#and the lights and candles are just enough to make the floor warmer and the gold on the walls glow

[artemisbarnowl]

I'm not showing you but I think my yoga studio is one of the most beautiful places in the world

[azuredawn81]

please read later | connor bedard x gf!reader

❅ summary: connor’s relationship has been falling apart. it’s totally his fault. he put all his focus on hockey, but the blackhawks just keep losing and he keeps failing and it’s draining him. it’s drained him to the point where he physically cannot be present.

❅ pairing: connor bedard x reader

❅ content: angst

❅ word count: 1k

❅ prompt: hours outside in the snow - modern baseball

❅ warnings: none

❅ note: i also have a really fire poem written for this song prompt - mutuals dm me

❅ tags: @dream-girl06 @Summert158 @lekkerfrikandelletje @camiesully

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙₊⋆ ͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

I spent all of Christmas Eve fake angry at you for

Who knows what now or then

he wasn’t even mad. every point y/n had made was valid, every statement accurate.

“it’s like you don’t even care anymore!”

“i do care!”

“no, you’re always gone. you never check in.”

“that’s not true.”

“connor, as soon as you leave chicago, it’s like my number is no longer on your phone!”

he couldn’t remember anything else she had said. she was right. he was wrong. he was a terrible, sorry excuse for a boyfriend. she was a saint. she deserved better.

I spent all of Christmas Eve trying to get warmer

After standing outside for hours

Knowing at this point I'd be

Lucky to get any sleep

And I'll toss and turn until the early morning

after the argument, connor had stormed out of the apartment, more willing to face the chicago cold than his girlfriend’s gaze. the snow fell like tears, each snowflake landing perfectly on his eyelashes, mixing in with his sobs. as he kept walking down the street, he saw families in windows. bright, smiling, happy couples with laughing kids. candles in windows, trees with lights, street lamps glowing like the moon. his last straw was passing by a brownstone, a couple grinning ear to ear in matching pajamas on the first floor. he sat on the sidewalk, sinking into the snow, his head in his hands.

he was there for a few hours, when an elderly woman came up.

“son, are you okay?”

“yeah, i’m… i’m fine.”

“you should be home, it’s christmas.”

she walked with him back to his apartment. “i’m sure she loves you. don’t give up on her.”

y/n was asleep in their bed, with every good blanket. shivering, connor put on flannel pajama pants and a blackhawks hoodie, doing anything he could to warm up. he sat in front of the heater, his hands out close enough to burn, like he had been selling matches.

he curls up next to the heater, trying to conserve heat. all night, his teeth chattered and he tried to get comfortable on the floor, to no avail. he couldn’t sleep even if he was comfortable. she was on his mind.

'Cause what's better than seeing

What I'm missing daily?

every day was the same. she had lectures, lab, study group meetings. he had practices, games, media appearances. it was just too much. he could tell how much happier she was at uchicago, anyone could tell. sometimes, it felt like he only knew about her life from her instagram stories. her perfect, polished instagram stories. ones that screamed “single and loving it”. except, she wasn’t single and she was miserable.

“maybe if you treated me like your girlfriend instead of your roommate, i’d be happier around you.”

“i try, y/n! i try every day!”

“no, you don’t!”

“yes, i do!”

“you come home at 11pm, all “i’m so tired”, and when i try to do anything, you’re like “not tonight”.”

“that’s not my fault! sorensen has me on ice the entire game!”

“so you’re too tired to snuggle your girlfriend? too tired to say “i love you”? too tired to let me make sure you’re not bruised?”

“i can check myself for bruises!”

“that’s not the point, connor!”

“look, i’m sorry i don’t cuddle you. are you happy now?”

“god, connor, how do you not understand how much happier i am away from you?”

I guess what I'm trying to say is that

You might run, oh but

I won't hide, shed an

Ounce of light on my half-

Hopeless life

“i don’t know what to do, kevin. i love her so much.”

“tell her that. don’t let her go.”

“she’s already gone.”

he hung up the phone and pushed open the apartment door.

“y/n?”

“kitchen.”

he walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “you feeling alright?”

“yeah, i’m fine.”

he pressed a short kiss to her neck, his lips lingering. “sure?”

“yes, i’m sure.”

“i love you.”

“love you too.”

he nuzzled his face against her shoulder.

“connor?”

“yes?”

“are you okay?”

“it’s… tough. on the ice.”

“i bet.”

“i feel like i’m failing everyone.”

“not me.”

“y/n, can you promise me something?”

“of course.”

“remember how i was during the off-season?”

“yeah?”

"Don't let me go back"

But since you've taken the time to read so carefully

Everything I've ever sent

I guess I'll spend the next few lines hoping and wishing

Yet thanking appropriately

she always read too much into things. everything was falling apart and it was all his fault. she deserves better. he knows better than to act like this, pretending he can be the guy she needs.

connor quietly made his way into their shared closet and began to pack his clothes, his toiletries, anything he would need. he filled his duffel bag and suitcase with his whole life, except his most important items: the framed picture of him and y/n, sitting on the nightstand by her phone, and the bracelet she had made him. he traced the characters on the beads, the glossy black “bedard 98” shining in the light of his phone flashlight.

he grabbed a piece of paper from her journal and a pen, her pink glitter gel pen, and began to write his last words to her. every word was about how he wasn’t enough, how sorry he was that he wasn’t there, how in another life, where he didn’t play hockey, they could’ve stayed together. he was not in a good place to be a good boyfriend and nothing brought him joy. she deserves joy. she deserves the world. but he couldn’t give her that.

to y/n

Please read later

'Cause I don't think I have the heart

To let you read this now

But if I had the heart, oh

You know that I know better

This isn't how you say aloud

Oh, say aloud:

"Don't let me go back"

don’t come looking.

love,

connor

[a-case-of-attachment]

The Lamb & The Serpent

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x sinner fem!reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Lucifer being a chaotic mess, sex, p in v, swearing, virgin reader, first time, awkwardness, Lucifer being awkward, fluff, relationship are hard sometimes that’s why communication is key, romance isn’t dead, Lucifer and his oral fixation, wholesome smut, they are in love your honour.

Please click -> here <- to read on AO3

After his little chat with Asmodeus and his subsequent awaking to what had actually been going on over the past couple of months Lucifer had every intention of sitting you down so he could apologise for his poor behaviour and reassure you that he was very much interested in what you were offering. That had been the plan anyway but unfortunately things just hadn’t gone his way and Lucifer had been forced to spend the last three day refereeing the ongoing argument between Asmodeus and Mammon as they bickered over the little clown imp they both had their eye on. It had been a headache inducing mess, one that had ended with Lucifer snapping at the embodiment of greed, his horns and tale making an appearance when he had missed yet another call from you.

He was beyond glade it was over with, and Lucifer had barely even managed to say goodbye to Asmodeus before he was teleporting home, appearing in his lobby and just about ready to hide away in his work room until he could stomach being social again. Maybe with an exception or two. Lucifer would very much like to waist a couple of days curled up with you on the sofa as well as having the chance to catch up with Charlie. He could always invite Charlie over for afternoon tea and a chat, maybe even invite Vaggie along as well. Considering she was the love of Charlie’s life he really hadn’t spent enough time getting to know her. Plus, she was an angel, so they already had something in common. Though maybe not the best thing to bond over considering neither of them was likely to want to talk about that aspect of their lives. Maybe you could come along as well and after Charlie and Vaggie had gone the two of you could actually have that conversation about what you wanted from the other physically that you probably should of had a month or so ago.  With a plan in mind Lucifer had planned on going straight to bed when he got in but apparently, he wasn’t the only one with plans for his evening. 

He knew something was off the moment he appeared in the lobby, the small space feeling warmer than normal and smelling faintly like apple pie. When he opens his eyes it’s to find candles scattered across every surface, the yellow flames glowing warmly and casting long shadows up the walls. The floor is scattered with petals, the light of the candles making them shimmer like an oil spill. Confused Lucifer eyes the trail of petals and candles suspiciously calling out a tentative “hello?” in the hopes of getting an answer for the unusual décor. There comes no answer but the floorboards above creak, letting him know that he’s not alone in the house. 

With a frown and a huff Lucifer followed the trail of petals and candle light down the hall and up the stairs, going as slowly and lightly as he can as not to make a sound. Logically he knows that no one down here can hurt him, not unless they had some form of angelic weaponry but that was unlikely considering they were still a rare and expensive commodity despite the amount of angels that had met their end down here over the eons. That doesn’t stop him from being cautious though. Just because a knife to the chest won’t kill him doesn’t mean it’s not going to hurt and despite his reputation amongst the living Lucifer isn’t really that into the whole pain and torture thing. It doesn’t really occur to him that it could be someone he knows who is responsible for the moody and romantic vibe. Even as he steps onto the landing and finds the trail leading to his bathroom door Lucifer doesn’t consider it, that is not till he’s stood in front of closed door and reading the note that had been stuck to the wood with a little duck shaped pin.

His hand trembled a little as he reaches up to take it down, tears clinging to his lashes as his heart swells with the love he had for you. He reads it twice, eyes dragging across the page slowly because he can’t quite believe what he’s reading. You wanted to take care of him, worried that he had been overdoing it the last couple of days and knowing full well he wouldn’t look after himself. You had given him strict instructions to relax, insisting that he spend at least an hour in the bath and that he not think about anything work related. That had him laughing, wiping away his tears as he imagined you stood there with your arms crossed over your chest and looking at him expectantly, your little lamb ears completely ruining the stern look you were going for. Adorably cute and just begging to kissed. 

He couldn’t believe you had done this for him. Yes, the candles and petals seemed a bit over the top, but Lucifer liked it all the same. It must have taken you a while to set it all up and his heart feels like it might burst when he realises what that means about how you must feel about him. Surely if you didn’t love him then you wouldn’t have gone to such lengths? And if you were doing romantic things like this then that meant he hadn’t messed up as badly as he had feared. 

Oh. 

You were wooing him! The realisation had Lucifer feeling giddy, practically bouncing in place he was so excited. He had never been wooed before. Yes, Lilith had loved him, had told him often and never denied him any physical displays of affection but she had never been one for grand displays or romantic gestures. That had been Lucifers thing, always the one showing up with gifts or ridiculously large bouquets of flowers. He was the one who made romantic dinners for the two of them, the one who would run her baths and brush her hair whilst telling her how beautiful she was, how he loved and adored her. He had done the wooing, not the other way round but now? Knowing that you were doing something special for him? Lucifer hadn’t felt this loved and cherished since, well, not for a very long time and he wasn’t really sure what to expect when he opened the door. 

He knew what he would do if it was him doing the romancing, had done it enough for Lilith before that it seemed like a logical conclusion that you would be waiting for him inside. Maybe he would catch you leant over the bath, fingers testing the water temperature and smiling ever so sweetly over your shoulder at him. Maybe you would be perched on the edge of the tub, waiting patiently for him to come to you and place a kiss upon your lips. Or maybe, just maybe you would already be in the bath, the bubbles keeping you hidden from him until he had stripped naked and sunk into the water with you. They’re all welcomed scenarios and Lucifer finds himself holding his breath as he slowly pushes the door open, leaning around it in an attempt to see what it was hiding from him.  

You are not in the bath, not in the room at all but what there are is more petals scattered across the tiled floor, candles placed on every available surface and giving the room a warm and inviting glow. The bath tub is full, steam curling up from the red bubbles and carrying with it the smell of cinnamon and clove. There’s a small table next to the bathtub, a small selection of candles sat on top of it along with a couple of bottles of toiletries. Bottles that hadn’t been in his house that morning when he left. The whole room looks like a scene from a romance novel, inviting Lucifer in and offering him something that he had never thought he would get to experience for himself. Yes, he is disappointed you aren’t there to share in it with him but after his behaviour these last few months he isn’t surprised that you are keeping your distance. Oh well, Lucifer will follow your orders, planning on luxuriating in the warm waters of his freshly drawn bath and then he would look for you, hopeful that you were still somewhere within his home and not having snuck back to the hotel whilst he was preoccupied. He had a lot to thank you for and didn’t feel like waiting till morning to do so. 

With a smile still firmly in place Lucifer followed the trail of petals over the vanity, already pulling off his jacket and eyeing his bath excitedly only to be brought to a sudden stop when his foot hits something soft and squishy. Frowning Lucifer looked down, stepping back slightly so he could get a better look at what he had trodden on. Two sets of black beady eyes stare lifeless back at him from within a round yellow face. Ducks. He’s looking down at ducks. Two large squishy duck plushies with holes in their backs. Are they slippers? Confused Lucifer went to bend down and pick one up, placing his hand in the counter for balance except his hand didn’t touch the cool marble it should have. Instead his fingers sank into something soft and fluffy, Lucifer turning his head to see what it was only to come face to face with even more ducks except these ones are printed onto a deep blue fabric, the space in between decorated with little white stars that seemed to sparkle in the candle light. 

