened. Your legs carried you as fast as they could, the fire of fear burning at them as if to keep you moving. To keep you from stopping. You could feel your lungs burn and ache from the overexertion, but you had to keep moving as you eventually got back to the heart of the Undercity.

Once you reached a secluded alleyway, you stopped to catch your breath, making sure no one else was around. Once you realized you are in your own solitude, you couldn't help but lean into the wall behind you and slide down it to sit on the cold, hard ground. The adrenaline wore off as a coughing fit erupted from your throat. Fuck, you overworked your body and now you were faced with the consequences of your condition.

Reaching into your pocket, you felt your fingers around until they were wrapped around a plastic bottle. With haste, you retrieved the pill bottle and inspected its contents.

Seven pills left.

You needed to get more, but that would have to wait.

Scooping a pill from the bottle to leave the remaining six, you placed it under your tongue and let it dissolve as you sat there on the ragged floor. As your body and mind calmed down, you began to realize your position in a Zaun alleyway at sunset. It was best to get moving.

With the realization, you shakily rose from the ground, knees buckling. You had to keep moving, no matter how much your body hurt. Walking out of the alleyway, you draw your hood up to blend in among the crowd of Zaunites as you wondered home.

A week had passed since you escaped the commune. You still hear whispers of the Machine Herald in passing when you strolled the Undercity streets. You knew better than to expect miracles now, everything comes with a price: inadvertently or not. However, whenever you went out, you felt eyes on you constantly. You figured it was your paranoia from after the whole freaky cult incident, yet you couldn't quite erase the feeling.

It was a dreary eve in the Undercity as you sat in your bed, all cozy as you were reading a book. As your eyes scanned the lines of dialogue, you felt your eyelids get droopy. Realizing this was your cue to halt your reading for the night, you slid your weathered bookmark onto the page you were on. As you closed the book as the pages fluttered together into their former stack, a soft sigh elicited from your tired lips. Reading was a nice distraction to you from all the other fuckery in your life such as your illnesses and anxieties. You placed the book on your nightstand as you laid back. Reaching up to your lamp's knob, you turned it until it clicked, letting the light flicker off. In the wake of the lamp's golden light, the blue moonlight seeped in through a crack in your curtains, basking a small sliver of the room in its ethereal light. As you stared up at the ceiling of your dingy apartment, you felt sleep slowly smother you...

creeeeak...

What was that?

You opened your weary eyes to gaze at where the sound came from: your window. Behind the beige curtains stood the silhouette of a slender individual, making your blood run cold.

creeeak...

You rouse yourself from your sleepy state to reach down to the floor, putting your hand into your boot to retrieve your knife. As your vision focuses, you freeze when you see the man reach down to the base of your window and pull it up. You forgot to lock the window. Fuck.

When you see the hand come to view through the curtains, it was that painfully familiar gray tone. You immediately knew who it was. Realizing you didn't know what to do, you froze, shutting your eyes to feign a peaceful slumber.

creeeak...

You could hear the Machine Herald step foot into your bedroom, causing you to grip your knife tighter under the sheets. You tried to stay calm but you could feel your heart rate accelerate exponentially. Your mind was getting fuzzy and your limbs were trying their best to stay still. Why you were faking it? You didn't know, but something told you to... in the back of your mind...

creeeak...

The healer was now looking down at you at the side of your bed. You could feel his overwhelming presence in the vicinity. Your knuckles paled from how tightly you gripped the knife, praying to whatever god out there that he would just leave or something.

"Promiňte..." was the only word that escaped from the Machine Herald's pasty lips. You felt something get closer... and closer... Your eyes reluctantly fluttered open to see his hand was right in your face, electric purple filtering out of its cracks and cavities. Your gaze quickly moved up to see his eyes were a glowing pale lavender, no irises or pupils in sight. You had to move...

Move...

Move...

MOVE, DAMMIT, MOVE!

Your head flinched away right before he could caress it, causing a chain reaction of adrenaline course through your veins and joints. In a flash, you pulled yourself away from the healer, pointing your knife at his sternum. This induced a subtle gasp from Viktor, the light from his hand and eyes slowly diminishing out of shock.

"Don't... touch me..." You rasped, your voice crackling from lack of use in the past few hours. Your hand trembled as the raw, unfiltered anxiety coursed through your vessel. To this, Viktor looked slightly hurt from your outlash and a little... entertained? You couldn't quite read the glimmer in his eye, but you knew damn well it was bad news.

As if on cue, you felt your lungs start to give out, making a cough erupt from your sore throat. Viktor immediately took notice to this.

"Please, miláček, let me help—"

"Why are you in my apartment? How did you find me?" You interjected, your gaze narrowed with confusion and contempt as you kept your knife pointed at him. You pursed your lips to try and hold back another cough but it burst through your lips, making your grasp on your weapon weaker.

"Please, just relax. I am not here to hurt you—"

"Answer my questions." You barked out in a cough, holding back the pressure building in your throat to avoid showing any more weakness to the man before you. To this, Viktor's gaze hardened as his brows furrowed. His slowly retracted his hand from you and now stood before you.

"The way I found you is... irrelevant. But why I am here, is not. Now, please, put down the knife and i will explain everything." The healer elaborated, putting his spindly hands up in mock surrender. You sniffled as a painful coughing fit burst from your throat, inadvertently causing your grip on the knife to falter. The blade clattered to the hardwood floor as your aching body fell back to the mattress it sat upon, provoking a cough to escape your lips again.

Of course, this was the week you had to get a respiratory flare up.

"Pills..." was the only word you could get out between coughs. To this, Viktor was alerted and began to glanced around the room only to spot the bottle of pills on your dresser. The healer rose with urgency and grabbed the bottle, encompassing it with his spindly fingers.

"Is... this what you need?" Viktor questioned as he shook the bottle gently, rattling its contents. In your weakened state, trying to suppress your coughing and wheezing, you nodded. You went to reach for the bottle from his hand, only for him to retract his hand.

"No, it's okay, let me help you... Please..." The Machine Herald uttered in a tone that sounded like an desperate prayer to an omnipotent deity. Coughs erupted from your shaking lips as the healer sat besides you on the bed, undoing the lid from the pill bottle. With a quick glance at the directions on the bottle, he committed them to memory as he scooped a pill out from the bottle, leaving the remaining five. With a firm yet gentle hand, he grabbed your jaw to hold you in place.

