#anxiety has started to dig its teeth in

[dummerjan]

i am not going to be brave about it but i am going to do it anyway

[ickadori]

okay clearly i need to be detained and kept away from ur inbox 😭

But hsjsjjs i have an interview at the end of this week that I've been preparing for and i can imagine calling up fwb sukuna to get some jitters out bc u know he can fuck ur head empty and clear of anxiety but when u get there for some reason it's different???? Like instead of calling you a nasty bitch slut hes like "arent you such a good girl? Yeah? My good fucking girl" and kinda praising you, albeit mockingly, instead of his usual degrading and it has you cumming soooo hard. And then the next day he shows up and ur like fuck off kuna im busy and he's like duh? Get in. And he drops u to ur interview and ur like ??? Bc u dont even remember telling him but he's already had the address memorized for over a week now. Ahhhh and probably holds ur hand in his lap bc u keep fidgeting on the way and he complains that its distracting him and hes so sexy driving and mindlessly rubbing his thumb on ur hand AHHHHHHH IM IN SO DEEP DORI HELP 😭

choso bbg anon (my true identity)

[cws] fem reader.

[a/n] GOODLUCK AT YOUR INTERVIEW IM SURE YOULL DO GREAT!!!! i really hope you get it 🥹🥹🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

-

It’s…different.

You had first noticed it when you opened the front door to your apartment and let the man in. Instead of his usual roughness, a push against the wall and the unforgiving pinch of his teeth against your neck, he was…different.

He had smiled -a ghost of one, but one nonetheless-, curled an arm around your lower back to tug you up against him, and had pressed his lips to your temple and murmured a ‘hey’ against your skin.

You had been nearly tempted to pull out a list of questions to make sure a clone hadn’t taken his place.

When Sukuna made a detour to your place, there was always minimal talking in the beginning. You usually made a beeline to the bedroom, or the living room if the urge was especially strong, but he had steered you to the kitchen first and plopped a takeout bag on the counter.

“You brought…food.”

“Oh, she does have a brain. Was starting to think all that was in that head was thoughts about my dick.”

“Go to hell.”

The both of you had eaten dinner together, something that you offhandedly thought about doing with him quite a few times, but you could never get him to stay past the post-sex shower. You had wondered if it would be awkward trying to hold a conversation with him past exchanging breathless compliments about each other’s genitals, but it had been so easy. The topics came easily, naturally, and the lulls in conversation weren’t uncomfortable, but rather you found yourself content in the silence.

The buildup to the sex was also different — great, but different. His usual groping and squeezing was traded in for softer touches (as soft as someone like Sukuna could be), his dirty talk which consisted of name calling and guttural groans and growls swapped out for…

Your cheeks burn as his eyes refuse to stray from your face, thumb moving in slow circles over your clit. His finger is rough, calloused from years of use, and the texture of it against your smooth, silken bud has you squirming underneath his touch and gasping for breath.

“Ryo,” you manage, heels of your feet digging into the mattress as shaky hands raise to weakly push at his wrist.

“Sensitive,” he mutters, lips stretching into that grin of his, and you keen when he presses down hard, his free hand moving to press down on your thigh when it moves to close. “Aht aht, be my good girl and keep these legs open.” You clench around nothing, heart stuttering and lashes fluttering as you finally meet his gaze. “You like that?” His voice is a raspy drawl, lips still wet from where they had been kissing at your cunt minutes prior.

“N-no.”

“Tch, ‘s not nice to lie.” His thumb slides lower, through puffy folds and down to your hole before pushing in. A squelch sounds, a mix of his cum and your slick dribbling out. “But your pussy always tells the truth.” You tighten around his finger with a moan. “She’s my good girl.” His head ducks down, and you keen as he places a loud, wet kiss against your clit, eyes never once leaving yours. “Isn’t she?” ‘She’ tightens in response, and your skin burns as he lets out a throaty laugh, thumb pulling out and replaced with his pointer and middle.

“Ryomen!”

~

You hop around on one foot as you fight to pull your shoe on. Your interview was in an hour minutes and the building was 30 minutes away and you had yet to locate your car keys, button your top, or even finish combing your hair.

“Where the fuck are you?” You dash here and there, flipping this and turning that while simultaneously putting your hair in a presentable style when suddenly there’s a hard knock at the door. “Fuck off.” You ignore it, not caring who’s on the other side, and start the process of turning your apartment inside out as you grow more and more stressed.