Abandoning his original task Lucifer stood back up, frowning down at the neatly folded fabric and the small white card that sat on top, his name scrawled in your familiar font on the front. Turns out they were a gift for him, a set of matching flannel pyjamas and plushie slippers for him to change into after his bath. Lucifer had stood there for a long few minutes, card in hand and staring down at his rubber ducky slippers trying not to cry because of how happy he felt. 

It had been centuries since Lucifer had been gifted anything. Yes, he had received bribes and sacrificial offerings but that wasn’t the same. This was heartfelt, picked specifically because of who he was as a person and not because of his status. A part of him does question how you could afford the obvious expensive items because he knows that Charlie doesn’t pay you for the work you do at the hotel, but he squashes that down quickly deciding that it wasn’t important. He knew you, knew that however you had come to possess them it wouldn’t have been by nefarious means. Plus, he’s too happy to care. Not only had you arranged a candle lit bath for him, but you had also given him a gift. There was no doubt in his mind you were trying to woo him now, Lucifer feeling giddy and excited for what would come next. But first, he had a rather lovely bubble bath to sink into. 

He makes sure they are folded nicely, slippers tucked in against the vanity before he starts removing his clothes. He’s quick but methodical about it, removing one item after another and folding them neatly so he can stack them next to the pyjamas. His shoes get tucked under the unit next to his new slippers, his cane clipped onto the hook on the side and his hat placed gently atop the hat stand towards the back. Once naked Lucifer runs his hand over the soft fabric once more before turning and heading to the bath. 

The groan Lucifer makes as he sinks down into the warm spice scented water sounds practically sinful, but he doesn’t think he would have been able to contain it even if he had tried. It feels amazing, the water almost instantly soothing his aching muscles and helping him to relax. He doesn’t know what you had put in the water but whatever it was surely had to be made of magic of some kind because Lucifer doesn’t think he had ever felt this light and boneless before, just drifting peacefully as the warmth from the water seeped into his very core and left him feeling like he was floating on a cloud. Or maybe it’s just because it’s you that had done this for him that makes it feel a thousand times better than it ever had before. Magic or love? Maybe they were one and the same, intertwined so closely that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Lucifer couldn’t tell, all he knew was that he felt happy and loved and that was something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

He sits there for what feels like hours, mind blessedly calm and the water never getting cold. It’s only then, as he truly relaxes, that Lucifer hears it. The soft sound of music comes from his adjoining bedroom, the gentle mix of piano and violin creeping through the gaps under the door, hauntingly beautiful and painfully familiar even though Lucifer can’t quite recall where he had heard it before. He doesn’t remember if it had been playing the whole time and his breath catches at the thought of you being in his bedroom. So close yet hidden from him. He wants to call out to you, see if you will answer but he also doesn’t want to break this strange spell he finds himself under. Nor does he want to ruin something you must of worked so hard on. So, Lucifer stays quite, eyes slipping closed as he sinks further into the hot water and lets everything that had been weighing him down go, giving in to the tranquil bliss you had gifted him. 

Lucifer doesn’t know how long he stays there for but when he stirs, he finds that most of the bubbles have gone, and the water is lukewarm at best. Deciding that it had probably been over an hour at this point Lucifer finished washing quickly, using the things you had left for him and delighting at the crisp apple scent mixed with cinnamon and ginger with a hint of nutmeg and cardamom that wafted up from the open bottles. He makes sure to wash every inch of himself, even conditioning his hair as well as shampooing, wanting to make sure he used everything you had left for him.

He feels fresh and relaxed when he steps out of the bath, wrapping himself in the ridiculously large and fluffy towel that had been left next to the tub for him. He dries himself quickly, eager to try his new pyjamas on and by the time he’s taken the few short steps across the room his body is mostly dry if not a little pink tinged from how vigorously he had been rubbing at it. The pyjama trousers are just as soft as they had looked, Lucifer letting them sit low on his hips as he shoved his feet into the slippers. He forgoes his shirt for now, a smaller towel draped over his shoulder and catching the water that dripped from his hair as he looked for his hairbrush. It’s not there though and without thinking he is already heading towards the adjoining door to his bedroom, tugging the towel up to rub vigorously at his still wet hair as he flings the door open. He’s already a couple of steps into the room when he suddenly stops, the small gasp catching him off guard. 

Lucifers head snapped up at the sound, his eyes going wide when he found you stood there. Oh, but what a sight you were, all wide eyed surprise and lips slightly parted as you took in his half-dressed state. But that wasn’t the best part. Oh no, the best part was that the two of you matched, all the way from the yellow duck slippers on your feet to your pyjamas. They were the exact same ones you had gifted him except where his were trousers yours were shorts, cutting off mid-thigh and leaving your legs blessedly bare. The two of you just stand there, Lucifer completely enraptured by how adorably beautiful you are whilst you stare at his bare chest like you had never seen a half-naked man before. 

You are the first to come to your senses, coughing nervously before purposely looking at a spot somewhere over his should as you asked if he had “enjoyed your bath? I know it was a little over the top, but I just wanted to surprise you and, well you seemed a little stressed when we spoke last night, and I thought this might help you relax a little.” Lucifer lets the towel fall forgotten to the floor, striding across the room so he is standing before you, taking your hands in his and waiting for you to look at him before thanking you. You look so relieved when he tells you how much he had loved it, giving him one of your sweet little smiles when he admits that “no one’s ever done something like that for me before and I…thank you, for taking care of me.” He means to say a lot more, but his voice gets caught in his throat and Lucifer can only hope that his choked up little thank you conveys everything he hadn’t been able to say. 

Despite his lack of words, you had seemed to understand, cupping his cheek and looking him in the eyes as you swore that you would “show you every single day from here until forever how much you mean to me Lucifer.” Smiling tearfully, he had placed his hand over yours on his cheek, turning his face slightly into your palm as he told you how perfect that sounded and promising to do the same. Lucifer would spend the rest of eternity showing you how much he loved you, would tell you at least twice a day and make sure that you never stopped smiling, always feeling happy and loved. You were too pure of a soul to be down here, and you were definitely too good for Lucifer, but you had chosen him all the same and if heaven had denied you paradise, then he would create a slice of heaven in hell, just for you. 

Lucifers the one who breaks the silence between you this time, taking the hand that’s on his cheek and placing a soft kiss on your knuckles before asking about your current state of dress, and noting how adorable you look. Turns out there had been more to Lucifers surprise because not only had you given him a gift and helped him relax you also apparently had plans for his sleeping arrangements, gesturing behind you to the camomile tea that sat on the night stand whilst explaining that you thought the two of you “could snuggle. JUST snuggle. I thought it would be nice for us to, well you know, cuddle.” Lucifer hears what you are saying, would love nothing more than to climb into bed with you and spend the night wrapped in your arms but there’s just one slight problem with that. Lucifer isn’t so sure he would be able to spend the night with you in his bed without experiencing some physical side effects. 

His mind kind of gets stuck on that, pulling up every scenario that could unfold by agreeing to sharing his bed with you. Only two out of a dozen possibilities don’t end up with you both naked, and only one of those isn’t sexual in nature. It’s bad, so very very bad to be thinking about such things, especially when you were trying to be romantic and show him how you felt but by the way you were blushing and pointedly not looking at him or the bed Lucifer thought that maybe he wasn’t the only one with less than pure thoughts about the situation. His first instinct is to steer the conversation well away from anything even remotely close to sexual, but he knows better than that now. That being said it doesn’t change the fact that before anything like that could happen between the two of you Lucifer needs to apologise for his behaviour over the last few months and also get verbal confirmation from you that adding sex to your relationship was actually something you wanted. 

Lucifer makes sure to tell you that “spending the night with you in my arms sounds like a dream come true,” and it does. He has often dreamed of just holding you, getting to feel your body against his as the two of you simply lay beside one another but considering how he had been reacting to your most simple of touches these last few months he knows that an innocent snuggle wouldn’t be possible for him. The question is how does he tell you that without sounding like some sort of sex obsessed weirdo that can’t even make it through a night of cuddling without getting hard?

Trying to buy himself a little extra time to think Lucifer had directed you to sit at the end of the bed, coming to stand in front if you and nervously running a hand through his still damp hair. Maybe doing this when he was shirtless was a mistake, but he knew that if he disappeared back into the bathroom, he would probably lose his nerve and either end up embarrassing himself or upsetting you. No, he needed to do this now. You deserved the truth, though maybe getting you to sit on his bed was also a mistake, Lucifers eyes drawn down to your bare thighs, realising that if he were to drop to his knees his head would be just the right hight for him to…. NOT HELPING! 

You would think that after having been through all this with Asmodeus it would have been easier to tell you he was sorry for his behaviour and explain exactly why he had acted in such a way, but it wasn’t. Not in the slightest and Lucifer found himself stumbling over his words once more, looking over your shoulder to avoid the temptation of letting his gaze wander down too far. You don’t question his lack of eye contact, letting him ramble on about how he “didn’t mean to make you think that I wasn’t interested because I am. Very interested actually but you’ve never, you know, been with anyone before and I didn’t want to rush you into something you weren’t ready for. Not that you can’t make those decisions yourself. It’s just, well, umm, sex, can be messy and complicated, even when you know what you’re doing and I ah, I didn’t, DON’T! want to hurt you.” It’s like Asmodeus’ all over again, Lucifer making a complete mess of trying to tell you what he had thought was happening and what was actually going on. 

Why was he so bad at this? All he needed to do was apologise for  misunderstanding your attentions and reassure you that he was completely committed to this relationship, regardless of if it included sex or not but if that was something you were interested in then he needed you to just tell him that because he would be thrilled to have the pleasure of well, you. There! That’s all he had to say and yet the words that came out of his mouth were “sex is good. Would, be good, with you. If that was something you wanted to have, with me?” He can’t help but grimace at how ridiculous he sounds, hiding his face in his hands and contemplating opening a portal up underneath himself so he can save you from listening to any more of his embarrassing drivel. 

You don’t seem to think he’s messed up though, gently taking his hands in yours and lowering them so you can look him in the eye. You’re all soft smiles and gentle words as you apologise to him, cutting off his insistence that you had nothing to apologise for by placing a finger against his lips, Lucifers voice disappearing in an instant. He watched you with wide eyes, captivated by you as you told him that you “hadn’t considered your feelings and I’m sorry for that. Just because I don’t care about my lack of experience doesn’t mean you feel the same and I should have realised that instead of continuing to try and start something and making you feel uncomfortable. I know now that you were worried that I might be pushing myself into it without really knowing what I was asking for but I am an adult Lucifer and I need you to realise that I wouldn’t have even considered sleeping with you let alone trying to initiate it if I didn’t think I was ready for that with you.” You say it so much better than he ever could, having a way with words that leave Lucifer feeling like he is on the edge of tears and yet full of so much joy he might burst from it.

There are so many things that Lucifer wants to say to you. Like how deeply he cares for you. How he would be willing to go as slow as you needed him to if it meant you felt safe and comfortable with him. How he wanted you in his life, however he could have you because you made it that much better, smile as bright as an angels grace that never failed to chase away the gloom that hung over him like a cloud. He doesn’t say any of that though, taking your hands in his as he declared “me to. I’m ready,” because he was. Lucifer was ready to take that next step with you, both inside and outside the bedroom. 

The kiss you give him is chaste, but it doesn’t stay that way, your tongue sweeping across his lips. He parts them eagerly this time, welcoming the gentle cares of your tongue against his. The two of you should probably talk more but for now it seemed like the time for words was over, the months’ worth of denial finally catching up to you both. Lucifer follows you wordlessly when you scooch back onto the bed, his lips never far from yours as he climbs up onto the bed until he’s hovering above you. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer so you can whisper in his ear, lips brushing teasingly against the sensitive shell of his ear when you ask him if he would “be my fist? There’s no one else I would rather it be. Please Lucifer, take it, it’s yours.” It sends a shiver down his spine, a long buried ache growing in his chest and pressing almost painfully against his rib cage. You’re offering him something precious, something that once given can’t be taken back. A part of yourself that will forever be his, a mark on your very soul that will never fade. It’s an honour that Lucifer would be a fool to refuse so he doesn’t, murmuring his devotion against your lips even as he slides a hand under the fabric of your pyjama shirt, deft fingers dancing across your stomach and up your side, your startled gasp like the start of a symphony written just for him. 

Lucifer makes love to you that night. It’s the only way he can describe it. He’s slow, gentle, the two of you pressed as close you can get without it interfering with him slowly stripping your clothes off you, Lucifer enraptured by every inch of you that is revealed to him. 