"Trust in me. Open your mouth for me, miláček" He rasped, holding the pill in between his thumb and pointer finger. With no other options, you reluctantly opened your mouth, raising the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth. You barely suppressed the urge to cough as you took wheezing breaths, the itch in the back of your throat driving you mad. A soft smirk spread across the healer's fair lips as he lowered the white tablet into your mouth with a gentle touch, depositing the pill under your tongue. He held his fingers in your mouth, hooked slightly on your lower jaw, before slowly retracting them. As his fingers vacated your mouth, his thumb briefly dragged across your bottom lip, making you instinctively shut your mouth.

"Good, very good," The Machine Herald murmured, his eyes intensely locked with yours. You slowly felt the ache in your lungs and the itch in your throat dissipate from the dissolving pill under your tongue. With a shaky sigh, you look up at the man sitting beside you. Slowly, the cult leader retracted his hand, his touch lingering for a moment.

"Why... did you try to... heal me when I was asleep?" You questioned, sitting up straight. You felt weary of the man who just broke into your abode, of course, yet you felt a sense of calm when near him. Like an allure of a raging flame to a mere moth.

"I just want to help you, miláček. You are suffering a great illness and you can not free yourself of that burden. Getting sick over and over again takes a toll on the body. I, myself, would know that from personal experiences," The healer explained, looking out your now open window as the beige curtains fluttering in a soft zephyr. "My body... was once weak and crippled, bound to utilize a cane just to something as small as taking a mere step. Now, I am free... and you can be free too if you trust me." He added, glancing over at you. Then, that familiar feeling of overwhelming dread pooled in your stomach. You knew you couldn't, but where could you run? You couldn't let him 'heal' you...

"I... I can't trust you... I-I don't know all what this... healing... entails—"

"You are scared of the unknown. You are scared of what could happen. The possibility of being without something you have had your whole life, despite it being malicious to your body, it scares you with what could be. You are so used to things going poorly for you to the point that you are just mentally preparing for the next blow. You do not know how to cope with the possibility that you struggled for all these years for naught." Viktor interjected, gazing at you as he rose from the bed, now illuminated in the blue moonlight. He now stood before you his eyes gazing over your form.

As the healer starred down at you, his soft lips spread into a barely visible smile, the blue moonlight basking him from behind.

"Come with me to the commune. Just for three days. See how the people live, how you could live. If you stay the three days and haven't changed your mind, you can leave and never look back. Just.. give it a chance, please, for your own sake." The Machine Herald proclaimed, a tinge of hope in his pleading voice.

For that moment, the pool in your stomach dissipated. You felt willing to give it a chance as you rose from your bed.

"Okay, but only three days."

What's the worst that could happen?

SONG OF THE FIC: DISEASE - LADY GAGA

VALETUDINARIANISM Taglist: @clownery-atits-finest, @unmotivatedbug Want to join the tag list? Click here to learn more!

[srslylini]

I mean I kinda get where you are coming from but the point was that he knew beforehand what would happen so you know

even that still leaves a little disbelief but it makes more sense than Caitlyn just winning against war trained people loolll.

I feel another fight scene in season 1 could have proven your point a whole lot more, since that has the weirdest in universe explanation that I fear isn't even an explanation.

The Jayce and Vi fight in the shimmer factory. The fact that Jayce was just able to fight with zero experience or fight knowledge and then even better than Enforcers who died left and right but are apparently trained is so ridiculous and no, him hammering away in his office/workplace does not warrior make.

While you are correct that it is kinda questionable that Ekko was able to dodge, it is explained in universe and that helps the scene a LOT. While Caitlyn just surviving is about as explainable as Jayce just randomly being a fight champion out of everyones league (I am so hilarious I know).

In the end the usage of "fantasy" helps and does explain Ekko's fight working, while Caitlyn and Jayce are just plot armor so heavy, they should have to crawl on the ground unable to stand up

Even if Mel was helping Caitlyn, Ambessa could have easily overpowered her. That fight was ridiculous and Ambessa wasn’t even fighting.

Also Maddie giving her stupid super villain monologue... Girl, just shut up and do it!

They already insulted our intelligence by telling us that Sevika lost a fight to Caitlyn and now they want us to believe that a WARRIOR with years of experience lost to her too.

Ok.

[pricegouge]

I saw you were asking for horror prompts 😈 so here’s my scary perverted one:

Vampire!Nik who’s turned when his milaya is still a baby. Comes back 20+ years later to haunt and turn her so they can spend eternity together despite the fact that she doesn’t even remember him❤️🥀

-🗡️

okay, yeah. i had fun with this one, thank you!

cw: incest. age gap, but only kinda cause vampires. horror elements. vague vampire lore, including thralls. dubcon kissing/heavy petting. blood. unedited as usual, sorry. abrupt ending cause i ran out of steam. ~5k

he can't be bothered to watch over you for many years. life (death, rather) is just all so very exciting. he spread his wings. proverbial, maybe, though he's heard tell of something more ancient. more literal.

he doesn't forget you. how could he? you haunt his waking hours for what seems an eon, days and nights blurring until he has to rest for long years, wakes to a different time entirely and worries about how much he's missed.

much, as it turns out.

you're a proper woman when next he sees you, headstrong and borderline unrecognizable. he follows you for days, weeks. learns all your patterns, the quiet parts of yourself you seem to keep hidden behind locked doors he can only pass because he installed them, the bones of the house shaped by his own hands - an estate that's fallen to ruin, once-lavish halls picked apart by collectors, barren and drab with the dwindled staff. he tells himself it's a morbid type of curiosity but he knows better the second he lingers too long, sees you for the woman you've become when you undress before him, gazing upon yourself in a mirror that won't betray his presence, even if he wants it to. wants to see confusion cloud your face as recognition wars with your fear. you must have seen photos of him, your governess keeping you educated on the man who'd given you a name and a fortune and left in the night. he doesn't look quite look like himself anymore, but he more closely resembles you than he does his re-creator. and surely that in itself should sway you?

for you must be as lonely as him.

night fall is the worst for you, those lingering hours after the staff have retired where sleep eludes you, entices you to pick up hobbies which have not given you joy for many years. you'd been moved to the master suite some time back, the overlarge bed as tempting as a siren. you'd grown slovenly, your governess always said so. lax in your studies and far too melancholy to find a suitor.

but what could it matter, really? the estate had been searching tirelessly for a match since your first season, the only bachelors who'd made offers old and penniless. you still had a pretty enough dowry, but no one wanted to be saddled with the get of some wayward lord. not when there'd been no proper abdication. not when the specter of your father loomed over every inch of the estate, his fist still clutching at every gem. sometimes you imagined the sheets even still smelled like him, a faint trace that would linger some mornings and burn up with the sun when you finally let the maid in to draw the curtains.