Where are those damn ke—

Another knock, harder, and your jaw clenches as you make a beeline for the door, unlock it, and wrench it open. “Who the—Ryomen?” You blink, eyebrows furrowing as you look at him stood on your doorstep. “I didn’t call you.”

“I know.”

“…you’re here.”

“I am.”

“Why?” He jingles his car keys, and you scoff and narrow your eyes. “I’m not fucking you in your car, especially not after you got pissy about me messing up the interior last time. So you might as well take your ass—”

“Get your shit and let’s go. Your interview is in forty.”

“I know, I’m—what? How do you know about my interview?” The last you checked, Sukuna didn’t follow you on any social media, and you can’t recall ever posting about it anyways.

“You told me, dumbass. Let’s go.” He nods his head to the side, and you’re left stumped as you go about collecting the rest of your stuff, Sukuna not so silently judging your torn apart apartment, and you’re seated in his passengers seat in no time as he weaves in and out of traffic.

“Something isn’t right.” You finally speak up after the fifth person has blared their horn at him.

“You left something.”

“No,” your hand lifts up to rub at your cheek. “I’m talking about this,” you gesture around his car and to him. “You. Why are you driving me to my interview? Why do you even know I have an interview?”

“You told me.” His fingers drum against the steering wheel, the other hand gripping the back of your headrest. It’s an undeniably sexy position on him, and you’d usually gladly take in the scenery, perhaps even convince him to pull over somewhere more secluded. “Last week when you were begging me to stay over after I put a finger in your—”

“I did not beg you to stay over. Do not lie, Sukuna.”

“Sukuna?” His eyes cut to you before moving back to the road.

“Yes, Sukuna. That’s your name, isn’t it?” He hums, foot tapping hard against the break, and you huff when you snap forward before your seatbelt locks into place.

“I thought it was Ryo.” He makes a poor mockery of your blissed out voice, and you just barely resist the urge to hit his arm. He makes a right turn, open palm turning the wheel to the side before letting it roll back into place. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You catch sight of the clock on the dash and let out another breath, this one shakier than the last. Your interview grows nearer and nearer, and while you’re not an especially nervous person, you feel a bit more anxious than usual. You had been preparing all week, brushing up on interview questions and trying to think of things they could potentially ask you. You were as ready as you’d ever be, and yet you still felt as if you weren’t ready at all.

Your hand subconsciously moves to pick at some poor spot on your body, but it’s snagged at the last second and held in a firm grip. You look to Sukuna and then down to where he’s got your hand on his thigh, that thumb of his tracing invisible lines on your skin.

He doesn’t speak and neither do you, and the silence is comfortable.

He gets you there on time with a bit left to spare, and he’s waiting for you when you get out, sitting on the hood of his car with his phone up to his ear. He hangs up when he catches sight of you, eyebrow quirking up as he watches you walk up to him. You stop in front of him, and he snags you by the belt loop and pulls you between his legs.

“Well?” He asks, and you slip your hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Well?”

“Stop.” He pinches at your waist and you try and fail to bite back a laugh. “Did you get it or not?” A slow grin breaks out onto your face as you nod, and he matches it. “That’s my girl.”

Oh.

You turn your head as your ears burn, suddenly finding the pavement incredibly interesting. “Y-Yeah, they said they don’t usually hire on the spot, but they really liked me, so…” Your eyes flit to his, and you pull your lip into your mouth when you see he’s intently watching you.

“I’m not surprised.”

“That they hired me?”

“That they liked you.”

His gaze drops down to your mouth.

“…can we go back to your place now?”

[throneofsapphics]

ruhn helping you paint your nails drabble

warnings: anxiety, panic, a hint of suggestiveness

word count: 655

a/n: sorry about the very creative title, but this is the result of a poll I did a little bit ago!

You suppose you are the one who wanted a new hobby, and therefore only have yourself to blame for your frustration. 

Still, it. Is. Annoying. 

Smudges, weird patterns, red all on your skin but not quite seeming to get on your nail. Your hands look like a toddlers who stole their mothers nail polish and tries to paint for the first time, not a fully grown and supposedly fully capable fae female.  

Not sure what else to do, you start scratching away at the sides of your nails, determined to clean them up somehow. The result is a bigger mess, and the beginnings of tears in your eyes. 

It’s a little thing, logically you know that, but right now, after the day you had you just need one thing to go right. Really, you should email the writer of that article you read the other week, one claiming painting nails was relaxing, and call ask her exactly when the relaxation is supposed to set in, and which fucking part of this bullshit is relaxing, because right this second it’s none of it. 

You feel the subtle displacement of air. 

A door opening. 