There’s something addictive about the little moans and gasps you let out as Lucifer explores your body with his hands and mouth. He liked the way your breath hitches when his fingers skim across the swell of your breasts and pinched gently at your hardened nipples. He craves the little gasps you make when he kisses his way down your body from your lips to your hips, nipping and sucking gently as he goes before soothing over the slight sting with a delicate kiss. You respond so beautifully to him, unashamedly vocal in your pleasure as you squirm in his hold, arching into his touch like you were chasing it. He’s already addicted to it, to you but there’s one thing he loved above all else, the most beautiful sound to fall from your parted lips and leaves him whimpering, desperate to hear it again and again. 

“Lu...Luci…Lucifer! Please, I…oh gods, yes! Please. Lucifer I…LUCIFER!” It’s like music to his ears. A symphony of moans and gasps, his name falling from your lips like a prayer and all because his wicked tongue had made its way between your legs. Lucifer had moaned like a starving man when he had gotten his first taste of you, pressing his face as close to you as he could get. He had tried to go slow, aware that no one had ever done this for you before and he had started out like that, tentative and gentle as he tried to figure out what it was you liked and didn’t. As soon as he had started to figure it out though Lucifer was relentless, alternating between fucking his tongue into your tight cunt and sucking gently on your sensitive clit. He felt drunk on you, hungry to taste your climax on his tongue and desperate to know how loudly he can get you to scream his name. Hopefully loud enough that all of heaven will be able to hear. 

Lucifer spent a while between your legs, his own neglected cock tenting his trousers and begging for attention. This wasn’t about him though. It was all about you, about your pleasure and Lucifer was all for denying himself when he got to listen to you fall apart on his tongue. He could happily stay there for hours, days even, feasting on your sweet nectar and listening to you cry out for him in pleasure filled desperation. Maybe another time, he didn’t want to overwhelm you, plus this was about what you wanted not him and from the way you were practically grinding against his face Lucifer could guess what it was you were after. 

His fingers replaced his tongue, two slipping into you easily as his mouth latched onto your clit, licking and sucking on the little nub as he fucked his fingers into you. He knew that no matter how gentle he was with you it was going to hurt to some degree but the more relaxed and looser you were the easier it would be for you when Lucifer finally got to feel you around his cock. So, he worked another finger into you, his teeth nipping at the little bundle of nerves as you pressed down against the intrusion, moaning ever so sweetly at the stretch. It doesn’t take long for Lucifer to add a fourth finger or for you to clench down on them, crying out his name as you climax. Lucifer lets out his own moan, working you through it and lapping up your juices as they flow out around his fingers. 

He works you through it, fingers slowing down till they were barely moving as his tongue drags across your opening. He stays there till you let out a little whimper, tugging at his hair as you press your hips back into the bed. Reluctantly Lucifer moves, not wanting to leave you feeling to overstimulate or overwhelm. It is only your first time together, first being the important word there because Lucifer plans on there being many more times in your future, maybe even again tonight. If he’s lucky. 

Feeling how wet his chin is Lucifer doesn’t even think about letting his tongue snake out of his mouth, dragging across his chin and savouring every last drop of you, his eyes falling closed as he moans softly. Your choked off moan has his eyes snapping open, dragging his gaze up the naked expanse of your body until his eyes meet yours and the dark hungry look you give him as you stare at his mouth. Lucifer can’t help but smirk, lifting his still slicked fingered to his mouth. He watches you from under hooded eyes as he drags his tongue up them, slipping them into his mouth one by one so he can suck them clean. 

He’s barely removed them from his mouth before you’re surging up to claim his lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing Lucifers startled moan as you pull him down slightly to meet you. It’s an interesting position, Lucifers thighs shoved under yours and an arm wrapped around your waist to help keep your balance whilst he cups your neck and jaw with his other hand. You don’t seem to care, weight braced on one arm and a hand buried in his hair. One of your legs is wrapped around his waist, pressing his hips down even as you raise yours up to meet him. It’s too much, Lucifer breaking away from the kiss with a gasp and a shudder. He stays close, forehead resting against yours as you breathe each other in, Lucifer shamelessly grinding against you like he had no self-control. He doesn’t, not when it comes to you and he probably would have carried on as he was, grinding against your core in a pale imitation of what he really wanted until he crashed over the edge and spilt inside his trousers like an inexperienced teenager if it hadn’t been for your breathy little “please” so desperate and wanton and Lucifer couldn’t wait a moment longer. 

He gives you one last kiss, nipping gently at your bottom lip as he pulls away before shuffling off the bed. He’s already pushing down his pyjama bottoms before he’s even got one foot on the floor. It goes about as well as could be expected, Lucifers foot slipping as the other gets caught in the fabric. He goes down gracelessly with a thud, landing in a sprawling heap on the floor. It doesn’t deter him though, yanking the offending garment off and quickly jumping back up onto his feet only to find you kneeling at the end of the bed and looking down at him with concern. Lucifer laughs nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck and insisting that he was fine. There’s a beat of a second, a small pause as your eyes narrow slightly like you’re trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You must decide he is because you smile fondly at him, shaking your head slightly and rolling your eyes even as you offer him your hand. 

He takes it gratefully, following you up onto the bed once more as you shuffle back to lay against the pillows. You are beautiful in your innocence, your bottom lip caught between your teeth and head turned slightly to the side, your eyes cast down in a display of shyness that hadn’t existed the rest of the evening. You’re led in a way that leaves you both on display and hidden all at once, your arms raised and gripping at the pillow under your head whilst your hips are slightly turned away from him, one leg over the other and bent at the knee. You look like a sacrifice, led across his deep red sheets with the dim glow of the candles flickering across your naked body and Lucifer feels every inch like the devil come to claim you as tribute. It doesn’t bother him as much as he had feared though, knowing you were here willingly, giving in to your own desire for him. It helps a lot, easing his worry and boosting his confidence because he knows you wouldn’t be here like this if you didn’t want to be. 

Lucifers touch is gentle as he slides his hands up your legs, slowly moving you so he can crawl between your legs. As soon as he’s hovering above you, his weight resting on his hands either side your head, you wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers slipping into his hair and guiding his head down to yours. He goes willingly, dropping his weight down onto his forearms as his lips meet yours in a slow and gentle kiss. All the desperation and hunger from before is gone, this kiss less about the desire you felt for one another and more about the love you feel for each other. Though neither of you had said it yet Lucifer knew it must be true. It was for him and if it wasn’t for you then it wasn’t far off. 

The kiss ended when you shifted, his neglected cock rubbing against your stomach and reminding you both of the lust and need you felt for the other as it sparked back to life. Lucifer pulls away from you with a groan, head falling to rest on your shoulder as he calms himself down enough so that he doesn’t start rutting against you again. Something that isn’t helped by the fact you whisper in his ear that you’re ready, ever so sweetly begging “please Lucifer, I need you.” And oh, that does something for him, his dick twitching when you say you need him. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye when he tells you it’s going to “hurt, just a little at the beginning but I promise it will feel so good after that, just, if it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop. We don’t have to do this tonight, not if your umph.” You cut off Lucifers ramblings with a quick kiss, cupping his cheek as you tell him that you know and how you trust him.  It brings tears to his eyes, ones you quickly wipe away, but he can’t help it. You are giving him such an amazing gift, trusting him with something precious and he’s overwhelmed by the trust you had put in him to take care of you. Maybe a little to overwhelmed if he was being honest. 

Lucifer doesn’t want to admit how nervous he is about this part, but it surely must be obvious from the fact that he stares down at his dick for a good few seconds before he even thinks about moving into position. He knows he’s a lot bigger than the average human male, both in length and girth and though he spent quite a while making sure you were stretched, he fears that it might not have been enough. It’s your first time, Lucifer knows he’s going to hurt you despite everything he’s done to prevent it and unless he shoved a bunch of drugs down your throat that fact isn’t going to change but that doesn’t change the fact he feels almost guilty about it. This will be nothing but bliss for him whilst you have to suffer through the pain of him tearing you apart and forcing your insides to fit around him. It’s not fair, a flaw in Gods design but unfortunately there isn’t much Lucifer can do to rectify that. 

The only thing he can do is go slow, checking you’re okay at regular points and stilling when you need him to. He is right though, sinking into you is heavenly. You’re warm and tight around him as he slides in torturously slow, his breath heavy as he watched your face for any sign he may be hurting you too much. He stops when he feels resistance, covering your face in kisses in between apologising for the pain that’s about to come. Your hands tighten where they’re curled around his shoulders, bracing yourself for what’s to come even as you urge him to continue. Lucifer kisses you, deep and hungry as he snaps his hips forward and breaks through your barrier, swallowing your pain filled cry. He thinks you might have drawn blood, your nails digging into his shoulders, but he doesn’t care, holding himself still as he kisses away your tears, waiting for your command to continue. It feels like an age before your nodding, your grip loosening on his shoulders and whispering that “it’s ok, you can move. Please Lucifer. I want this. I want you.” With one last kiss Lucifer promises that you have him, mind body and soul, from here until eternity. He doesn’t give you the chance to answer, pulling his hips back and sliding back in, your hitched little gasp the only answer he needs. 

It’s slow going, Lucifer fighting the urge to just slam into you all in one go because fuck, he wants to be in you already, filling you up and making you scream as he fucks you hard and mercilessly. There a mantra of next time in his head, promising himself that next time he’ll fuck you harder, faster. Next time he’ll bend you this way and that to get the best angles and get even deeper, but not this time. This time is for slow and delicate, working you up gradually so it’s even sweeter when you fall apart around him. When he’s all the way in he stops again, giving you both time to adjust because even he’s a little overwhelmed by how tight a fit it is, how your body clings to him, your insides fluttering around him and making his cock twitch from the stimulation that he’s not even sure you know you are providing. It’s taken him at least ten minutes to get here, and he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of this being over embarrassingly fast. That’s the last thing he wants, to give you the impression that sex with him would be painful and quick, leaving you unsatisfied and disappointed. That is not the kind of lover he is and Lucifer refuses to ruin your first time all because he had the self-control of Gods first man. 

That surprisingly helps, the thought of you and Adam together angering him enough that Lucifers able to drive back his impending orgasm. Your patience seems to have run out though, rolling your hips against his and dragging a low moan from between Lucifers parted lips. He nips at your lip, tells you to behave but all that gets him is a seductive smirk as you do it again. Lucifer closes his eyes, arms trembling as he holds himself as still as he can, letting you rock ever so slightly on his cock. It’s not enough to be anything other than a tease but Lucifer loves it all the same. He’s always prided himself on being able to please a lover, getting off on knowing he’s driven them to such exhilarating heights. If you were to use him as a living breathing sex doll then he would have no complaints, would probably even thank you for it because he was just that desperate to please. You have other ideas though, hooking a leg around his waist, foot pressing against his ass and urging him down as you roll your hips up to meet him. Your hands back in his hair, cupping the back of his head and keeping his head tucked into your neck. Your other arm is curled under his, hand gripping his shoulder tightly as you moan ever so sweetly in his ear, asking him to “move. Please I…I…please.” You cut yourself off with a desperate little whine, pushing your heel into the small of his back and pressing him as close as he could get. 

Lucifer feels awful, having made you wait whilst he collected himself when clearly you were so desperate for him. He places lots of little kisses across your shoulder and up your neck to your jaw, apologising in between because he’s “so sorry I made you wait so long for me. Promise it won’t happen again. I’m going to take such good care of, give you everything you want and more.” He’s not just talking about now and hopes that you can understand that in your current state. For as long as you want him Lucifer swears that you will want for nothing, at your beck and call every hour of every day. He will treat you like a queen, might even make you one, one day but for now he’s going to start with this. 

Lucifer starts off slow, your tight grip on him loosening enough that he can pull all the way back until his tips the only part of him left inside you. He presses back in just as slowly, both of you moaning at the feel of him pressing against your walls. Lucifer can’t help but lean in, his lips finding yours in a gentle kiss, his pace just as slow and languid as the kisses you exchange. He stays as close to you as he can, his chest pressed against yours and legs intertwined as he moves within you. There’s nothing hard or fast about it, his hips rocking gently in and out of you and slowly stoking the flames of desire that burned within you. It was intimate, Lucifer unable to call it anything other than making love because that was exactly how it felt to him. Just the two of you, so close that all you can feel is the other, all you could see each other, breathing in the other’s air and lips meeting in gentle and love filled kisses as your moans and gasps mix with the sounds of your gentle love making. 

It was too much, yet not enough all at once, Lucifer feeling like he was going to fall apart at the seams at any moment. It’s been a while for him, even before Lilith had left and Lucifer had known there would be a possibility that he might not be able to control himself when with you. There had never been a doubt in his mind that bedding you would be anything other than spectacular, capable of reducing him to pathetic desperate mess but this? It feels too good, too much like divinity and Lucifer can feel his tentative hold on his form slipping, overcome by his own emotions as he losses himself in the moment, completely surrounded by you. 