but it was just a silly fantasy, some trace of comfort born from loneliness. in truth, the only possible clue you could have of your father's scent rests in the humidor tucked in the corner by the secretary - fine cigars turned stale, full-bodied notes now arid. hollow as the house itself.

you're sat with one, dry, peeling paper tickling your philtrum as you try to discern what flavors still linger. licorice, certainly; heavy and cloying. something earthier under it, a fine balance. leather, maybe. it's a distraction, a mindless way to pass the hours before you could feasibly fall into bed without your prying governess saying anything, shut your thoughts off for a time. you'd already written in your diary, another dull entry. brief with the monotony of your life. honestly, cataloging the notes you can pick out of these ancient, abandoned cigars would make for a more interesting read. this one still smells the strongest, though the paper has turned brittle with handling. sometimes you watch the gentlemen of the ton, carefully memorizing the precise way they snip the ends off, roll the cigar over the open flame of their lighters. you often imagine doing the same, like to picture yourself smoking the aged rolls expertly.

really, you know you'll end up in a coughing spell loud enough to wake the whole house, but the truth is you've never tried. it's a curiosity that's grown on you, the slow creep of moss over rotting trunks. you swap the cigar for something less flavorful, something that won't be missed, and rifle through the secretary until you find the little cigar kit you'd kept safely tucked away. maybe, like the rest of society, part of you expects it's owner to return someday, reclaim what's his.

the cigar falls apart a little, once clipped. flaky shreds of tobacco and other strong herb shake out at first, but you moisten the edges of it delicately, lick your fingers as daintily as possible and fuss about the paper until becomes slightly more malleable. lighting it is less of a chore than expected, the oils long dried. shake catching like tinder. you yelp and wave it out, stamp the little ashes that rain onto the carpet with a slippered toe. feel silly after. sillier still when you take your first drag and think for a moment you've managed to imbalance all your humors - immediate expectorant clogging your nose, inflaming the column of your neck. rough wool, still matted and nettled from the field fills your lungs and you cough, ragged and silent.

small blessing, no prying governess to heed your call.

light-headed, you wobble to the window, breathe deep of the frigid breeze you let in. winter steals in around you, rattles the pane on it's way past and sends the curtains fluttering. it makes your chest ache in a new way, but is a balm to your overheated skin, soothes your throat as you gasp for each breath. clutched in your fingers, the cigar glows brightly in the strong wind, crackling away happily. as your sinuses clear, you note the lingering heaviness of licorice, a black tar that seems to seep down your throat, gags you. you give it up for a bad job and smother it on the pane before tossing it onto the roof below. with any luck, a curious crow will snatch it away before spring melt off can dump it into the pasture, catch the attention of the gardeners. you've no clue how well-acquainted your governess is with the brands your father used to smoke and you've no plan to find out, resolving to leave the window open all night if you have to in order to clear the stench of your foolish endeavor.

the candles have guttered but it's no matter, the moon bright enough that you can disrobe and navigate to bed even without them. it's not a difficult endeavor anyway, the bed such a ridiculously oversized piece it dominated most of the room and called into question the size of the man who'd commissioned it. you drown in it most nights, restless, twisting yourself up in sheets that stretched on forever, wound around you until you'd wake gasping, clawing at your own belly as if to loosen the stays of a corset that wasn't there. the physician who'd come to see to you was unsympathetic to your claims that the bed was simply too large - had suggested sleeping in your corset instead, claiming it would soothe your nerves and prevent you trying to bind yourself in your sleep.

it did not work, but your maid, alice, was loyal to the governess. tied your stays in the back, much too tight for you to undo once she'd left you alone. even now the boning digs at you, chest still heaving from your foolish endeavor. you settle on your back, try to keep your shoulders set back to encourage deep breathing and watch the shadows play about the room, curtains billowing with each icy gust. there's still too much smoke in the room, lingering up near your ceiling where it swirls about, never quite low enough to escape when the curtains ebb in a back draft. you hope you won't be stuck with the window open all night. already, fine dustings of snow slip past, tip toe up your bed to catch your covers and set your legs shivering.

the blankets twist about you again when you turn to your side, but for once you don't mind, your own body weight keeping them tucked firmly in place so the wind can't steal your heat away again. your breath evens as you finally begin to relax, body forming to the mattress just as much as it forms to you. sleep finds you slowly, lulls you into it with deep sighs, your breath matching that of the house itself. you time idly, watching the curtains in the cloudy mirror of your vanity - the only concession to your residence in the whole room. a gift from some minor lady who'd once hoped to sway your favor toward her son - only to have him elope a month later with a merchant's daughter -, the piece stands out singularly in the dark, masculine room. gilded framework and ivory inlay, it catches the moonlight beautifully, pearlescent in the chill. you let yourself be entranced by the vision it makes, orpheus overtaking you, settling over you like a calming, physical weight which shifts, presses a knee between your own -

it feels like the chill has taken your blood when your eyes tear open, body frozen in place as you watch your reflection stir, pushed slightly further onto your belly while the blankets move seemingly of their own accord. you tell yourself it's the wind tugging at them again, but the way the flatten against the mattress makes no sense - and it's the not the wind that whispers your name in your ear.

still trapped in the bedding, you thrash uselessly before you're able to escape its clutches, only realizing you're screaming when the breath is knocked out of you as you thud to the floor. help comes to lift you to your feet before you are able to do it yourself, alice's hands surprisingly firm when they dig under your arms and lift. you can't even manage to thank her, breaths stuttering out high and thin as you stare at your bed in wide-eyed shock: two distinct impressions of bodies, one curled around the other, yet completely empty. smoke curls above it, oddly thinner than that what still lingers around your ceiling. it breaks up on the next gust of wind, shatters around you with a cloyingly sweet scent.

---

your governess is cross to say the least.

the next day is spent in the kitchens, working away your transgressions into a particularly hard dough batch. she is unsympathetic to the terror that had overtaken you just before they'd rushed in to help. says she's certain they'd only heard your fresh coughing, although you try to point out that the cigar was already gone by then.

"don't be clever," she warns, an adage you've heard many times over the years. What man wants a clever wife?

she has the humidor emptied, says it should have been done long ago. you say nothing because probably, she's right.

alice isn't your friend, but sometimes she can be friendly. unlike your governess, she at least seems to have noticed your distress from the night before, simply nods in agreement when you ask her to warm your bed after she's done helping you dress that evening. perhaps she still sees it, the fear. she hums at you like she thinks you need at, at least, and maybe you do because it works quickly, your body exhausted after so much hard work and such little sleep.