He’s home. 

After a brief second of lighting up with a smile, it disappears and the beginnings of panic set in. He’s going to see you, think you’re a fucking mess, leave you, then you’ll be alone and nobody -

Footsteps through the doorway, you tried to focus on your breathing, focus on pushing your anxiety aside and focus on the realistic things. 

‘What’s going on?’ Ruhn’s voice surprised you, flooding through your mind and filled with unmistakable worry, like he’d tried speaking to you aloud and it wasn’t working. 

You blink up at him, words not exactly coming how they’re supposed to. Gods can you do anything right. 

Warm hands grip and envelope both of yours. 

His mouth is moving, your mind isn’t registering words or sound. 

‘Squeeze left for yes, right for no,’ his voice is inside of your mind again, steady and soothing. 

You nod. He gives an encouraging smile. You can do this. 

‘Are you injured?’ 

Squeeze right.

‘Do I need to kill someone?’

Squeeze right. A small smile. 

‘Are you frustrated?’

Squeeze left. He knows you, perhaps in a way nobody else does, and at times it annoys you but right now it certainly comes in handy. 

‘Trying to paint your nails?’ 

Squeeze left. There is no mocking in his tone, no lilt or cadence to make you think he’s going to make fun of you. 

“Let me do it for you, love,” he spoke aloud this time, and you were unsurprised you heard him. Prolonged exposure to his presence always has a calming effect on you. 

Carefully, he dips a cotton ball into a pot of remover, and starts wiping away the evidence of your attempts. A shadow makes its way to the remote, and turns on your favorite show. It is sweet, really, but you are lost watching him right now, and his cocky ass probably knew it. At least it was a rerun. 

His fingers make gentle but firm movements, and Cthona competency can seriously be a turn on. You did not think watching your boyfriend paint your nails would do it but - 

“Later, love,” his voice is full of sensual promise, and you grin, teeth digging into your bottom lip. 

Before long, he makes it to the color. “You know I used to practice this, for hours, just to piss off my dad. I’m not saying you need to practice for hours,” he grinned up at you, pausing. “Actually, I’d rather you let me do it for you.” Your lips pursed, about to protest before he kept speaking, “because I enjoy doing this for you,” he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, “quality time, and all that shit.” 

“Quality time, and all that shit,” you echoed. 

He chuckled, “it’s good to hear your voice, love.” 

[interesting-interludes]

the comforts of creatures (5)

creature comforts:

↳ material/bodily comforts, such as food, warmth, or special accommodations, that contribute to physical ease and well-being

→ pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

→ genre: supernatural!au, soulmate!au, hurt + comfort + recovery, angst with a happy ending, fluff, eventual smut

→ word count: 4.8k

→ summary: you learn what you are, and your reaction is far from what they expected. as they try to help you feel safe, the boys learn about your triggers, and they try their hardest to help in any way they can.

→ trigger/content warnings: PTSD (self-loathing, mistrust, flashbacks/nightmares) effects of brainwashing, lil’ bit of lore, overt and internalized racism/species-ism (?), vomiting, anxiety, mentions of starvation/food poisoning, mentions of physical abuse, dissociation, mentions of torture, aversion to touch, mc pushes jimin but he’s okay, jimin is an angel, facial/body scars, body dysmorphia/repulsion

→ a/n: thank y’all for your patience :) here’s some more hurt before the comfort lol

past part ← series masterlist → next part

part 5: scars and soothers

“This is you.”

The man is pointing at a detailed image drawn in faded ink. The rest of the page is filled with scripted text and anatomical diagrams.

You can’t look at first, scared of what you’ll find.

When you finally do, you don’t know what to think. There’s the thought that he’s kidding, he’s lying. He can’t be serious.

The drawing is of a creature with tawny-feathered wings extending magnificently in the air. It has the body of a powerful big cat, muscular yet elegant. Its four legs end in sharp-taloned feet. Its neck is framed by a golden mane, looking like a big frilly collar. The mane’s trail travels down the creature’s chest and back, ending in a flowing tail. It has the face of a lion, with white whiskers and deep yellow eyes, yet the regal posture of an eagle.

A diagram off to the left shows the inside of its mouth, lined with row upon row of sharp teeth and protruding fangs.

Looking back up, you search the faces of the men around you. None of them appear to be joking.

You can’t speak.

You’re one of them, one of the creatures they all despised. The creatures that roam the wild lands for easy prey, spreading carnage wherever they go.

No wonder they hated you so much. You’re not even human.