Praise falls from Lucifers lips in a mumbled mess of words, telling you that you’re “perfect. So good. Doing so well for me. You feel amazing sweetheart, so warm and tight. Fuck. So beautiful like this and all for me. Just me. Oh fuck. Yes!” in between sloppy kisses as he trailed his lips  from your mouth to your neck and then back again, stopping occasionally to suck marks into your neck, the same part of him that had delighted in being your first practically glowing with delight at all the other residents of Hell being able to see his claim on you. Or that could just be the fact he was actually glowing, what remained of his heavenly light growing brighter the closer to his climax he got. 

As much as he wanted this to last for eternity Lucifer could feel his orgasm getting closer and closer, the coil in his stomach tightening as your walls fluttered around him, pulling him back in and leaving him a moaning gasping mess on the edge of tears. He can’t put it off again, approaching his end to quickly for him to slow down now. Panting Lucifer rested his head on your shoulder, closing his eyes and giving himself over to his pleasure. He is not a selfish lover though and Lucifer refuses to let himself fall over the edge without you there with him. It takes a slight bit of manoeuvring, but Lucifer managed to get a hand between the two of you, his thumb rubbing against your clit and making you cry out almost loud enough for all of Hell to hear. It wasn’t an ideal position, being pressed so close to you but he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to stop touching your because if he did this might all disappear and he would find himself alone once more, that gaping black hole of loneliness too much for him to bare. 

Lucifers climax hits him suddenly, his cry of pleasure muffled as he sinks his jagged teeth into the delicate skin in your neck. Vaguely he hears your answering scream, can feel you getting impossibly tighter around him but Lucifer is to lost to really notice, his vision going white as the room floods with light, the sound of wings flapping and something smashing all but a distant hum compared to the white noise ringing in his ears. Euphoric doesn’t even begin to cover how Lucifer feels in that moment. Rapturous maybe, possibly even heavenly. All Lucifer knows is that it feels right, like being welcomed home and loved unconditionally. He falls into it, into you with, with reckless abandonment, letting the feeling drag him under the roaring waves of bliss as they crash into him. 

When Lucifer comes back to himself it’s to find that he’s laying half on top of you, his leg slung over yours, arm draped over your chest and head tucked underneath your chin. You’re humming softly along to the music still playing, arm wrapped around his waist as you card your fingers through his hair. He feels boneless, happy and satisfied in a way that he hasn’t for centuries. He’s so content in-fact that that he can’t help but hum, snuggling in closer and delighting in the little chuckle it gets him. It’s only then that he realises his wings are out, three of them half hanging off the bed and draping across the floor whilst the three on the other side are bent protectively over you, keeping you hidden and safe from the outside world whilst Lucifer himself was to out of it to do so. 

He’s embarrassed by his lack of control, groaning loudly and trying to hide his face in your neck as he apologises for his lack of restraint even as he tried to justify it because “it’s eh been a while since I’ve, well since I’ve done that with anyone and you were, it was, I was just…” Thankfully you stop his ramblings, your fingers pressing on the underside of his chin so he will look up at you. You understand his reaction, even going as far as to tell him how flattered you are that it happened. It makes him blush even more, wings fluttering slightly but no more so then when you thank him, looking him in the eyes and sounding so sincere and serious when you tell him that you were “glad it was you.” He wants to shrug it off, insist that it was his pleasure, quite literally, but there’s something about the look in your eyes that stops him Lucifer instead reacting up to cup your cheek and telling you how honoured he was that you had given him such a gift and promising to treasure it and you for all eternity.  

The two of you share a kiss, as soft and languid as your love making had been. Lucifer was happy to take his time, to spend at least the next hour wrapped in your arms and exchanging lazy kisses but it seemed you had other ideas, pulling away to yawn loudly. Lucifer waves off your apologies, insisting that he too is feeling quite tired considering the time and your choice of evening activities. He tries to move, tries to hide his wings and pull up the covers but you put a stop to that quickly, asking ever so sweetly if the two of you could stay like this, as long as it wouldn’t cause problems with his wings of course. Lucifers to stunned by the request to do anything then just nod, curling against your side and allowing his wings to shrink to a more manageable size that’s less likely to brake something else within his bedroom. Your hand returns to his hair, fingers gently toying with the strands at the base of his skull as you a wrap your other arm around him, slipping it under his bottom wing so you can gently stroke your fingers up and down his spine. He just about resists the urge to purr like a cat though he does find himself relaxing into it, sleep finding him quickly. 

It’s nice, the two of you led in his bed and enjoying the afterglow of your love making. There’s no need for either of you to talk and though Lucifer knows that at some point you will need to, a whole lifetime of things still between you that will need addressing at some point, there is no rush. He’s forever grateful that you chose to stick by him despite his misguided attempt to preserve your virtue and as he drifts off to sleep in your arms Lucifer lets himself truly feel the happiness you inspire within him because that’s what he is, happy. Happier than he had been in a long time, and he hopes, with every ounce of his being, that he can hold onto that happiness until the end of time. 

@viannasthings

@loquacious-libra

If anyone else would like to be tagged please do let me know.

[quinnysnursery]

little Tara where she usually likes going out on Friday nights but this Friday night was different

(AKA younger (19/20) year old cg takes care of little Tara! putting her in clothes that look like toddlers, cute socks, and has a cuddle night with You, Tara, and Sugar.)

[❤️] last friday night | tara yummy one-shot

paring : little!tara yummy x cg!fem!reader

summary : tara loves going partying...but sometimes staying in with her caregiver is more her forte

warning/extra tid-bits : use of y/n, SFW clothes changing scene, that's all!

word count : 593

divider credit : umm i found all the photos on pinterest :3 (roses from @saradika-graphics)

a/n : i actually hate wearing socks to bed and if you wear socks to bed i do judge you (not proof read, i'm just a girl!)

Tara’s phone vibrated against her leather couch, countless texts asking her if she was coming out tonight. She huffed out a frustrated breath, grabbing the cellular device and shutting it off completely- she wouldn’t need it tonight anyway.

On any typical Friday, she would be struggling to answer each of her friends whilst putting on an elaborate clubbing outfit. Tonight though, she sat happily on her deep-red persian rug, hair in pigtails and a fuzzy headspace cradling her brain.

“Tar! Come eat!” Her caregiver’s voice called out from the kitchen, Sugar was quick to leap off the couch and scamper off into the kitchen- paws pittering against the hardwood floor.

Tara followed after the beloved pup soon after, giggling that Sugar was going “too fast!”. “I made nuggets, is that okay?” Y/n asked, already plating the vegan nuggets onto a princess plate. 

“Mhm! T’ank ‘ou!” Tara smiled, hopping onto the kitchen counter barstool and swinging her feet against the air. Y/n smiled at her girl, placing the princess-themed plate in front of her and quickly fixing a stray hair that fell in front of Tara’s face.

“No feeding Sugar, he’s already had his food.” Y/n reminded gently, much to Sugar’s dismay. Tara grumbled about this too, but quickly got to eating her dinner. 

“Mama’s gonna pick out your PJ’s. Be right back.” The carer said, pressing a quick kiss to Tara’s temple before exiting the kitchen and making her way upstairs. You pushed open the door to Tara’s nursery, the soft pink glow from various different fairy lights inviting you in the room.

The nursery always smelled of powdery roses, thanks to the candle warmer that sat atop the dresser. Y/n tugged open the pajama drawer, looking over the various different options. Eventually settling for a set of cotton polka dot pajamas and frilly white socks. 

Not long after, Tara’s dishes were in the sink and Y/n was helping her change into said pajamas. “Arms up!” The caregiver chimed, Tara giggled as she obeyed. 

Y/n quickly hooked the polka dot shirt over Tara’s head and arms, pulling it down. “All done!” Tara giggled, earning a genuine smile from her carer. 

“Go brush your teeth and mama’ll put on a movie.” Y/n smiled, Tara nodded and called Sugar to “help” her. 

Grabbing the remote off of the dresser, Y/n flicked on the TV and scrolled through the countless streaming apps, eventually deciding on Disney+. She scrolled through the profiles, passing Jake, Carrington and Johnnie’s before clicking on Tara’s- smiling at the little’s Vanellope Von Schweetz profile picture. 

Just as Y/n was about to call out, asking what the regressed girl wanted to watch- Tara shouted through a sudsy mouth, “I wan’ wa’ch, ‘punzel!” 

The caregiver chuckled, finding the requested movie and pausing it before the intro could begin playing. Soon enough, Tara came out of the bathroom with Sugar following closely behind. 

The trio laid on the soft bed, a nest of pillows and blankets just waiting to be cuddled with. It didn’t take long for Tara to curl up in her caregivers arms, Sugar resting at the end of bed- already half asleep.

Y/n made sure to hit play on the movie before fully cuddling up to Tara, allowing her little to fully sink into her arms- big brown eyes fixated on the TV screen. 

The soft glow from the fairylights paired with the powdery aroma soon soothed both Y/n and Tara into a deep, restful sleep- soft snores filling the room.

taglist !! :

@mattssturnz @littlestar44 @graceslittlecorner @zivall

@hrtz4alex2211 @bimbob1tch @sturnsxplr-25 @cherry-red-heart

@pr3ttyf4wn @frlinbruh @jazminepetit-homme @raynaaxx

@tyummyz @starri-nightss @cyberskulzzz @nicksbestie

@urfavbestiee @nicksloverrr @babybatxxx @ivysturnss

@babybatxxx @emogxilbert

[pictureamoebae]

L = no ReShade; R = ReShade inc. ReLight

Quick little shader highlight for you.

You've maybe heard me talk about the Nice Guy Lamps shader before, which lets you add spotlights and create shadows. It's a nifty little shader but it's not very precise, and the shadows suffer from jitter and noise.

Enter ReLight by Marty McFly. ReLight is a fancy and more polished alternative to NG Lamps. The shadows are far better quality, and the lights are easier to position and edit. You can theoretically add as many as you want by editing the preprocessor definitions, but to begin with there are (iirc) two for you to play with. I've set it to four, and haven't felt like I've needed more than that so far.

In the picture on the right I've used three lights, each by the light sources in the room to simulate actual light being emitted from them. The two lamps on the right have a warm neutral light, and the candle on the left has a warm orange light. I positioned them so they sat exactly where the source would be. So, for example, for the floor lamp I positioned the light right up inside the dome of the shade, and you can see shadows being cast by the shade and light only coming down where it would physically be able to fall.

You can also use ReLight to add lights to portraits, making them really dramatic with different colours on each side of the face, or just to brighten the character so you can see their features more clearly. Below is a screenshot I took in Baldur's Gate 3 where I added blue light to the left and warmer light to the right.

It's such a handy little shader that can help add both realism and a hefty dose of drama to a scene. You need to feel confident tweaking shader settings to use it, and have to edit it for every single shot because the lights stay static in relation to the screen coordinates, so you'll have to move them where you want them each time. It's easy to do though, and lots of fun.

ReLight is one of Marty's premium shaders, which means you'd need to subscribe to his Patreon to get access to it. It's not currently listed in any of his tiers because he stopped working on it in favour of other things, but it works well and is probably my favourite shader at the moment. I'm yet to set up a shot that can't benefit from it in one way or another. If you are interested in using ReLight, you need to sub to the Path Tracers tier. You can cancel your subscription once you've grabbed it from his discord server, but you won't get access to any updates until you resub (it hasn't been updated in a long time though, so I wouldn't worry too much about that).

Paying for shaders is something that doesn't sit well with some people, and that's fair. I would only recommend getting this if you're enough of an enthusiast that spending 30 minutes setting up one shot is your idea of fun (not that ReLight takes that long, it can take just seconds sometimes).

[autisticlancemcclain]

prev chapter

“Just – don’t do it, Lance. I don’t want you to end up in the west wing, or things are going to get bad in here.”

If Lance is being entirely honest, he has no desire to deviate from Hunk’s directions. At least he didn’t. If Hunk hadn’t said anything, it probably wouldn’t have even occurred to Lance to go to the west wing anyway. This is the second time he has been warned away from the west wing, now. If Lance was curious before, he’s burning with it now.

But Hunk is his friend, and he’s doing him a favour, so he bites his tongue and nods his head and walks down the way Hunk instructed him too. It helps that he’s ravenous, and is more focused on food than anything. 

But he won’t lie and say that he doesn’t have to force himself away from dark hallways and beckoning shadows.

———

“Oh, Lance, hello!” Colleen greets him enthusiastically when he walks in the door. Lance wiggles his fingers at her in a small wave. “I’m glad you came out, dear. I was worried.”

“Got hungry.”

“Of course, of course. Sal, heat up the food, will you?”