---

despite your exhaustion, you do not sleep soundly. the midnight hour finds you fretful, though you're careful to remain still so as not to wake alice. you breathe in sync with her in an attempt to soothe yourself until you realize it's not her that moves but the house itself, curtains billowing in a breeze that shouldn't exist, windows locked tight for the night. strangely, the realization does not frighten you - not even when you turn to find alice staring blankly at the ceiling, eyes glossed over and vacant. skin leeched pale in the moonlight. you roll over to her, curious, and her eyes track over you uncomprehendingly, focus on a point at the far side of the room.

there's no decision to sit up, you simply do - chest rising first as if an anchor knot is rooted in your sternum, woven between the hollows of your ribs. the world tilts for a moment, and then rights itself, as if alighting with you on this new level. you observe the room much as it had been the night before, cold light filtering through whorls of smoke, though there's more of it now - thin trails of oily residue curling all around the room. it seems to ebb about the edges. even with the window locked tight, the room still seems to contract and compress, pressure increasing rhythmically before expanding again, fresh smoke rushing to fill it. you track the trail back to its source, a pin point ember which builds and gutters with swell, bobbing along on a tide. it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust but you make out the hand that holds it first, long fingers painted warm in the low light. it's the only bit of skin you can make out, the body attached to it settled so far back into the shadow it appears only as one itself - darker, deeper. barely distinguishable.

by its immense stature, you reason it is a man sat at your secretary. like alice's composure, there is a part of you that knows this realization should frighten you, but you're much too tired and curious to care, crawling to the foot of the bed so you can get a better look, continuing on over the edge and onto the floor when you still can't make out his features. your palms scratch against the worn wood, bearing too much weight in your awkward crawl, and room stills when you feel blood on the heel of your hand, the heat of it almost shocking in the cold air.

you only make it another stretch closer before the man recovers, the ember of his cigar flaring and popping as he takes a long drag, leans forward in his seat until you can make out a broad, stubbled jaw, two perfect white streaks glowing in the moonlight revealed when he finally drops his hand. his lips are wine-dark when they part, reveal a neat row of pearly teeth. he's impolite, blows his smoke directly at you. cloyingly sweet licorice and heady tobacco. you do not cough this time, though it's a near-miss. it seems to please him, lips tugging into a cruel smile as the smoke grows denser, begins to pour from his mouth in a thick, black cloud. it stains his chin, his teeth a black tar-like oil that smells too pungent. rotted.

you startle when alice screams, overcorrecting when you turn to her because she's there beside you, not behind, both of you still lying in bed.

"alice?" you start, trying to wake her, but your hand slips across her chest, slick with something dark and hot, and you freeze, unable to do anything as she continues to sieze and shriek beside you.

the governess comes, and then a doctor. in the confusion, you're shuttled off to the chair across the room. you're already settled into it by the time you realize it's where the man had sat, and you briefly take inventory of it, as if perhaps you could feel the traces of his body heat lingering. but the only thing of note is the trace whisps of dark sweets, easily explained away by your own mishap the night before.

they clean alice's wound and find a neat ring of teeth marks, your own good name saved by virtue of the doctor recognizing that they'd had time to heal - must have happened some other night, that alice must have been picking at them in her sleep. your governess's obvious distaste stills your tongue, unwilling to face her wrath if she believes you sympathetic to some street hussy. so you say nothing, even as alice shrieks about a man, about being accosted. even as they call her hysteric and pack her off. instead you sit silently, picking off the blood the that had dried to your hand when you'd gone to wake her. never mentioning the scrape you find beneath it and the congealed line of your own blood; the cut from when you'd flopped out of bed to crawl to his feet. because you can still smell it, the stomach-turning sweetness, and the heavy scent it had given way to, and you know what it was now, staining his handsome chin just as much as alice's breast.

and it's not fear, or even pity that settles low in your belly, simmers hotter than that ember which had sparked to life, woken you to his call.

you follow them when they walk her out, a small team of men needed to keep her restrained. she fights to be heard, but a part of you worries she fights to stay as well, the claws she sinks into the door frame intended to keep herself put for him. you feel ugly and selfish when you traipse back to your room, but you do anyway, stopping only long enough to smell the beautiful bouquet of dark winter roses you pass on the sideboard. they're lovely and sweet, though you can't help noticing no one has bothered to cut the thorns off. careless. you wonder who got them.

---

it's not the only life taking root in the house.

despite the grueling winter, you notice sunshine in the halls, dust motes dancing in the pale light. sconces you've not seen lit in years keep the shadows of night at bay. spices find their way into your meals, a small luxury you've been missing greatly. you can see your governess watching the staff suspiciously, but don't dare ask if she has her theories.

---

there are cigars in the humidor. or maybe they aren't cigars, much thinner than the ones you're used to seeing. you've no idea how they got there, but neither do you know who to ask. who you can trust to believe you, even just long enough to look, see the proof for themselves.

but then, you're not sure you want anyone else to know.

they smell like his. dark and heavy, sickeningly sweet. it makes your stomach turn but you fish out the lighter anyway, throwing the windows open decisively. fresh air pours in around you, chases cobwebs from the corners. the sconses gutter before flaring back to life, leaving the room brighter than it's been in months, cleaner than it' felt in ages.

you hardly notice, too busy fighting the cough that builds in your throat as you take your first drag. you don't manage it, smoke sputtering sputtering from your mouth in fits and starts as you heave your way through a coughing fit, stomach turning with an unexpected wave of nausea. face turned to the cool relief of the window, you've got your cheek leaned up against the side of the pane when the smoke begins to waft away. it takes you a moment to make sense of the image revealed, inverted and near as it is. fear grips you before you even manage it, some fine-tuned instinct recognizing the viper at your feet and turning to run before you're even sure what you've seen.

but this is no viper, and the reaction warranted when faced with the immense silhouette of a man hanging inverted in your window, mere inches from your face, is to go still as a deer in the hunters' sights, evidently, and play the docile little pray.

he turns properly toward you, the shaggy hair dangling around his face catching in the wind. your cigar flares with it, wan light revealing pale skin and dark eyes which seem to glint in amusement when you stumble away, the whole of the picture revealed to you just as long fingers wrap over the top of the casement and pry it open, hinges groaning as they overextend to let his broad shoulders pass. he pours through the sill like butter from the pan, pools on your ceiling with a strong grip on your curtain rod. except, when he drops from it, he sinks from the rafters like a feather, none of the might his huge frame suggested anywhere to be found.

still reeling, your hip catches the edge of your wardrobe and you slip past it, put your back to the wall as quiet cries spill from your lips, pleas incomprehensible.

he greets you by name in a thick russian accent, and somehow, impossibly, you know, but you ask anyway, voice trembling. "who are you?"

a step closer, movements so fluid you can barely discern them. when did the candles go out? "your cleverer than that."

strange compulsion, you can't stop yourself before reciting, "men don't want clever wives."