A few silent, involuntary tears fall from your eyes, which are locked back on the page. You wipe them away hastily.

The boys don’t know how to react, all looking at each other with concern.

“What...” you squeak out, voice choked. “What is it?”

“A gryffin,” Yoongi replies. “You’re a shifter.”

Something gurgles in your stomach. You clench your teeth, nails digging deep into the meat of your thighs.

You believe him. You don’t want to, but you believe him. You’ve always felt less than human, like something wasn’t right about you. Like something was just beneath the surface, clawing its way up.

Now you know why.

Jungkook, who’s sitting closest to you, slowly, cautiously puts his hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you.

But you flinch at his touch, jerking away.

You don’t catch the look of hurt that flits across his face. He knows you can’t help it, but it still stings to think that his touch physically repels you.

“What did they tell you about atypicals?” Namjoon presses, trying to shift your attention so you won’t look so disheartened by the reality of what you are.

From the way you look at him, he knows that you’ve never heard that word before. Or at least you don’t remember it.

“Atypicals are anything that falls out of the humanic species,” he explains patiently.

Your face scrunches in confusion.

“Humanic as in human,” he elaborates.

You don’t understand why he’s talking like that. You’ve never heard these terms before. In the place you came from, the “facility,” anything that wasn’t human was an abomination, a mistake in the eyes of nature.

Simple as that.

But here, things seem to be a bit more complicated.

Nausea is starting to bubble in your gut. You breathe carefully through your nose as you consider Namjoon’s question.

“They said...” you begin hesitantly.

They’re all on the edge of their seats, desperately wondering what those bastards brainwashed you to believe about their kind, your own kind.

“They said that they were monsters.”

Another pang of hurt thrums through their hearts.

“That...that they deserved to be hunted down like dogs.”

They can hear the pain in your own voice, either from witnessing their cruel behavior, or from realizing that you’ve been the target of it this whole time.

Your stomach churns.

“They said I wasn’t even worthy to lick the ground they walked on.”

They can all hear you choking on your tears, despite your attempts to hide it.

Jimin and Jungkook feel like their chests are going to burst from holding it in, both the sorrow they feel for you and the urge to rush forward and drown you in affection.

Jin and Namjoon have storms raging inside their heads. Namjoon is calculating, trying to decode what exactly their motive was and how to use it to track down the ones in charge of it all. Jin’s mind is reeling with ways to undo the damage they’ve done, mentally and physically.

Yoongi is swimming waist-deep in despair. He can’t help but think of what’s to come. You’ll have to relearn everything. How to shift, how to fight, how to cast. That is, if you even want to.

You feel the newly strung tension in the air, looking like you just realized you said all of those things out loud.

One look around the room, and your newly found voice retreats deep into your throat.

The man called Namjoon, his eyes have darkened, jaw clenched and ticking like he’s grinding his teeth.

The one who tended to your wounds is sitting stiffly in his chair, staring ahead with a new sharpness in his face.

The small dark-haired man has his hands clenched, prominent veins crawling up his arms.

You duck your head down, body stiff with nerves.

“You have to know,” Yoongi begins, voice calm as ever despite the rage just below the surface. “That’s not how most people think. Especially not here.”

Here in the North Regions, atypicals make up the majority of the population. Law enforcement, government, and public works are largely run by them, and prejudice is rarely an issue.

But how could you know that now?

They can all see the change. It’s almost instantaneous, the way your face shifts and loses all semblance of emotion. Just like that, the mask is back up.

Then there’s something else. A slight twitch from your nose, a well-hidden shudder. They can see your throat bobbing.

For a few seconds, it looks like you’re about to say something. Your tongue is moving inside your mouth, and you’re blinking rapidly.

Namjoon is about to utter some gentle encouragement, but a jolt racks through your body, making you hunch over.

All of a sudden you’re vomiting up everything you just ate.

Hoseok, Jungkook and Jimin can’t help but jump to their feet, panicked noises filling the air.

Taehyung’s eyes widen. All his limbs go rigid, paralyzing him in his seat. He feels sick himself.

Jin, Namjoon, and Yoongi all look at each other.

Yoongi thrusts into action, heading to the kitchen with Jungkook in tow since he isn’t good around pungent-smelling things.

Namjoon starts giving instructions. Jimin, paper towels. Hobi, get the mop. Said men jolt into action, scrambling to do whatever they can to help.

Jin’s eyes have been fixed on you for some time now, catching your every move, including all the suppressed flinches and tremors.