The giant wood burning stove in the corner of the kitchen chugs to life, vent forming an enthusiastic grin. The sound of frying meat and salted potatoes fill the air, making Lance’s mouth water.

The kitchen is quiet at this time of night; warm. It makes him think of his Abuela, on the many nights when neither of them could sleep, guiding his hands as he kneaded dough, sliced meat, prepared vegetables. Things he can do easily, now, without thinking, in a way he has never been able to do with a plow or bailer. Things that form callouses on the tips of his fingers rather than the pad of his palm. 

He shakes his head, shoving the thoughts in the back of his mind. It doesn’t matter, now. The food is warm and smells heavenly, and more importantly, there’s no screaming fiancé to reckon with. 

He scarfs back the food so quickly his stomach aches, forgetting to be self conscious. Colleen’s laughter is only teasing, after all, and there is no one else to see it. He smiles sheepishly at her and wishes her goodnight as he finishes his third plate, watching her hop off to a cabinet. 

Slowly the lights in the kitchen fade as candles burn low and the embers of the oven start to die out, shadows shifting on the cluttered walls and full shelves. Lance picks up one of the newer candles before the kitchen goes completely dark, placing it gently in a (non-animated, thankfully) teacup to guide him down the corridors. He remembers Hunk’s instructions, pausing for a moment to flip them in his head so he won’t get lost in the wide, dark hallways – left, left, right; now left, right, right. Stick to the path. 

He walks out of the kitchen, closing the heavy door gently so as to not wake anyone. He takes his time, not quite comfortable in the dark but not quite afraid, either; his shoes, worn and thin, provide a light enough cover that he can almost feel the smooth marble floors on the soles of his feet, and his free hand traces along the wall as he walks, feeling the rough bricks and occasional soft tapestries. He keeps his candle close to his face, both to help him see and to try and soak up some of the tiny flame’s warmth. His cloak is back in the servant’s quarters – his room – and the castle is warmer than outside but barely. 

His fingers brush over a soft tapestry, threads so thin and tightly woven he can barely feel the difference between them, and then brick again, and then air. He pauses, holding his candle a little further from his eyes and squinting to make out what’s in front of him. 

Difficult to see in the low candlelight, a massive stained glass window towers in front of him. The colours are too dark to make out, but when he places the candle at the base of the window and steps back, he can see the vague shapes of a young man, tall and regal and dark-haired, holding a sword and standing in front of a castle. Below him are panels of farmland and forest, and beside him are orchards, vills, estates. Above him, to the right, is a shining sun. To the left, a crescent moon.

Left, right, right. Don’t veer off the path. 

Lance bites his lip, and follows the path of the moon.

The corridor, somehow, seems colder. As if the bricks are further away from the sun, no longer leaching the warmth collected as it was shining. The darkness seems blacker, too; heavier almost, and soon his candle burns down to the base, extinguishing, leaving him to stumble forward completely blind. He reaches out to steady himself, to trace the wall to stay on track, and has to choke back a scream when he feels a face instead of a wall, sharp teeth digging into the flesh of his palm, snarling and furious. It takes him several minutes to calm his racing heart, work up the courage to reach forward, again, touch the face, map curve of the stone jaw, curling horns, and twisted, scowling mouth. A gargoyle, although Lance has never heard of one inside before.

“Rich people are so goddamn weird,” he mutters to himself. 

Shaken but determined, he moves forward. 

As he creeps forward, more and more carvings dot the walls, each one angrier and angrier. At one point he has to pull his hand away, continuing forward on his legs alone, because he fears cutting himself on teeth that only appear to get sharper, brick that only seems to get rougher. He keeps his arms extended, moving forward slowly, cautious of what might be in front of him, too scared to stumble.

Eventually, his knuckles hit a door, the sound of the slight impact bouncing off the walls and echoing down the hallway. He flattens his hands against the grainy wood, mapping out the knots, the iron studs and hinges. He’s surprised to feel the lock pulled free. He wraps his fingers around the door handles and tugs, pulling the door open with a groan.

Moonlight spills into the hallway. It’s silvery and faint, but it’s enough that Lance can see the outline of his hands, even vaguely in front of him. He pushes the door open further, wincing at the slight creak, just wide enough for him to slip in. 

The room is…huge. And destroyed.

Inside, it’s even easier for the moonlight to lift some of the oppressive shadow. It’s not bright by any means, but the window that makes up the back wall is massive and clear, and the doors are wide open, letting the full moon spill into the crowded, dusty room. Lance steps cautiously forward, hands still extended, looking around with wide eyes. 

Broken furniture litters the floor, leaving splinters and shards of metal everywhere, casting long shadows on the wall. Lance is careful to step around it, but in his attempt to steer clear he very nearly walks into one of the many torn drapes and tapestries hanging from the walls and ceiling. He ducks at the last second, avoiding a facefull of it, but he still nudges it with his shoulder, causing a cloud of dust to fall to the floor, powdering his face and hair.

“Aw, that’s fucking disgusting,” he says, swiping it off his face and resisting the urge to throw up. He shakes out his hair, hyperconscious of how little it actually does, hoping that there is some kind of well he can find on the grounds in the morning to bathe. Or, God, maybe even a real bath! With hot water! It’s a castle, after all. There should be.

He looks again at the state of the room, with the shattered glass all over the wall and holes punched into the plaster walls. Paint is peeled or scratched off in many areas, especially where decorative fabric has been torn, or where coat racks or lampposts have fallen, scratching the walls on their way down.  On second thought, hot water baths seem too nice for this shithole.

A glint catches his eye, and he lifts his head just to find himself face to face with his own fragmented reflection, startled expression mirrored back to him, brown eyes wide and eyebrows creased. Half the glass is missing, and the rest of it is spiderwebbed, in shards. The ornate carvings of the mirror’s frame have been half-crushed, like the whole giant, floor-length thing was picked up and smashed on the floor. 

Sufficiently spooked, with his abuela’s warnings of bad luck ringing in his ears, he starts to turn away, unsure if he can be cursed if he didn’t break the damn thing but unwilling to take his chances. He's in a rough enough situation. He can’t really afford to make it worse. But as he moves forward, he catches sight of another face reflected out of the corner of his eye, and whips around to face it, hand curled protectively over his heart. 

“Oh,” he breathes, air knocked out of him, transfixed on the portrait across from him.

It’s painting, or at least, it was. Like everything else in the room it’s been destroyed, half the man’s face shredded cleanly away. Left only is the shining thickness of his dark hair, the length of his pale neck, and the perplexing, swirling indigo of his eyes. He looks hauntingly familiar, in the way a name on a tombstone brings on a shudder of vague recollection, a chill down one’s spine.

Wary and curious, Lance slowly reaches forward, pinching the corner of the ripped flap of canvas with his thumb and pointer finger, cognizant of the accumulated grime, and hesitant for a reason he doesn’t understand. Slowly he begins to flip the canvas up, running his pinkies along the rejoining seams, too dark to make out the rest of the painting quite yet but noting the strong chin, sharp jawline, regal set of the shoulders – 

A red light pulses, suddenly, nearly blinding the room, and Lance’s eyes squeeze shut on reflex, hands dropping to his sides. He turns slowly once it has faded, heart pounding, and sees to his great shock a flower, encased in glass, floating atop a small table, glowing as brightly as a ruby.

As if in a trance, he walks towards it, tripping over a table but quickly righting himself, eyes glued to the flower; noting the way it seems to rotate, almost too slowly to track, and sparkle like freshly fallen snow in early sunlight. He stops when he gets close, admiring it in almost a single-minded focus; the deep, dark green of the stem, the sharp thorns in great number along it, and the softly glowing pinkish-red of the three triangular petals. Lance has seen nothing like it before, not in his sister’s garden, not sold in the town square, not even wild. The flower is enchanting, and Lance is reaching out before he can stop himself, pressing careful hands to the glass and lifting it quickly, setting it on the floor and standing again as fast as he can manage, unwilling to take his eyes off the flower for even a second.

He’s nervous, now, as the flower lays without barrier, brighter and softer alike in the cool air and silver moonlight. His reach to touch it is slow, almost as if he must caress the air around it first, single finger poised to rest gently on the widest petal.

A shadow suddenly dwarfs him. He rips back his hand at light speed, but it’s too late, and Prince Keith snarls at him, teeth bared and mouth twisted and far more horrifying than any gargoyle.

He says nothing for a moment. Condensation huffs out of him in a cloud in the cold night, enveloping his head like a halo of smoke. In the next second he’s leaping forward and Lance doesn’t have time to move, doesn’t even have time to pray, can only let out a strangle shout and sharp inhale. 

But Keith does not claw him to death, or sink his teeth into Lance’s heart. He only slams the glass case back over the flower, wrapping himself around it almost protectively, mouth still twisted and eyes still angry and cold.

“Why did you come here,” he hisses, stalking towards him, matching every step Lance takes backward. His claws scratch on the floor with every step. 

Lance says nothing.

“What about this place seemed inviting to you?” Keith’s voice is low, carefully controlled. With every word Lance’s heart lurches, and with every step his lungs get tighter and tighter. “What about the darkness and closed door made you feel you had the right to enter?”

There’s no overt animosity to his tone, no animation. His voice is flat; deadly. This is not some kind of banter; there is no upper hand for Lance to gain. This conversation doesn’t need him at all. 

This is a cornering. A final toying with a trapped animal.

“It’s only a flower,” Lance manages, and the words are barely out of his mouth before Keith roars, a hundred times louder than before, shaking the very ground with the force of it. There is nothing human or humane about it. 

“Do you realise what you could have done?!” he shouts, so mounstrous it reverberates in Lance’s bones. He slashes wildly, splitting an already broken chair in two, flinging the halves at the wall.

Lance presses himself against the wall, as far away from him as he can manage, breath coming in short pants. “I didn’t mean –”

“Get out!” Keith booms, and Lance doesn’t waste a second.

He turns around, and he flees.

— — —

next chapter

[flooftyfizzlebeans]

Not me thinking about the desperate situation that would lead to cannibalism

I'm imagining the temperature drops. Over the course of a few days, the snow on the mountain creeps downwards until the whole town is soft and blanketed. Maybe the island drifted north. Maybe it's a Snakolyte plot to save us from the hivemind. Maybe it doesn't matter.

Crops die. Bugsnax disappear. Soon the town scatters once again.

Some stay put where Filbo dependably makes a fire every day. Some try to flee to the desert, only to find the temperatures are only slightly warmer. It doesn't make up for the lack of shelter.

Lizbert and Eggabell are forgotten.

Of course Snorpy and Chandlo flee. Beffica too. They'd rather go alone than see what is inevitably going to happen.

Those that remain take refuge in Grmables barn. As the snow grows heavier, we have to huddle for warmth. Make fire indoors. It's too cold out to chop trees. My frostbitten fingers are proof enough of that. We're running low on firewood. Everyone is so hungry. Our paradise frozen before their very eyes.

Cromdo drops the salesman bit and uses all of his stock trying to keep the group alive. Shelda's meager rations keep hope in their eyes. Floofty has a few chemicals that won't kill is to burn for warmth.

But.... The morning when Floofty desperately tries to shake Shelda awake to no avail... Neither Filbo or I are strong enough to keep the fighting from breaking out.

Blows are exchanged, the shouting becomes too much. Harsh words turn to claws on flesh, blood in the deep snow. Filbo drops like a stone. I feel a paw take mine and drag me out of the town.

When I come out of my daze, Cromdo's made a fire in a cave, put a blanket over my shocked form. Hes making pine needle tea. Surprisingly, going up the mountain might save us.

"Who am I kidding? There's no hope." I sigh.

"I know, but that doesn't mean you stop fighting. Just means you change tactic." Cromdo scolds me.

"And run like cowards?" I poke the fire aimlessly. "They're dead down there. We're all dead."

"We survived because we're cowards. We'll keep surviving like cowards."

I sit with that. He pours me another cup.

"Yknow, I chose this cave because I hid some booze in here. Think Beffica took it before I could though."

I smile. The thought is nice.

I stare into the fire, replying the images in my mind. I know what I must do.

When Cromdo falls asleep, I tick him in, and leave him alone.

When he awakes the next morning, he awakes to a fantastic smell. Bacon? Hamburgers? He's never smelled anything like it before in his life.

He gets out of his cocoon of stolen blankets, catching me setting the table. One of my blankets for a tablecloth, plates from.... somewhere. Forks and knives. There's a stick in the middle I'm trying to light on fire to try and simulate a candle.

On the plates are large cuts of meat, cooked and served beautifully.

"Hey, kid? What are you-"

"Have a seat, sir."

....and he does. He sits across from me, both of us bundled up.... but keeping up the charade that it's a fancy restaurant. I see him hesitate... before taking the first bite.