"is that what you think i want? a wife?" amusement curls around the words, turns his accent lilting.

"i don't know what you want," you whisper, and he grunts - edging closer to irritation.

"and is that what you think i am, then? a man?"

"no…" the truth shocks you, has you casting about for an anchor. you only find confirmation when you catch sight of your vanity, the man in your room leaving no reflection. your cleverer than that. "you were here that night, weren't you? on the bed with me?"

"well, what's a man to do when he returns home to find a pretty young lady in his bed?"

"you're my father." it's not a question. you're not even certain you mean it as a chastisement. it is simple fact, roiling in your stomach like the nausea that lingers.

a fact he ignores, slipping closer and trailing cold digits over the inside of your wrist before taking the slim cigar from between your fingers. you weren't even aware you'd still had it. it glows back to life when he takes a deep drag, smoke spilling from his mouth when he speaks again, "do you like this one better than that other? they're very popular in paris."

you latch onto the wrong part of the question. "is that where you've been?"

"there," he shrugs. "everywhere."

more nausea, sinuses prickling with the added smoke. "anywhere but here?"

he doesn't seem to like this question, either, a stillness overtaking him. "i was… called away."

but if he can be angry, so can you. "for twenty four years?" you snap, voice ragged and sharp as it had been after your first inhale.

his stillness snaps, exasperation turning him away from you. he paces to the window and finally you can see more of his features - the high peaks of his hairline, the heavy brow and the broad nose. he's an older man, you know, and yet - he doesn't really look it, fine lines of his forehead no worse than a man ten, twenty years his younger. his voice is gruff when he speaks again. quiet. "a man can't help being needed -."

"you were needed hear!" you shriek, a reservoir of emotion you didn't know you'd kept dammed breaking free.

when he turns on his heel the candles flare again, and you gasp, shocked to find him suddenly before you, the wool of his overcoat scratchy even through your shift. he waits for you to settle, for your chest to stop heaving against his and your pulse to stop hammering so loud in your ears that you can't hear what he says when his lips move, tongue darting out to wet them. "am i no longer needed, then?" he finally asks, and you wilt against him.

"of course you are," you sob, trying not to notice his own breaths never come.

---

there's no precedent telling you what to call him. his name is improper, but 'father' leaves a bitter taste on your tongue. you plead of him 'my lord!' when his kisses linger too long and he groans, pleased.

you're not sure if you like him when he's pleased.

he frightens you, takes too much. he's a man of appetite as you should have known by the marks he'd left on alice, but you'd foolishly thought yourself untouchable, too gently borne to suffer such indignities. of course, the station of your birth matters little to your own father - if it indeed ever would have mattered to anyone at all.

but it's hard to refuse him when he's your father, and so huge, besides. his broad frame corrals you easily back toward the bed. he doesn't let you sink onto it until his kisses have trailed to the hinge of your jaw, cold nose nuzzling behind your ear. when he does breathe, his chest eclipses your own, tries to turn you concave, carve a space within you. his exhale stinks like his cigar, pressed into the corner of your lip.

it's improper. leaves you teetering between disgust and a guilty sort of pleasure, which only serves to repulse you further. your stomach turns, guilt eating its way up your throat. acrid with smoke.

the hand splayed over the column of your throat tightens minutely, long fingers threatening to pluck the tendons which flex when you gag. he misunderstands. "not supposed to inhale, you know?"

your head spins, the only relief from your mounting sickness found in the the cold relief of his hands against your cheek. "i didn't… i don't..?"

"shh. that's alright. papa will teach you. take this, it will help you feel better."

and your mouth when he does. wide, mimicking. eager for some tincture to help soothe your nerves. a strong dose to put you under, perhaps. he grins when you show him your teeth and a finger finds his own, long claw catching minutely on his lip when he drags the pad of his first two fingers over his canine. you're shocked when it comes away bloody - more so when he coos, eases them into your own mouth to stroke against your tongue. for a moment you're too shocked to respond, but then the heavy taste of blood coats your mouth and you thrash about under him, swatting and biting.

it only seems to encourage him, voice too thick with hunger and approval to be as soothing as he intends it when he tries to gentle you beneath him.

he gives up trying when his blood overflows your mouth, spilling over your cheeks as you continue trying to shake him off. he mutters something about a waste and then his other hand is pinching your nose, cutting off your air supply fully. you gurgle, trying to clear your mouth and he snarls, shoves his fingers deeper.

you're forced to swallow your mouthful when your vision begins to tunnel. he sighs in relief when you do, breath nearly as heavy as yours when you gasp and wheeze. he has the decency to drag his fingers down your chin as you struggle, staining all down your throat as he traces the path of the load you've swallowed.

"not so hard, was it?" he mutters, still painting your skin. you glare at him when you can finally manage it and he just chuckles, forces his fingers behind your bottom teeth again. even still the taste revolts you, tongue crowding to the back of you mouth to try and escape the cold copper, the thick licorice. if he notices, he is undeterred. makes you take even more when he pries your jaw open and spits in your mouth.

the vulgarity makes you heave, but his weight fights even that. keeps you in place when he shoves his fingers back until the webbing nestles against the corner of your mouth and his fingernails scrape against your throat. he feels when it constricts around him reflexively and his free hand smooths the hair back from your sweaty forehead, cold breath against your temple as he tells you to relax, voice fragmenting - somehow both soft, ethereal, and a very real rumble in your ear.

it's that quiet one that gets you, webs its way through your nerves until you're limp with it, energy sapped along with your will to disobey. his fingers pull back minutely, give you enough space to swallow the blood that's gathered at the back of your throat. when they push back in, he bids you suckle them in that same distorted voice and you do. easily, gratefully, and this time, the blood pools in your belly like an antidote. it soothes your nausea, leaves you hungry for more. he doesn't hesitate to provide it, fingers pumping in and out of your mouth as you begin to suckle at them, entreating him to stay nestled in the heat of your mouth each time he starts to pull away.