He’s at your side in an instant, on his knees to try to catch your eyes. But it’s no use, you’re squeezing your eyes shut like you’re expecting to be hit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he mutters in his gentlest voice. “It’s no big deal. No one is upset with you.”

As much as he wants to, he refrains from touching you right away.

Eyes still tightly shut, you flinch away from the sound of his voice, twitching with anxiety.

Jin can see you start to spiral, so he does the only thing he knows will work.

“Hey,” he begins, voice firmer than it was before. “Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, shining with moisture.

“That’s my girl,” Jin says before he can help it. “You’re going to calm down for me, yeah?”

Your eyes desperately search his face, looking for any sign of anger or deception. You find none, not even a hint of disgust, and your breathing starts to slow.

All that’s there is the man who tended to your wounds, watching you with those patient eyes. His handsome face is calm, attentively anticipating whatever you need right now.

Sweat gathers on your skin. That same sensation crawls up your throat, saliva pooling in your mouth.

Jin notices the signs immediately.

“Come with me,” he orders softly, putting a light hand on your back and leading you to the nearest bathroom.

You don’t know what to do with yourself.

You remember vomiting a few times at the facility. Once from eating a rotten vegetable, the mold making it impossible to identify. And once when a handful of keepers had held you down, repeatedly punching you in the stomach, until you gave in and called yourself a mutt.

Both times you were severely punished for making a mess. You learned to hold it in your mouth and swallow it down after that.

Jin guides you to kneel over the toilet. He keeps talking to you, but you only process half of what he’s saying.

“Go ahead, let it out,”

You can feel it creeping up, burning and sour. But something deeper, something almost instinctual, tells you to keep it down.

“Stop holding it in, sweetheart,” he says, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s not good for you. It’s okay to let go.”

Before you can think to suppress it, another wave of nausea surges through your body. The crescendo of it makes you wretch, emptying the last of your stomach’s contents.

“Good, good, just get it all out,” he encourages instead of beating you until you can’t breathe.

The bile is bitter in your mouth, but not more bitter than the dread clinging to your entire being.

He’s not going to punish me, you finally realize. It’s almost an impossible thought.

For a moment, you stay hunched over, frozen. Not sure what to do next.

“Here, come wash your mouth out,” Jin says, helping you stand up on shaky legs.

The sound of running water rings in your ears. You feel the coolness against your tongue, but barely register that you’re the one cupping it to your lips. Numb. You feel like you’re controlling your body from the outside rather than the inside.

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”

You look up at him for the first time in a while. His face is as kind as it was before, with the same full-lipped smile and warm brown eyes.

The man starts to lead you out of the room, that same gentle hand resting on your back.

It isn’t until then that you realize you’re still in the grimy clothes they found you in. And now the entire front of your shirt is stained with even more filth.

You glance into the living room as you pass through the hallway.

The other men are diligently cleaning the area you just soiled. The small dark-haired man and the muscular man are missing, though you can hear rustling from the kitchen.

The one with the jet black hair and bright face catches your eye, flashing a reassuring smile. It makes you rip your eyes away.

Jin guides you into the living room, and everyone immediately looks your way.

Shrinking, you’re shrinking into yourself as much as your body will allow.

“Someone run a bath,” Jin announces. “I think it’s time our little guest got some sleep in clean clothes.”

The fair-haired one steps forward and exchanges a subtle look with Jin, who’s standing slightly behind you.

“Would you follow me?” the shorter man says, holding out his hand.

It’s the one with the silver-gray hair and warm eyes. You think his name is Jimin. His face is soft and friendly. It asks a silent question: will you trust me?

You don’t take his hand, but you do take a step up the stairs in the direction he’s leading you.

You don’t catch it, but Jimin and Jin exchange a heartfelt glance, nearly ecstatic at the fact that you’re beginning to trust them.

Jimin leads you up the stairs as the rest of them settle things downstairs.

When you reach the top, he guides you down a spacious hallway that’s filled with potted plants and window light.

Every single door, down to the very end of the hall, is open. Whether it’s open wide or just a crack, not one of them is closed or locked. You’re not used to it.

The man, Jimin, stops at a door halfway down the hall and looks back to check if you’re still following him.

You stop a few feet away from him, still keeping your distance, but your expression is open and neutral, waiting on his next move.

He gives you a calm smile, and continues into the room with you behind him.

This room is just as bright and inviting as the rest of the house. White walls and clean tile floors, but this time with a large porcelain tub and a sink with marble countertops.

The man turns to look at you with a question in his eyes.

“Shower or bath?” he asks.

It’s a harmless question, a considerate question. But your mind is yanked back to that place.