"Wow, I didn't know you could cook."

"I didn't need to, until now."

We chat. We talk about our normal lives. What we did in the city. The lives we left behind for this dump. He talks about his daughter. His ex wife. I talk about the string of unlucky articles that put me on thin ice.

His hand finds mine once again. This time, it's an invitation to stay near.

We finish our dishes.

"I really... enjoyed this." He starts.

"Me too."

"So uh.... who did we just eat?"

...

"I don't think it's best to know." I say.

Cromdo thinks for a moment.

"Yeah, you're right."

We sit in silence.

His paw on mine, he leads us back to bed. We're both so tired. We lay down on the cold stone floor, wrapped in each other's arms, under all our cloth and blankets and insulation...both deciding...

not to keep the fire burning.

The sun sets.

The sun rises on an empty Snaktooth. No grumpsues. No bugsnax. No life.

Only blood and ice.

[raayllum]

"My mom used to do that." for claudiez 👀

as always they're in their 20s... Plus send me a number with a ship and i'll write it &lt;3 accepted ships are tdp canon ships + rarepairs (claudiez, sopreli, corvus/terry, sorvus)

There's very little that Ezran remembers about Sarai.

He remembers the warmth of her smile, he thinks. The softness of her hair in his chubby little hands. But beyond that, there's not much else—too recently weaned before her death for more than stories he's heard to take hold, and even then, it feels like every year Harrow (until he couldn't) and Callum, or even Aunt Amaya, would bring up something new, something small, that they remembered, and he was learning it for the first time.

Mom always wore little gold beads in her hair.

Those were her favourite pair of earrings.

She planned out the castle gardens, with those hedges over there.

Soren, even, citing that she was his first sword-fighting teacher back when she'd been captain of the guard, before she and Ez's dad had fallen in love.

Her birthday is always hard, an added winter chill growing throughout the castle. Ezran ensures more fires are lit, and Claudia enchants little glass jars of orange light with her Sun primal, for people to carry in their pockets to keep them warm. He dons his more heavily furred royal cape and keeps Bait close while he writes letters to his brother and Rayla in Xadia, climbing the cold steps up to the rookery to send them.

Claudia joins him more often than not in his study, to save on candles, she says, as they do their work long into the night, but Ezran thinks she just likes his company, his heart doing a hopeful little dance in his chest. He steals glances at her atop the rim of candlelight dancing in her green eyes, now with that spark of light in them that'd been gone for so long during the war. After the war, too.

"You know," he begins, when they're heading to the study after lunch, "we could go to the library. The fireplace there is warmer. There's more comfortable chairs."

We used to always sit up in the library when it got cold, his dad had said, and Callum would play on the floor with you in your mom's lap.

Claudia thinks for a moment, then grins adorably. "Why not?" she says.

They settle in with tea and jelly tarts as an extra bonus, Claudia easing off her prosthetic and letting her stump be close to the fire; Ezran knows the cold makes the phantom pains worse this time of year. (Terry still sends over a herbal remedy that helps with it from where he's set up an apothecary on the border of Del Bar and Katolis with Corvus.)

More of her dyed black hair falls in front of her ears while she works, making notes on charts for what magical goods will be imported once the ice melts, and Claudia pushes it back impatiently until she sits back and begins braiding it. It's still shorter than it was in their teens, no longer all the way down her back, but long enough to braid as she starts the process, fingers jolting.

Dark magic took a lot from her, but one of the things it left was permanent nerve damage in her hands. (The cold makes that worse, too.)

"My mom used to do that," Ez half-remembers, half-recalls. Another story about the differences from their royal portrait—the one real non-Callum produced picture of their mother he has, the way he pictures her in his mind's eye—and how she'd worn her hair in a braid just as often loose or in a bun.

Claudia smiles then, softly. "She did. She's actually the one who taught me, after..." Lissa, another woman Ezran has never really met, isn't a wound anymore, but it's still hard during this time of year. "After my mom left and I grew my hair out."

Ezran sets aside his letter to an Evenerean diplomat, rising when she struggles again. "I can do that for you, if you like."

"Oh. You don't—"

He steps around easily to stand behind her armchair. "Let me?"

Claudia turns to the front fully, exhaling. "Alright."

He gathers her hair gently, hands confident due to the way his father had shown him him growing up, but styled a bit more the way Moonshadows do their braids, like how Rayla had demonstrated. For love and affection, she'd said, having small, long ones tucked away behind thicker locks for each of them—Callum and Ez and Soren, her boys, and then for each of her parents.

"There," Ezran says, finishing. He takes off his cape too for good measure, and drapes it across her shoulders. Claudia is looking at him wide-eyed when he walks back around to face her, and he passes a hand self-consciously over the patch of hair he's growing on his chin.

"Thank you," she says at least, tugging his cape further over her shoulder. The royal red brings out the green of her eyes and black of her hair. It suits her.

"Don't mention it," Ezran says, sitting again. They catch each other's eye, briefly, and share a smile, before she blushes a bit and looks away.

He feels warm for the first time all day.

[qqueenofhades]

hello! you asked for winter prompts? ❄️🌨

- first snow

- baby, it's cold outside

- holidays in the city

- hot chocolate

and i have a hankering for some Fivan but anything you want to write is lovely! 💙

The wind off the water stings like a whip, and the stormclouds roiling in the northern sky are laden with the promise of snow, the first of the season -- which in Weddle comes much later than it did back in Os Alta, where winter often lasted five or six months of the year. Fedyor isn't entirely used to the gentler, warmer, mistier climate of Novyi Zem, or Novyi Zem in general, but he can't say that he objects. In fact, it's nice not to freeze his arse off in a tent, or a battlefield, or wherever he was spending the latest campaign. Of course, Ivan is worried that it might turn them soft, but that's just Ivan for you. It's three months since they arrived in Weddle and got a small apartment in its city districts, settling awkwardly into their new life, but he still stays on his toes, tense and watchful, just waiting for something to go wrong. Even here, on the far side of the True Sea, far from Ravka, his face could be infamous, and if Queen Alina is inclined to pursue the vendetta that drove them into exile in the first place....

Fedyor sighs, shakes his head, and continues on his way. By the time he reaches the market square, the first flakes are swirling down, and he pulls up his hood -- it's still strange not to be wearing a kefta -- and greets the merchants politely. Neither he nor Ivan speak Zemeni particularly well, but Fedyor is a quick study and Ivan is extremely stubborn, so between the two of them, they've picked up enough to get by. There are enough immigrants around here that they can get by in a rough polyglot of Ravkan and Kerch, but it's better not to draw attention to themselves. You know. Just in case.

Fedyor finishes his shopping and heads home through the narrow streets, windows lit with candles and pine wreaths hung on doors, kids laughing and looking at the sky in eager expectation of snowballs with which to wreak generalized havoc. He likes the energy of it, the ordinary vivacity of living among regular people and not shut away behind the cloistered walls of the Little Palace, and he stops to savor it for a long moment. Then he ducks into a narrow stone doorway, fumbles with his mittened hand for the key, and opens it, ascending a creaky staircase to the second floor. Pushes the door open and calls, "Vanya, I'm home."

His husband glances up briefly, his scars looking particularly pronounced in the grey light, and silently satisfies himself that Fedyor is in one piece. Then he says, as usual, "Any trouble?"

"No." Fedyor knows why he asks, but he does feel that if there was, he could handle it, lingering parem hangover or otherwise. He carries the shopping into the crammed galley kitchen and begins to unload it, as Ivan pads in, leans against the doorway, and watches him like a lone wolf. Over his shoulder, Fedyor adds, "We could even go out and do something, you know. Something fun."

Ivan snorts. Ravka or Novyi Zem, it doesn't matter; Ivan and fun simply do not go in the same sentence. "Or not."

Fedyor raises an eyebrow, but decides not to press. Instead he fills the kettle with milk to warm it, melts some chocolate in the tarnished tin pan, and stirs it into two cups, handing one to Ivan. "Fine, then. Suit yourself."

They sip the hot chocolate for several moments, neither of them speaking, falling into that long-married silence where they don't need words to communicate. Then Ivan says at last, "I wish we could, Fedya. I just -- I don't think -- I'm not in the mood."

Fedyor could remark that when it comes to doing anything frivolous, Ivan rarely is, but he knows the feeling. Part of his eagerness to go out and socialize and make the best of it, in the way he habitually does as much as Ivan glowers in solitude, is to cover up that bone-deep pain, the sundering and the loss, the knowledge that it might be a very long time -- if ever -- until they go home again. He's grateful for the new life they're building in Weddle, even though it's decidedly out of the pulverized ashes of their old one, but that can't whisk away the ache. Then Fedyor finishes the hot chocolate and sets aside the cup, puts his arms around Ivan's neck, and snuggles close. "In that case," he orders, "keep me warm some other way. It's cold out."

Ivan smiles, just a bit, the way he does with Fedyor and no one else. He brushes a kiss over Fedyor's temple, slips his arm around him, and holds him close, and they stand there in the kitchen, listening to the shared echo of their heartbeat -- always, no matter where they are in the wide world, the one thing that feels like home. Then he shifts his position and lifts Fedyor up onto the counter, moving close to kiss him and let everything else fall away. "As you wish."

[katastronoot]

Friday Kiss Tag Game

Tagged by: @hannahcbrown thanks friend!

Tagging: @wispstalk @boethiahspillowbook @friend-of-giants and anyone else who wants to do it. This is so sweet

Rules: post a smooch between your OCs for Friday. It can be as light as a peck or as intense as a makeout. It can be romantic or platonic or familial. As long as a smooch takes place it’s free reign!

I thought about drawing something but I haven’t written anything for Baurus and Frieda yet. I planned on making it short and sweet but then 1200 words later here I am haha

••••••••

Strength.

She had always needed strength.

The moment she lost her parents and became orphaned on the streets of Anvil, she wished for strength. Pleaded for it. Prayed to the gods—the gods who were but just a whisper in the wind. They never really made their intentions clear. They weren’t listening to her prayers, couldn’t have been.

Because strength.

It never came to her when she needed it most.

Frieda’s gaze focused on the warm amber candle light flickering against the back wall of the washroom. It shifted the drab temple walls to those shades of warmer orangey hues complementing the deep red imperial banners that hung the walls. Her body was finally getting adjusted to the heat of the water that surrounded her, she could feel the stress of her endeavors begin to fade. With an exhale of breath she closed her eyes, trying to imagine that same flame from her candle. It took more self-control than she wanted to push away the visions of fiery hells that she journeyed through in the day prior. It was unavoidable.

Her waking hours were spent in the plane as well as her nights. She dreamt of that place.

Her own place. Her own piece.

Oblivion.

•••

He hadn’t seen her come back to the temple that night.

Martin was spending every waking hour studying the texts. He was on duty and was determined to never leave the emperor's side. He couldn’t let it happen again.

It was Jauffrey that gave him the order to get some rest. He would have denied it and stood guarding the door until his feet ached and he succumbed to over exhaustion. But, Frieda.

Frieda might just be the one reason why he would step away.

And he hadn’t seen her come home.

Most of his brethren, the other blades were retired for the night. It was late. The halls of the temple were quiet, only echoing each solid footstep he took. After hearing word that their hero came in but just a moment ago—soaking wet and hobbling down to the quarters—he took great stride to reach her.

Who knew what kind of torment she went through.

He did not find her sleeping in her cot and the rain pounding on the roof told him that she was not camping under the stars. He knocked on the door to the baths. No answer but a crackle of thunder shuddering from above. However, warmth was peeking through the cracks in the doorframe.

“Frieda.” He called softly but firmly. His eyes took in the sight. A sight that he has seen one too many times.

Her bare form was slumped in the bath. Articles of bloodied armor and underthings scattered the stone floor. The smell of incense and soap invaded his senses. It would have been pleasant if it weren’t for how dark the bath water had turned.

Crimson.

He approached her, chest rising and falling heavy. His skin touched hers and he felt her pulse beating at ease. He took a breath.

“Frieda, wake up.” He nudged her shoulder before taking a seat on the floor, an arm resting on the tub. Her eyes were rolling side to side behind her lids. Spasms and jolted movements struck through her joints as hushed whimpers escaped plush lips. She must have been having another one of those dreams. Those nightmares.

His gaze examined her body—riddled with cuts and purple marks. The dips and curves in her beautiful form were beginning to flatten. When was the last time she had a proper meal?

He cursed at her state.

For one so experienced in the art of restoration, she never conserved enough energy to heal herself.

•••

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of a voice.

Baurus.

Frieda took a deep breath calming the race of her beating heart. She didn't startle so easily back then. She was so much more composed. But, sending her soul into the madness of oblivion every day does provoke change.

Her eyes met his dark brown. Soft.

“How long was I out?” The hoarseness in her voice made her grimace.