you're unsure how long he feeds you. long enough you that you feel sated and sleepy when he withdraws entirely. a strand of saliva follows him, snaps back to fall down your chest when he licks his own fingers after, thick tongue wiping clean what mess remains. his skin comes back whole and healed, a prospect that should surely frighten you, but there is no fear when you grow bold, pull him closer by a strong grip on the long strands of hair at his nape. his tongue is slick when it slides against yours, chasing the taste of himself. he follows it down your chin, panting against the column of your neck as his hands work up your chest, the pressure of them on your waist having been having gone unnoticed through your corset. his nails scrape your skin when he catches the hem of your dressing gown and finally, some base instinct flares back to life, tries to stay his hands with your own, fingers scrabbling against his. he just hushes you again, voice echoing softly between your ears. this time, when your fingers wrap around his wrists, it is simply an anchor for you, body feeling as though you may simply drift away under his care.

when his mouth finds your breast, you arch into him, bucking hard enough that he groans, lays his body flat over you to keep you in place as he feasts. even his weight is decadent, a relief from the way you feel untethered. he pinches your nipple between too-sharp teeth, soaks the fabric of your shift in saliva just to soothe you after. his mouth offers no heat, no balm for the frigid breaths he ghosts over the wet material. you beg for it anyway, fingers threading through his hair to keep him close. an instinct that will do you no good here, the man at your breast inhuman and cold.

it's a fact you can't escape from, not with his cold blood in your belly and his will in your head. not with his lupine teeth spreading wide over your heart, or the ecstatic relief when he finally bites down. your breath steams in the air as you pant beneath him, chest heaving into his mouth even as you try pulling him impossibly closer, and here, finally, is the heat - the bloom of blood that soaks your shift and warms your skin, even as you grow colder with the loss of it. he's insatiable, a man of appetite as you knew, and yet you give yourself freely, even as your breath grows stilted and shallow and your fingers twitch in his hair. he only surfaces when your vision grows cloudy, looms above you in a grisly mask of death turned two-tone with the moonlight and your fading vision. jaw stained dark, it appears an endless maw from which he speaks, demands to know if you'll join him in eternity.

and what girl could ever live without her papa?

dividers by @/cafekitsune and @/adornedwithlight

[headfullarcanedisorder]

Okay. I can't Not talk about the Heavy is the Crown scene.

Because I'm going Insane over Caitlyn's presentation.

As a Chronic Strategist (Hard Headed Autistic), my Specialty is doing things to place myself in a functional position where I basically Can't be told "Fuck off." And I can See when other people do this as well.

And Caitlyn pulls it off in Flying Colors.

She barged into the underground council meeting with 0 delay and taking No Shit. It's almost cocky, until the entire scene plays out and you realize it's not Arrogance, she's reassured and Refuses to Waste Time.

The council is full of fear. The attack of the city, the chaos ensuing, the damage. Everyone in power is afraid and everyone is More than willing to push war and go All In on Zaun.

Cue Caitlyn.

"3 objectives. Locate Jinx. Dismantle Shimmer. Neutralize any agents loyal to silco."

The council is suddenly full of question and you can Feel it.

"Who is she??" "What's she even doing here?" "A strike team?? Who???" "What makes you think we'll fair any better than our forces today?"

And in a single display of men and power, Caitlyn places herself in a position where she has checkmate.

She displays a bright, shiny, seemingly functional Hextech Sniper. She loads it with the stone in full view and every council member gets to watch this beautiful gun activate. A compact. Concealable. Hex Sniper. In the hands of a Decorated Officer and House Leader.

If that wasn't reassuring alone, they enter the taskforce. Small but efficient.

A hulk of a man towing a hextech shield, a perfect block.

The fresh soldier from the live scenes equipped with a hextech gun so simple it looks like a 15 year old could shoot it with the efficiency of a veteran.

A strong, loyal piltovian enforcer we've seen time and time again behind the ranks, equipped in his beret, implying seasoned veteran.

This small efficient group is the council's savior and we watch as every council members face contorts in awe. It's a sealed deal, but what SENDS me, is the presence of Vi.

She's saved for last and Caitlyn intentionally does this I am Sure of it.

Because the council has Met Vi before.

Officially.

In season one Caitlyn took to a legal stand, Vi's hand tight in hers so to speak. It ended with Vi spitting Venom and running out of the room. For all intents and purposes, the council might've been afraid of Vi. Sure Caitlyn talked her up, but all Vi's been Doing has been drinking and boxing. Not very reputable.

But. Not when she's presented the way she is.

Caitlyn flashing her fresh on the scene hex weaponry. The strong and determined police force backing her. The simplified "3 step plan" lead by one of the smartest sharp shooter detectives in all of piltover?

And then the Zaunite.

But wait! It's a Zaunite in enforcerwear?

But wait!! It's Vi!

Decorated in clothing she would Never otherwise wear, walking in slow and silent, sitting quiet and in line just like all the pilties of the task force.

Suddenly. She's not an armed criminal they're bound to remember.

She's the converted. She's "a good one". She's playing nice. Everyone in the city, above or below, has heard tale of Vi's fire. Her Disgust over "a lack of justice".

And here she stands. In uniform, head down, silent, and powerful. The council sees her as leashed. And in doing so, allows the council to see Every Benefit to Vi as An Individual. Because she's on Their side now.

Caitlyn places herself in a position where the council would Never. Say. No.

She had it Locked Down. And I LOVE that for her.

[lovebunnie]

it started with the rain.

it had only been a few months since their tentative partnership had begun, but viktor was beginning to recognize patterns in how jayce operated in the space. he tended to get straight to work once he entered the lab, locking into equations from the night before with nothing more than a morning greeting towards viktor. he assumes that this is a symptom of working alone for most of his life, but viktor still smiles all the same when jayce finally tears himself back an hour into the day with his questions about viktors night and plans.

he also recognized the way jayce would tap his pencil nervously against the desk when storms rolled by occasionally; the cracking of lighting would halt the motions, jayce counting under his breath until the accompanying thunder let him relax.

“these storms are quite ferocious today,” viktor mused one day.

jayce was quiet, eventually mumbling, “i can’t think when it’s like this, the constant noise drowns out so much of my thinking process.” he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “i never liked the rain anyway, who likes when its cold and wet outside? ruins your shoes, keeps you damp for hours…”

he trailed off, before seemingly realizing he was going off on a tangent. viktor watched as a pleasant blush crossed his cheeks.

“i agree, the rain is a menace to my joints.” viktor rubbed his knee. “it makes traveling to the lab take longer. if only heimerdinger would let us bring samples back to our dorms…”

and with that, the conversation shifted and viktor watched jayce relax his shoulders, bringing up the one time he let the fire alarm go off from an unattended beaker. jayce laughed with his entire body and viktor thought the warm of joy suited him much better.

however, it was the first snow of the season that viktor realized something was amiss.

when they both arrived at the lab, together in the midst of a heated conversation about the length of time to observe certain samples, the cold wind had bitten their cheeks and noses to leave them red. viktor set to removing his jacket slowly, plucking gloves from his hands.