Shower. A torrent of fire raining down on you, vision blinded by steam. It comes from every angle, unrelenting no matter how much you scream.

They would strip you down and lock you in a metal stall the size of a coffin. Then the dotted ceiling would unleash a downpour of near-boiling water.

You would bang on the walls, but the water made the metal surface just as hot, the floor burning the bottom of your feet. Minutes or hours they kept you in there, not letting you out until your body was covered in burn marks.

Bath. The most intense cold you’ve ever felt. It’s everywhere, submerging you up to the neck, seeping down to your very bones.

They would chain you down in a tub full of ice, nothing but your head poking out of the frigid water. The cold chains cut into your skin the more you struggled. Your lungs would heave from the shock of it, your whole body shivering violently.

Then they would hold your head underwater until you were bucking like a stuck pig. This went on until you were utterly exhausted, falling limp against the freezing porcelain with nothing but the tight chains holding you up.

You’re snapped back to reality when the man takes a step closer. He’s watching you closely, trying to read your face.

Finally remembering that he asked you a question, you shrug your shoulders and shake your head.

You don’t want either. You don’t want to be anywhere near that tub. You want him to leave you alone.

Jimin guesses that the gesture means you don’t care which one. He figures you’re most likely still weak from malnourishment, and he doesn’t want you fainting and hitting your head.

So he opts for a bath, turning on the faucet. He sits on the edge of the tub, hand under the spout to monitor the temperature.

The sound of running water makes every muscle in your body tense up. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

It’s going to hurt, it’s going to hurt. The fire, the ice, it’s going to burn and sting and cut into your flesh. You won’t be able to escape it.

Jimin doesn’t notice it at first, too focused on adjusting the knobs to get the water not too hot and not too cold, but your breathing has picked up again.

You can already feel it filling your ears, your mouth, rushing down your throat as your head is held down. Your skin prickles from the heat, it quivers from the cold.

The water in the tub continues to rise, and you can’t move. Your body is frozen, feet rooted to the floor as the sound of sloshing roars louder and louder in your ears.

Halfway full, now. It’s coming any second. He’s going to turn on you, throw you down and hold you under.

Burning, freezing. It’ll hurt and hurt and hurt.

Jimin turns his head, and his stomach drops.

Your eyes are squeezed shut, lips pursed like you’re trying to bite back a scream. Fists clenched at your sides, shoulders trembling, as your chest heaves up and down.

Immediately, he jumps to his feet and rushes over to you.

“What is it, babe? What’s wrong?” 

Then he makes a big mistake. He puts his hands on you.

His touch is gentle, nonthreatening, nothing but two hands on your shoulders. But you don’t want it, you’re repulsed by it. Because touch always comes before the pain.

On instinct, your body jerks away, arms moving to push the unwelcome touch away, just get it away. Your hands collide against something, hard.

When you open your eyes, the man is on the floor. Sprawled on his back, looking up at you with wide, slightly watery eyes.

There’s shock plastered on both of your faces.

Jimin’s soft heart hurts a little, he can’t help it. In all the years he’s known you, loved you, you’ve never ever been repelled by him. But that hurt is soon drowned by guilt.

He scared you, he made you feel unsafe. You felt the need to protect yourself and it’s his fault.

You’re staring at your hands in horror, completely floored by what you’ve done. You’re in for it now. He tried to help you and you hurt him. Now they’re going to hurt you even more.

Several sets of pounding footsteps draw near. The others must have heard the thud from downstairs and rushed up to see what was wrong.

What they don’t expect to find is Jimin crumpled on the floor and you standing over him in a braced position, but that’s exactly what they see when they peer through the doorway.

They’re all a little astonished, Jin and Namjoon are thinking deeply, and something in Taehyung’s eyes shifts.

He isn’t proud of it, but a surge of protectiveness washes over him, for his Jimin. He knows it’s unreasonable, unfair even. But it’s still there. And he can’t snuff it out.

A new fear consumes you. You were insubordinate, you resisted. You know what comes next.

A sob gets trapped in your throat as you sink down to the floor, burying your head in-between your knees and using your arms to shield yourself.

Immediately, the same way Jimin did, they all rush forward to comfort you.

“No!” Jimin blurts out, making you flinch and shake violently. “Don’t touch, give her some space.”

They all obey, keeping their distance with concern flooding their features.

Jimin shifts onto his knees, scooting a little closer but still keeping enough away.

“I’m sorry,” he nearly whispers, like he’s talking to a wild, cornered animal. “It was my fault entirely. I shouldn’t have touched you. I’m truly sorry.”