“Not sure. I noticed you did not come in and as soon as I could I went looking for you… Frieda. Look at you.”

She couldn’t help but smirk at the mother-hen tone to his voice. He was just that. Always so caring and kind.

“I am still breathing, aren’t I? My limbs are all in place. I seem quite alright.”

He looked down upon her. His build still held above her even at the angle. She took notice of the furrow in his dark brow, its creases painted with concern. Someone with such duty should not worry about one such as her.

“Baurus, truly—“ her vision tore away from his to the sight of her pale skin against the tinged water. More and more marks. More that would become scars serving as constant reminders of her place in this war. Constant storytellers painted along her flesh. A wrenching sensation washed through her stomach.

“—I’m fine.”

“Have you eaten?”

She shrugged, “I had a meal this morning.”

He let out a sigh, “Would you like me to bring you something?” His voice was quiet. She looked up into his eyes—not wanting his warmth to leave her.

“Please, stay.” Her tone cracked as she placed her palm against his skin.

“I’m not ready to be alone again.”

His body shifted closer. She could feel the heat from his skin against hers that had begun to chill from the cold bath water.

“How is Martin?” She asked with intent to distract herself from her state.

Baurus shook his head, “He has been working hard. I don’t think I even saw him blink his eyes today. He’s pushing himself to the point—“ his voice took a pause and he exhaled. “You need to rest. Both of you. Just take a moment for yourself and breathe. Please. I am tired of seeing you suffer.”

“We both have a duty…I can’t rest. You know this.”

He felt her hand grip his wrist. As he looked down into her eyes he was able to see through the darkness that pooled beneath her eyelids. Her beautiful heterochromatic eyes that glimmered in blues and greens. He saw her beauty through her misery.

What he would give to take it away from her.

“You are strong, Frieda. You will fight this battle and remain successful as you are every day. In years to come we will look back on this as just a small feat in our lives full of many.”

Her fingertips brushed along his arm, pulling him in closer towards her. All of her attention pooled to the words that he spoke.

“I am here for you. I always will be. For you, for Martin. I am here and I do not intend on going anywhere.”

His voice grew softer, “you are not alone anymore.”

She smiled through the wetness that formed against her eyes. With a gentle tug on the linen of his tunic, he yelped as she nearly pulled him into the cool water with her.

The delicate skin of his lips met hers in an embrace. It was not forceful. Not lustful—but tender and comforting. They both needed this. A release of emotion in an act of intimacy. Being both on duty at the temple never allowed for much opportunity to show their affection.

This kiss was one of many to come, even if she had to wait far in between.

His lips parted hers. Deep brown gazing into two orbs—one of blue and one of green.

She knew at that moment that he was the one thing she never thought she could have.

Her strength.

[wheelin-after-midnight]

30.

What was the last thing you laughed at?

The way Nippy was looking at me while I was talking to her.

How many times have you visited the beach in your lifetime?

Once or twice.

Do you know anyone personally who has committed murder?

No.

Do you use temper glass phone screen protectors?

No.

Have you ever cracked your phone screen badly?

This actually just happened yesterday. I set my tablet down quickly where I thought it would be fine for a second, but it fell face down and now the screen is super cracked. I was looking into potentially getting a new tablet soon anyway, but I didn't really want to have to do it during Christmas season. :(

Would you ever take up pole dancing as a hobby? I would if I were physically capable of doing it, but I'm not.

What is one of your most prized possessions?

Nippy. Any of my Nan's paintings that I have. The jewelry she gave me.

Do you find commercials/ads to be amusing or just annoying?

Often they're both.

Do you enjoy taking late night drives?

I can't drive, but I enjoy late night drives with Brittany. Super fun.

Do you prefer incense, candles, or something else for making your house smell nice?

My Scentsy wax warmer, if anything.

How many pets/children do you have?

One cat. No kids. Want them, can't have them.

Have you ever accidentally stolen something?

Nah.

What was the last thing you needed help with?

Figuring out why half the lights in my apartment stopped working when the breakers were fine and the bulbs had been recently changed and weren't even looking burnt.

What's the most expensive article of clothing you own?

The bridesmaid's dress I wore to my sister's wedding was just under $200.

What's one of your favorite memories from your childhood?

Pa building me a bike I could pedal with my hands and he and Nan surprising me with it. I went into more detail about it a few surveys ago. #27 maybe? Y'all can go back and find it if you feel like reading more about that.

What seems like a cult to you but isn't one?

The way some people go so hard for celebrities that they like and start throwing boundaries out the window, refusing to see them as real, human people with the same emotions as everyone else, deserving of privacy and normalcy.. It's very weird.

What do you do when you start to feel depressed or really down?

I sleep a lot more. Cry a lot. I withdraw even more. Don't eat enough, or at all.

Do you keep your nails manicured?

Hah, no. I can't afford to.

When was the last time you checked your mail?

Not for a bit. I have to have someone go to my box and bring it to me and our postal service was on strike, so.

Do you do positive affirmations daily?

No. I try to remind myself of good things and to be kind to myself, but I have a harder time following through some days.

What time did you wake up this morning?

I first woke up at 10 but then went back to bed.

Do you like lemon with your tea?

When I'm sick.

Do you know anyone with the name Andrew?

An old friend's son, but I don't talk to or hang out with her anymore.

Are you a sensitive person?

Soooooo deeply sensitive.

Do you know any of your neighbors well?

A couple. I've been here over a decade so have had a lot of turnover with who the neighbors on my floor are. A bunch of us used to sit in the hallway and talk and drink during the covid shutdown when everybody was home. They were very kind to me at a very vulnerable time when my Nan had just died. There's still a couple living here from that time. I'm not friends with them, but I'll never forget how they treated me when others who should have been there never even checked on me, pretended my grief wasn't happening, and ignored when I needed them.

Have you ever received a traffic ticket?

No.

Do you enjoy glitter or find it to be a nuisance?

Both. It's pretty, but omg, it's such a mess and gets everywhere.

Would you ever want to be a politician?

I used to think about it. To try to help the disabled population. But no. No matter my intentions when starting out, I don't want the world of politics to end up corrupting me.

Have you ever been into Pokémon? If so, what's your favorite?

No, but I like pikachu. He's cute.

What's your favorite soup?

All the vegetarian ones I made when I ate that way. So good. I love homemade soup.

What color reminds you of the week you've had so far?

Blue-grey.

Chinese or Mexican food? What's your favorite dish?

Mexican. Burritos or burrito bowls.

Have you ever seen a wolf in person?

I don't think so.

Are you currently doing something else besides this survey?

Thinking about how I'm gonna shower and clean Nip's boxes after I'm finished.

Do you get annoyed by repetitive questions?

Occasionally.

What's the fastest you've ever driven?

I can't drive.

Have you ever listened to Tim McGraw?

Absolutely.

What's the last thing you lit on fire?

Nothing.

Do you still watch American Idol?

Just the auditions, if I happen to catch some of them.

What's your favorite things about life?

Not a whole hell of a lot right now. I'm terrified of the upcoming complete upending of everything and I'm having a really hard time with it. My cat, music, my girlfriend, good coffee, and my favourite foods are things that see me keep putting one foot in front of the other as much as possible, though.

What is your favorite emoticon?

🥰😂😘😈🥹😭🤣🫠🤦🏻‍♀️☺️ Are the ones I use the most.

When was the last time you had to replace the batteries in something?

I've used rechargeable batteries for years. Much easier since I can't get to the store on my own. Less waste.

Have you ever seen a street name that was funny or a town name?

Not that I can remember, but every time we go down a street with my given name while driving, my friends look at me and go "we're on your street."

Do you like to watch anime?

No.

Do you ever drink energy drinks?

Only the Starbucks or Starbucks double shot ones, and not very often.

How many surveys have you created?

None.

Do you just enjoy taking them?

Well, yeah.

What type of cell phone do you own? Do you like it?

None. I've a home phone and a tablet.

What's your plans for the rest of the day?

Shower, clean Nip's boxes, feed her again, vacuum, do some dishes, talk to babe, listen to an audiobook, put something on to fall asleep to.

[ohwolfling]

Things I did to reset after a few days of intense chronic pain with increased ideation:

First things first, check in with the site So You Feel Like Shit, to take care of some basics. It walks you through when you last ate, slept, took your meds/vitamins, had some water, etc, and gives you teeny tiny goals to help you get by. It's non-judgemental, requires no sign in or anything, & doesn't limit how often (or not) you use it. The following might resonate with you if you don't know what else to do and you can do it in whatever order you want. This is just what makes me into a person.

PLEASANT ROT. I took massage balls, my rice heating pack for my shoulders and neck, and a full body heating pad into a comfy chair with my preferred blanket, and also took an ice pack for my chest so that I could stand all that heat AND reset my nervous system. Once I was comfy, I set up my Kindle to hang out with Lestat. I'll do a podcast that doesn't make me feel like I need to pay attention or the Endel app in my bluetooth headphones usually but tonight my roommate was playing the new Star Wars game so I let that be my background noise. I set a timer once I couldn't read anymore and let myself scroll TikTok asmr vids for a half hour.

JOURNAL. Sometimes I don't feel safe or stable enough to write about my feelings so I'll just doodle or make lines and shade in squares. Tonight I decided to use my journal to write down some Irish vocab staples and then moved into phrases that felt relevant to the struggle. The Irish for homesickness btw is Tá cumha i ndiaidh an bhaile orm.

LAUNDRY! I physically pulled the cubes out of the little shelf and threw them onto my bed, threw the clothes in my hamper into little piles near the appropriate cube, and then shoved them in. I still have a pile of clothes to hang up but hey, if I don't get to that, I still made progress. ANYTHING on a floor, chair, bathroom door/counter, gets tossed into the washer to do a fresh load.

GET CLEAN AND COMFY! Stripped down, used antibacterial wipes (I showered yesterday but also sometimes it might be longer due to pain/mental health/freak plumbing incidents, whatever), and put on fresh comfy clothes combos so my current night clothes can also hit the wash. Regardless of weather, put on a base for warmer temps and set aside a hoodie/sweatshirt and socks jic you get cold.

FEEL CUTESY! For me, this means braiding my hair, putting on a perfume, lighting a candle with a smell complimentary to that fragrance, and setting my ambient lighting just so. For you, could be slugging, a little lip gloss, flexing in the mirror, whatever.

HYDRATION! I fill a big mason jar with water to add a lil flavor packet to it and fill a regular water bottle for regular water. Now I have options and can refill the Brita filter. When I have extra bottled water, I use resets like these to make sure I have 3 or 4 in the fridge & two room temp by my bed, jic things get bad again.

SNACK TRAY! When I'm down, I don't really know what I want so variety is key. I put tortilla chips & spinach dip, a handful of almonds, a spoon of peanut butter, half a piece of cheesecake, & the aforementioned flavor water on this tray. If hunger returns, I am ready.

DISTRACTION! while the laundry is doing it's thing, I have booted up Dimension 20 on a screen and a little strategy game (Dawnmaker) on the other.

After my next rest- whenever and whatever that means for me- I will either repeat this process OR I can make a little to do list of other things that might bring me joy, make the next week easier, or stuff that just needs to get done. Everything on that list will be something that takes 20 minutes or less because I know that I'm still physically and mentally drained. The goal is not to overdo it to prove myself. The goal is to keep on keeping on.

[h2uji]

―🍰 BIRTHDAY SPECIAL!! 12:OOAM

note. its my birthday 3 April so I thought about writing something cute for myself and everyone who's celebrating their special day so happy birthday to me !!

The weather outside was windy and cold, the lovers are sharing a blanket together big enough to warm both of them up, they're sitting on the living room floor in front of each other blanket over their head with a dim lightning

Big warm hands cupped her cheeks causing her to close her eyes and smile enjoying the present of her husband who was showering her face with even warmer kisses

"few minutes love" she hummed pulling his right hand to her lips kissing his palm "mhm" opening her eyes she watched as those oh so pretty eyes stared deep into her e/c eyes , his eyes kept glancing at her glossed plumped lips craving to press them to his, so he did

both of their shoulders relaxed and sudden warmth ran through their bodies, it was slow and warm his hands are still on her cheeks thumbs slowly rubbing them, while hers were one his hair her fingers were running on the root of his hair slightly pushing and pulling them

as soon as they pulled away they sighed he placed his forehead against hers "still cold?"