“there are not enough hours in the day,” viktor said as he gently blew warm air into his palms, “for us to dedicate all that time to simple analysis. we have the calculations necessary-“

he turned, and viktor realized jayce had taken his larger winter coat off in record time, hat and gloves also removed in a frankly terrifyingly quick manner. he even had a warm mug of something in his hands.

viktor stared, and jayce looked nervous.

“sorry, i should’ve offered you some,” he said before turning back to their small hot plate.

“its fine,” viktor replied. “i wouldnt say no to a warm drink, though. my hands need a bit of reheating.”

suddenly, jayce moved closer to viktor, cup sloshing its contents off the side in a rush of movement. in an instant, jayce was pulling viktors hands closer to himself with a worried expression on his face, eyes pinched in something that viktor could call fear.

“do your hands hurt? i have an extra pair of gloves in my desk you can use if you needor if you want to borrow my hat. there’s also a spot in the forge you could step into for a little while-“

viktor watched as jayces hands roamed his arms, as though searching all the cold spots in his body to address and eradicate. he talked a mile a minute with solutions for something as trivial as cold hands and if he didnt look so panicked, viktor would find it endearing.

but jayce didnt appear to be coy in his movements, he did not acknowledge the closeness of the two of them or the way he was cradling viktors hands to his chest like a promise.

he looked scared. he looked haunted.

“jayce,” viktor said, breaking him out of his spiel. “what has gotten into you?”

jayce looked up and into viktors eyes before embarrassment took hold and he stepped back a hair. “oh gods viktor, im… im sorry. i shouldnt have gotten so close to you like that, and i definitely shouldn’t have grabbed your hands like that.”

“its okay jayce, i forgive you.” viktor reclaimed the space lost and slowly took jayces hand, intertwining their fingers. the closeness of jayce quickly began to chase the cold away and viktor smiled softly.

“will you tell me where this came from?” viktor asked softly, still looking at their hands.

jayce was quiet for a long period of time. viktor could almost hear himself collecting his thoughts, taking in deep breaths to center himself against rising panic. this was not a jayce that viktor had met yet: one practically shaking in pent up emotion.

finally, the words came quietly. “i grew up in and around the forge. i know exactly what shade of red the metal needs to turn before it can be molded, and i know how hot something has to get to before it leaves a mark.” viktor looked up to see jayces gaze caught on the window, to the first silent drifts of snow sticking to the glass.

“my dad used to let me study in the forge with him and id always end up with some soot on my cheek no matter how clean i tried to keep, and every now and then id get a burn so bad my mom would have to wrap it.”

jayce rubbed his thumb across the side of viktors hand, where viktor felt a slight mark of raised skin from a decades old burn.

“i know the hot weather, it helps me think, it clears my head…” jayce trailed off, shoulders hunching. “but the cold… its like slow death. the heat gives you a warning before it strikes, you cant be surprised by it. it allowed my family to make its name, it can allow us to create things, things that can help people!”

the fear finds its way into his voice. “but the cold isnt like that. its slow and it drags you down, it seeps everything from you until you cant move, it tightens your lungs and bites your insides. it… it hurts.”

viktor sees tears well up in jayces eyes as he moves to once again cradle viktors hands in his own, still sharing heat with him.

“my mother almost died in a snowstorm. she was fine one second and the next… she was just in the ground and i couldnt do anything to help her. if magic hadnt come to us at that moment and saved us…”

viktors heart beat rapidly in his chest. jayce was letting him into his mind, allowing him to know a part of himself that was clearly important and fundamental to his sense of self. it made the pieces come together, of the abundance of winter gear, how quickly he was to shed his garb to not feel like he was still in that snowstorm.

“youre important to me, viktor.” jayce looked directly into his eyes. “i dont want you to feel that kind of pain, especially if i can help it.”

jayce does not know about the rattle viktor is beginning to feel in his chest or the stiffness in his back that makes some nights sleepless. he doesnt know all the quiet hurts viktor feels, not even the ache that comes from being so close to him and unable to cross the line into new territory.

what jayce does seem to know, viktor realizes, is that what they have is special. that viktor is special.

“thank you for telling me,” he says quietly with his voice barely managing not to quiver. “and thank you for the offer for the gloves. if you wouldnt mind, id like to borrow them tonight for the walk back.”

jayce smiles softly. “of course, v. anytime.”

he moves back first, back still cinched in anxiety. viktor gives jayce the space he needs, the phantom touch of his hands leaving lingering warmth behind. viktor doesnt think he will ever feel the cold in them again.

when the weather begins to settle and the snow stops falling, jayce draws himself into his work and sets about silently working on his own ideas. viktor allows him the privacy, occasionally asking questions that get short responses. and when the day is done, jayce looks about ready to pass out from exhaustion.

“walk me to my place?” viktor asks, knowing jayce will be unable to decline.

they walk together through the streets, viktors cane bearing more weight than normal. jayce has viktors coat gripped tightly and when they arrive at his doorstep, viktor stops and turns.

he smiles at jayce. “i can make us dinner, if you’d like. i remember an old zaun recipe that my father used to make that would warm us up in the cold.”

for the first time that day, jayce releases the tension in his shoulders. he smiles, and says, “that sounds great, v.”

[raininyourblackeyes]

LOPAREVA/BRISSAUD HOLY FUCK WHAT WAS THAT

[hamletshoeratio]

Apparently, Eloise is a mean girl and is not a girls' girl???

[clowndensation]

it's like. louis attempted to tell this story to daniel the first time, broke down, and attacked him before he could finish it.

and then decades later he's convinced himself that it was leaving the story unresolved that's holding him back from living his life fully now. so he invites daniel back again. and louis is sitting poised and put together, confident in his ability to recite his history in a pretty, poignant, neat little narrative that will resolve all the guilt and yearning and emptiness inside of him. that if he can just tell a compelling, satisfying story, maybe it will actually be that, and not the life he lived through, with all the pitfalls of his own failures lurking inside.

and then season 1 ends with him once again being forced to confront that the story he wants to imagine and the life he actually lived aren't the same thing. the boundaries around his narrative are shredded and he's left exposed, and subsequently able to face his past for the first time since that original interview. and you think, you think, "well this is it. they've crossed the event horizon. there's no use hiding the truth anymore, not after it's come flooding out into the open like this"

and then season 2 opens. not only is it back to the original, practiced distance, we now have armand literally enforcing that distance. a man sitting at the table who's interjections must be disregarded, an intentional interruption to the flow of the story. he doesn't exist to aid or add detail, he exists to distract louis when he gets too deep in the story. the only time we do get louis allowing any deep truth to come out is when armand leaves the room.

it's like. louis wants a story that's true, and the truth is what he's convinced will leave him satisfied. armand wants a story that will satisfy louis, to the extent louis will accept it's true.