Jimin’s voice has always been soothing, even in the darkest times, and your breathing slows a little.

Jimin realizes that the faucet is still running, and he reaches over to switch it off. Then it comes to him.

He turns back to your trembling form, still waiting for the pain to come.

“You’re scared of the water, aren’t you?” he asks gently.

He doesn’t expect you to reply, he just wants to let you know that he’s trying to understand you, to help you.

You nod slightly.

It shocks them all again. You’re becoming more responsive.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Jimin says with all the sincerity he can muster. “It’s not your fault. I promise I won’t do that again.”

Your shoulders gradually stop trembling, breath coming evenly now.

Jimin looks at his mates and gestures for them to give you some more space so you can calm down.

They all do as he says, except Tae. He lingers in the doorway, his piercing eyes flickering between you and Jimin, thinking.

The two men exchange a meaningful glance. Jimin gives him a reassuring smile and nods his head as if to say “There’s nothing to worry about. I got this.”

Tae gives a slight nod back and turns to leave, throwing one last look at you.

Jimin sees the hint of distrust hidden in that look. He files it away for later.

Turning his attention back to you, Jimin looks at the tub and thinks of a solution.

“You don’t have to get in the tub, okay? We can just...” Jimin opens the cupboard under the sink and takes out a handful of washcloths.

“Like this, see?” He dips one of the cloths in the water, using it to wipe down his face.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

You scan his face. Those big brown eyes are full to the brim with kindness, as if you didn’t just hurt him moments ago.

You nod.

Jimin smiles so big it almost hurts his cheeks, heart swelling as you hesitantly hold your hand open. He puts another cloth in your waiting palm.

“Okay, here’s the soap, shampoo, conditioner. You can wash your face with this. Use whatever you want, okay?”

You look at him, trying to convey with your eyes what your mouth can’t say. He stays there for a moment, sitting with you on the tile, answering your every question with just his expression.

It’s okay. You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you. You can trust me. I understand you.

Breaking from his reverie, Jimin gets up and moves to leave.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he says, swinging the door closed.

You shoot forward and grab the knob just before it shuts.

Jimin jumps a little, whipping back around. There’s confusion on his face, then understanding.

“Okay, we’ll leave it open just like this. I’ll be just outside if you need anything, okay?”

You feel the tension release from your chest, and nod back.

Another warm smile, and then he disappears into the next room.

He’s not going to lock you in. Another impossible realization.

Turning around, you stare at the full tub. Your heartbeat skitters a little, but you take a step towards it anyways.

When you dip your fingertips in the clear water, you expect it to be scalding, or cold enough to numb, but it’s neither. The water is warm and calm, it doesn’t burn, it doesn’t sting.

Another breath releases from your lungs.

You use the cloth and soap to wipe down your whole body, shedding your dirty clothes and tossing them aside. Soon the tub is cloudy from the dirt on the washcloth. You even dip your hair into the water and use a little shampoo to get some of the grime out.

You sit there and wash yourself until the water turns cold. Using the counter to steady yourself, you slowly come to a stand, even though your legs are aching.

The sight in front of you is enough to shock you into silence again.

You can’t remember the last time you saw your reflection. You wish you weren’t seeing it now.

The person in the mirror is ugly and pathetic. Her short hair is a mangled mess. Haphazardly cut with a pair of dull scissors, it sticks out in all different angles. Her eyes are blank and lifeless, red-rimmed and surrounded by dark circles. There’s a large, hideous scar across her left cheek, deep and forked like a flash of lightning.

Her body is weak and repulsive. Slouching forward, she’s barely able to hold herself up. She’s covered in scars and marks, all over her legs, her arms, her torso.

You know there are worse scars behind you.

Horrifically entranced, you slowly reach up to touch the scar across her face, your face. Your fingertips meet the textured tissue, and then there’s the pain.

It’s not a physical pain, it doesn’t originate from the scar itself. It’s a pain deep in your chest, spreading and infecting the rest of your body. It maims you, twists your insides, disfigures your soul.

You muffle the silent scream with a hand over your mouth. Knees buckling, you barely have any strength left to keep yourself upright.

You’re barely you. You don’t remember who you were before, but you know it wasn’t this.

A gentle knock on the door. 

You immediately stifle any signs of discomfort, snapping the mask back on with frightening accuracy.

Jimin’s arms poke through the gap in the door. He sets a bundle of clothes on the counter.

“Here you go," his pleasant voice says. “Please let me know if they’re comfortable enough.”