"yeah" taking her eyes away from him she flinched looking at the window hearing slight tapping from it "aww did that scare you?" he teased smirking at the way her eyebrows frown "as if" chuckling he glanced at the clock

11:58AM

his eyes went back to her who still had a frown "what still upset?" he kissed her cheek making her slightly smile, just as he was about to stand up she pulled him by the hem of his black hoodie "nooo I am still cold cuddles please" whining she gave him her best puppy eyes, he patted her head sighing "I'll be right back love" pouting she lose her grip wrapping the blanket all over her body like a burrito

11:59AM

he grabbed two candles that were placed next to the mini vanilla cake gently placing them at the center, taking a deep breath he took the cake walking to the living room, its not like its the first time he wished or singed her happy birthday, they have been together for almost 4 years now

but it never failed to not make him nervous and excited at the same time, the way her eyes would have those spark acting shocked even tho he had never forgot her birthday, how can a someone forgot his loved ones special day?

“i am back” turning her head toward the door her pouty lips turned into shocked and cute charming smile, "love" fixing her position she sat on her knees both hands clinching the blanket tighter around her head

he replied with a 'hm' and a smile, placing the cake in front of her "3" pulling the lighter out of his sweat pants "2" he lighted the candles, she looked so adorable and the blanket wrapped around her head tightly that her cheeks squished together wasn't helping... her adorable smile, her lovely eyes how breath taken and charming"1"

12:00AM

with a melodic voice he kissed her ringed finger "happy birthday love"

ft. Your Favorite

©h2uji ⋅ Please do not repost my work ⋅ or translating it in any other platform

If you liked this you should join my taglist @holaxd43 @i0790e @sandaime @hoknieeass

[valoisfulcanellideux]

Some really great tips here!

One thing I'll add to these is lighting. You can convey a lot about a setting by describing the light (or lack thereof) in a location. Lighting is often affected by general weather conditions (see 'Use the setting to reflect a mood or theme', above) which allows you to mention both, if you want to :)

Some examples from my own recent writing. First, a couple of extracts detailing burgeoning autumnal weather as experienced by a nomadic caravan (fantasy setting) -

Morning brought a change in the weather. A thick mist had settled over the encampment, drifting lazily across the ground and between the tents, and creating a damp, shimmering glow around each lantern and crackling campfire. [...] The fog refused to clear, and so the camp was struck amid its damp and miserable moisture. The Great Caravan set out once more, camels and horses plodding steadily along, the guiding calls of the [caravan leaders] deadened by the encompassing mist. Overhead, the sun was a hazy smear of dull yellow; not strong enough - though trying valiantly - to burn away the mist.

By way of contrast, some snippets detailing warmer light (again, fantasy setting) -

Lifting his gaze from the page, he squinted out at the golden afternoon sunlight that shone warmly through the open windows, casting bright puddles upon the polished sandstone floor.

The door closed behind [character] and his footsteps faded away, leaving the room in silence. Early morning sunbeams pried at the shutters but could not quite make their way in. Their warm golden glow gave just enough light to see by, aided by the candle in a small copper holder beside the bed.

How to avoid White Room Syndrome

by Writerthreads on Instagram

A common problem writers face is "white room syndrome"—when scenes feel like they’re happening in an empty white room. To avoid this, it's important to describe settings in a way that makes them feel real and alive, without overloading readers with too much detail. Here are a few tips below to help!

Focus on a few key details

You don’t need to describe everything in the scene—just pick a couple of specific, memorable details to bring the setting to life. Maybe it’s the creaky floorboards in an old house, the musty smell of a forgotten attic, or the soft hum of a refrigerator in a small kitchen. These little details help anchor the scene and give readers something to picture, without dragging the action with heaps of descriptions.

Engage the senses

Instead of just focusing on what characters can see, try to incorporate all five senses—what do they hear, smell, feel, or even taste? Describe the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, or the damp chill of a foggy morning. This adds a lot of depth and make the location feel more real and imaginable.

Mix descriptions with actions

Have characters interact with the environment. How do your characters move through the space? Are they brushing their hands over a dusty bookshelf, shuffling through fallen leaves, or squeezing through a crowded subway car? Instead of dumping a paragraph of description, mix it in with the action or dialogue.

Use the setting to reflect a mood or theme

Sometimes, the setting can do more than just provide a backdrop—it can reinforce the mood of a scene or even reflect a theme in the story. A stormy night might enhance tension, while a warm, sunny day might highlight a moment of peace. The environment can add an extra layer to what’s happening symbolically.

Here's an example of writing a description that hopefully feels alive and realistic, without dragging the action:

The bookstore was tucked between two brick buildings, its faded sign creaking with every gust of wind. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of worn paper and dust, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee from a corner café down the street. The wooden floorboards groaned as Ella wandered between the shelves, her fingertips brushing the spines of forgotten novels. Somewhere in the back, the soft sound of jazz crackled from an ancient radio.

Hope these tips help in your writing!

[sunsburns]

wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.

You’ve made it work, though. You have to.

Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.

Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.

Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.

The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.

The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.

Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.

The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.

There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.

Vi, they call her.

Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.

You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.

The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.

It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.

“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”

Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.

She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.

“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”

“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.

Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.

“No thanks,” Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”

“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.

But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.

That’s how it usually went with them.

However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.

Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”

You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.

Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”

Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.

“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.

You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”

Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”

You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”

He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.

“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”

Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”

Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.

She doesn’t budge.

You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.

Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”

She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.

You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”

“I said, just Vi.”

There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”

“Old enough to fight.”

Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”

Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”

“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.

Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”

You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.

Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.

“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.

Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”

You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”

For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.

Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”

You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”

Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.

The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.

“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.

Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.

“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.

She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.

Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”

You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.

You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”

Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.

Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.

You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.

For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.

What the fuck is her problem?

You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.

Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.

The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.

You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.

Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.

Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.

You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.

With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”

Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.

She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”

She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.

“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”

“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”

“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”

“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”

You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”

Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.

She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.

For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.

As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.

You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”

She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”

“Don’t really care what you think.”

“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”

Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”

You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.

It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.

The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.

She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.

It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.

Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.

Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.

Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”

Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.

It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.

At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.

She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.

Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?

She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.

You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.

One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.

Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”

Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”

Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn���t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.

You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”

Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.

A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.

“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”

She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”

“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”

These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.

She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.

The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.

Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.

Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.

You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”

Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”

Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.

Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.

She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.

This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”

Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.

“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”

“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”

You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.

She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.

“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.

The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.

And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.

You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.

At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.

But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.

You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.

One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.

And then Vi steps into the ring.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.

The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.

Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.

Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.

You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.

But something changes.

That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.

Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.

She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.

It’s almost unbearable.

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.

Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.

“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.

Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“Take your time,” she says.

Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.

“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”

But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.

Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.

“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.

“Thanks,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.

Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.

You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.

You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.

Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.

You’re not really friends.

“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.

She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”

She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.

Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.

But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.

“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.

She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”

You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”

“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”

The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”

Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.

“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”

The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.

For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.

You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.

Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”

You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”

You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.

Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.

“Thanks.”

As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.

You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.

“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”

It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.

Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”

Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”

She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.

She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”

“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.

Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”

“More of them?”

She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”

“You want me there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”

She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.

When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.

You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”

Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.

You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.

But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.

It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.

When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.

You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.

Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.

Inside, the place is alive.

Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.

The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.

Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.

He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.

“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.

You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”

Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.

You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.

You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.

“Happy you’re here.”

Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.

“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.

“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”

Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”

You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”

He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”

The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.

“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”

He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

You look away.

And then you spot her.

Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.

Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.

Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.

When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.

“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.

“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”

The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”

You blink, “What?”

She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”

Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.

“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.

Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.

Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.

The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.

You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”

Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.

Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.

You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”

Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.

The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.

The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.

“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.

The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.

Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.

“I could say the same,” you admit.

And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.

It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.

The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.

Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her. 

The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.

Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear. 

“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.

Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.

It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.

Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.

Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.

You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.

Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.

Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”

You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.

Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.

Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.

She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.

Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.

“Vi,” you whisper again.

Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.

She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.

“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”

Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.

It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.

You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.

And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.

Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.

When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—

“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.

Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.

“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.

It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.

You freeze, suddenly sober.

Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.

“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.

“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“What?”

Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.

“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.

You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.

“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.

“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”

The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.

“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.

“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.

“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.

“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”

You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.

“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”

“You are.”

Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.

“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.

The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.

Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.

The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.

You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.

Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.

“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”

You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.

The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.

You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.

But today, the chair stays empty.

Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.

You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.

Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.

You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.

The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.

And then the door creaks open.

Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.

Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.

When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.

You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”

Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.

Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.

Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.

You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”

Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.

“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.

She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”

Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.

“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”

Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.

But it’s not enough.

You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”

Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.

As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.

She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.

And then, she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.

You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.

[sunfloweraro]

May Prompts 2024

Prompt # 3 – Familiar

Twilight bathed the world in an indigo hue as Meghan made her way down the city’s cobblestone streets. She paused at every corner, wary, only moving on once she was certain the coast was clear. No one she knew would be out and about at this time, except maybe Atla, but they often had chores to do at home; she should be safe. On her back, weighing down her shoulders and spine, were her measly few possessions, tucked away in a backpack half her size. Passers-by offered curious looks as she walked by, but none stopped her. None knew her name yet, when she had yet to make one for herself. 

It was for the best. She would hate for them to see her like this, at her worst, and recognise her. 

Pay day wasn’t until tomorrow, so Meghan passed by the inns and taverns she often stayed at in favour of seeking out the only place that would accept her at this time of night and, if she played her cards right, let her stay for the night. The building towered above her at two-storeys, with a polished mahogany door trimmed with bronze that shimmered in the light of the two sconces flanking the entrance, lit for the night by staff. Meghan paused on the smooth stone steps, hesitant. Inside, she would be safe from the cold, and from the dangers that lurked within the city, slipping out from alleyways only when the light of day vanished and preying on anyone who came near enough. 

A deep breath in. She was being silly. She was a near-fully-trained knight, for the Gods’ sakes! A few books shouldn’t be leaving her on edge like this. 

But it wasn’t the books leaving her nervous; it was what they symbolised. The memories they stirred. 

Meghan shook her head, forcing stiff legs forward, into the library. Warmth enveloped her the moment she pushed through the heavy doors and she sighed in relief, eyes slipping shut to appreciate the sensation before what would come next. What always came next. The librarian reading at the desk greeted her, and the moment was shattered. 

“Good evening,” she replied, smiling back at the librarian she should really know the name of by now, what with all her frequent visits to this space. 

It’s only for winter, she told herself. As soon as the nights get warmer, as soon as I graduate, I won’t have to come back here. 

She wouldn’t have to be reminded of them. 

Her boots clicked against the polished wooden floors, and instinctively, she lightened her steps, wary of being told off and sent out of her only safe haven on these cold nights. She kept her eyes deliberately on the ground until she reached her favourite corner of the library, where the candles were dim enough for her to nod off for a few hours. She set her bag down, dropping into the plush pile of cushions pressed up against the corner to create the perfect reading nook for any bookworm. As a child, Meghan and her older sisters had taken over this space, fighting over space on the cushions and devouring every book their hungry eyes laid on, as if they didn’t have similar shelves at home, crammed with so many books, the wood groaned in protest. 

Now, the sight of the books towering over her left her nauseous, heavy guilt weighing down on her ribs. But she couldn’t go back, even if the echoes of laughter from the past filling her mind urged her to. Begged her to go home. 

As she took in the heavy hardbacks and colourful paperbacks around her, that guilt in her chest made way for something deeper. Something that ached right down to her weary heart; she missed her family. Longed for them. The simple nights, the light banter, the teasing, the forehead kisses from her Ma, and the stories read in silly voices by her Papa. 

But she couldn’t go back. She couldn’t be who they wanted her to be—she refused to change who she was, just to be accepted by them. They had never believed in her dream, had laughed when she told them, eyes sparkling excitedly as all children’s did, that she wanted to be a knight, she wanted to protect Edwin, and all who came after her royal friend. They wanted her to be a strategist, an advisor to the king, rather than a protector. 

They had tried to force her to go to that school, as if all her years training with the other to-be-knights meant nothing. 

She hadn’t seen her parents, her sisters, in months. 

With every passing day away from them, her heart tore itself a little further apart. 

But she knew what her destiny was, and it didn’t involve hiding away behind the castle walls while people sacrificed themselves under her command. Her duty was to protect Edwin, her friend; the heir to the throne, and she would until her dying breath. 

She shifted back on the pillows, her eyes slipping shut again. Shutting out the memories, the laughter, the ache in her chest. This was worth it. The lonely nights, the lies to her friends, the family-shaped pit in her chest. It had to be.

***

So. Meghan is my beloved knight who comes from a family of strategists working closely with the king. She respects this position, and she's smart, but she prefers a more hands-on approach when helping protect the kingdom; hence, she begins training to become a knight at the age of 10. Her parents have always been against this, which all comes to a head when they apply on her behalf for the best university in the kingdom and, when she gets in, forces her to go. Meghan runs away with only a handful of things that night and doesn't go back. She loves her family, and she misses them, but she knows who she wants to be; who she's meant to be. She has yet to tell her friends that she's run away several months later when they're pushed to go on a quest to save the kingdom.

Thanks again @calaisreno for the prompt! These are really making me think about my characters, and I'm loving it <3