[seaweedstarshine]

“That’s a bold choice, Dalek Supreme, coming to a wedding planet dressed in white! Unless you’re here to get hitched… should I be flattered?”

“We are here to exterminate you.”

“Oh, that’s probably for the best. Not sure River would be up for a marriage à trois… not with a Dalek, at any rate.”

—Eleventh Doctor Chronicles: Victory of the Doctor

[rolandkaros]

not pitting sincaraz against each other just pointing out an objective truth that jannik was not a dominate player/potential grand slam winner last season (age 21/22) and carlos will finish this season semi-dominant and with two more grand slams (+ an olympic medal) (age 20/21). you can see how quickly a player's career can turn around within one season. so any talk about carlos being washed/playing badly sounds silly to me i can't lie. yes carlos wasn't as successful this year as last year. yes carlos wasn't as successful this year as jannik. last year jannik's highlights were throwing up in a trash can and beating djoko in davis cup (exaggerating.) so i really feel like carlos's struggles this season are slightly overinflated. we talk about "he has time he has time" let's be clear not only does he have time in his career (he is literally 21) he also has time on his closest current rival (age-wise, carlos's 2024 season is jannik's 2022 season). it will be two years before carlos is even the same age as jannik is now. so like. lets be chill here u know.

[rememberdamonn]

Well written characters have a core conflict that consists of a goal that the character wants/needs to achieve, and an obstacle that gets in the way of that goal. For Damon, that core conflict is Love vs. Fear. His goal is love - to be loved, to have love. The obstacle that gets in the way of that goal is his own fear - fear of being abandoned/betrayed/rejected, fear of not being enough, fear of letting people down, fear of losing his loved ones... in short, fear of losing love. Every majorly bad decision that Damon makes, he makes either in reaction to or in anticipation of that fear being realized. When he kills Jeremy in S2, and Aaron in S5? He does it because he’s just been abandoned and rejected by Elena/Katherine. When he hides the cure from Elena in S6? He does it because he’s afraid that if she becomes human he’ll lose her. When he feeds Elena his blood in S2? He does it because he’s afraid he’ll lose her in the sacrifice. These seeds are planted throughout the entire show. In 4x15 when Damon sires Elena to turn off her humanity (another thing he does out of fear), Stefan tells him that it was a mistake because despite Elena losing her brother, she still has Damon. Damon’s reply? “I’m not enough.”

There's a conversation that Stefan and Damon have in 7x22 that lays it all out neatly:

Stefan: You really think I did the right thing by taking Caroline against her will?

Damon: One hundred percent.

Stefan: You said that's how you know you love someone. And for a second there, I actually believed you. I thought that my love for Caroline was so strong that I would do anything to protect it. But then I realized, that's not love, Damon. That's fear. That night that you put yourself down, it wasn't because you love Elena. It was because you were afraid if you didn't, you would do something terrible, and you would lose her forever. And that fear was so powerful that it overrode any love that you felt for me, or Bonnie, or anybody else. I refuse to be ruled by fear. I refuse to be you.

In 7x10 when Damon is forced to face the truth while in the Phoenix Stone, he tells his mother, “Give me a chance to let you love me.” This is representative of Damon’s entire journey throughout the show. Damon doesn’t let people love him because he’s scared that they won’t. That’s why he tells Elena in 3x19 that he doesn’t want to have to live up to anyone’s expectations, and he tells Bonnie the same thing in 8x10 when he reads her his letter. Damon’s self sabotage and his insistence on pushing everyone away is a product of the fear of what will happen if he lets people love him - but by giving into that fear, he ensures that he’ll never get what he wants most.

In order for Damon to have a successful, satisfying ending, he has to 1) overcome his fears. He does this in 8x16 when he attempts to self-sacrifice for the right reasons, in direct contrast to his self sacrifice in 7x22 for the wrong reasons - a sacrifice he makes out of fear:

“There is a girl waiting outside for you, and if you go in there with me and get all screwed up, you're gonna have problems with her, and you're gonna blame me.” - Damon to Stefan, 7x22 (S7 is written to be a tragedy but that’s another post)

And 2) he gets the chance to let himself be loved. That’s why Delena has to be endgame. Damon finally getting a chance to let himself be loved is central to his character in a way that makes any other ending a tragedy for him.

So what about Stefan? Stefan’s goal is Choice. The same way that Damon has lost in love, Stefan has repeatedly had his choices taken from him. Katherine takes Stefan’s choice away when she compels him, bloodlust takes Stefan’s choice away when he becomes a ripper, Klaus takes Stefan’s choice away when he enslaves him. This is why Stefan is so protective of Elena’s ability to choose, and it’s also why narratively, Stefan’s worst crime is taking Damon’s choice away when he forced him to become a vampire. Morally, it’s far from the worst thing Stefan has done, but thematically it’s the misdeed that matters the most. That’s why it’s brought up again and again.

The obstacle that’s getting in the way of Stefan’s Choice is Vampirism. Whether it’s his own or someone else’s, Stefan can’t choose the life he wants to have or the person he wants to be without vampirism getting in the way. For Stefan to have a successful, satisfying ending, he has to 1) reconcile his relationship with vampirism. He does this by escaping his vampirism when he’s cured. And 2) he has to have the opportunity to choose. That’s why human Stefan is immediately on vervain, and that’s why he maintains the ability to choose to sacrifice himself even after Damon attempts to compel him in 8x16. Is it the best way to have Stefan accomplish his goal? Personally, I don’t think so. I would’ve preferred to see him accept his vampirism rather than escape it, and I would’ve preferred for him not to die. But in a finale where one brother makes a choice to sacrifice himself and the other brother gets the girl, it’s clear which has to be which for their arcs to resolve in a thematically satisfying way.

[imminent-danger-came]

Part of me, deep deep down, wonders if we still may have a scene of MK on his knees versus his friends a la 4x07

[mazojo]

Colin in his men era

[feelingtheaster99]

I finally finished the end of the last season of Teen Wolf this week, and I almost wish I didn’t because I think the Season 6A plot would’ve been a better ending

[onewordshy]

Wish I could bottle the feeling this gives me