You wait a good twenty seconds before you reach for them. A warm green sweater and soft cotton pants.

You hurriedly slip them on to hide your disgusting body.

Leaning closer to the door, you try to hear beyond the wood. Hushed voices, muted footsteps.

“Ready, love?” a smooth voice sounds from just behind the door.

You flinch away, trying your best to make your hair look less unkempt.

It’s Jin who cautiously swings the door open, greeting you with an affectionate smile.

“Much better, hmm?” he says.

You manage a curt nod, following him with your head down to another room. 

It’s the room from earlier, the one with the massive bed. The rest of them are here waiting, muttering quiet words until you arrive. Then they go silent and set their eyes on you, asking a question you can’t understand.

Why are they all looking at you? You don’t like it, not at all. People who look like them shouldn’t look at someone like you. You’re wrong, inside and out.

They all notice the change. Now your eyes are trained on the ground, head bent and shoulders folding in on yourself like you wish you would disappear.

Jin ushers you towards the humongous bed, encouraging you to settle in under the covers. He tucks the comforter around your body, fluffing the pillows behind your head.

“There, nice and cozy,” he says, sounding satisfied for the time being. “Rest up, okay love? You’ve been through a lot.”

Why are they talking to you like that? You’re disgusting. They should be throwing you out on the streets to fend for yourself like a common rat.

The small dark-haired man kneels down next to you. He hands you a mug of steaming amber liquid, using the bed sheets to shield your hands from the hot surface.

“This should settle your stomach,” he says.

While Jimin was getting you cleaned up, Yoongi and Jungkook were hard at work cooking up a tincture for your nausea. Essence of lavender to help you sleep, peppermint to refresh your throat, a little ginger to ease your stomach, and some of Yoongi’s highest-quality potions to replenish your nutrients. And, of course, Jin stirred in a copious amount of honey to sweeten it up.

You hold the cup in your hands like it’s a ticking time bomb.

Yoongi looks at his mates in confusion and concern, not sure what to do. Jimin catches his gaze, and gestures wildly with his hands. He exaggeratedly mimics holding the cup and taking a sip, and then Yoongi understands.

He gently takes the mug from your hands and holds it up to his nose.

“Let me check if it’s too hot for you,” he says, blowing off some of the steam and taking a long sip. He makes sure to swallow with audible emphasis.

“Okay, it should be good,” he says, handing it back to you.

This time you hold it close to your chest like it’s a precious gem, slowly sipping away at the frothy liquid. 

They all look at each other with a relieved, triumphant expression.

Namjoon steps forward and leans down to level his face with yours.

“There’s water for you over there,” he gestures to a table in the corner, complete with a pitcher and cup. “And the bathroom is the next door over.”

You nod to show your appreciation, still avoiding eye contact.

Jin enters your field of vision again.

“Do you think you can hold down some meds?” he asks. It’s sincere, no seeming deception behind it.

But you still shake your head vehemently. You don’t want anymore pills. In fact, you don’t want to see another pill ever in your life.

“Okay, love,” he says, smiling again. “Just rest up for me. For us.”

You have no idea what he means by that, but you sink into the pillows anyway.

One by one they filter out of the room, casting a last look at you before they leave.

You wish they wouldn’t. Their eyes seem to leave even more marks on your skin.

The door starts to swing shut. Then someone mutters something, and it stops just before it closes completely. 

Footsteps recede, silence settles upon the room.

You manage a few more sips from the steaming mug, eventually setting it aside. The bed is soft and comfortable, but you can’t bring yourself to lie down. 

You sit there, watching shadows dart across the wall, for hours.

a/n: thanks so much for reading!! if you enjoyed it please leave a comment on what you thought of the story/any questions it would mean the world to me!! and if you’re feeling extra generous, please reblog with tags it helps to spread the story around, thank you!! 💖

[4pfsukuna]

could you write smth for long curly haired reader who isn't doing the best mentally so she isn't ty taking care of here hair and geto who has a crush on her offered to help her with it? i just know he'd be soft and gentle.hed even look up how to take care of curly hair to help make his girls (he wishes 😔) hair look the best it ever has (so she can ask him to keep doing her hair for her) i need him down bad 🙏🙏

omfg girl. GIRLLLLLL. This may have just healed my writers block🥹

Suguru Geto was the neighborhood heart-throb with his dark volumtious hair, midnight black eyes that were so dark they nearly looked purple his tall muscular frame (his thighs were drool worthy when he man spread) and his hands that could probably… no definitely palm your whole face. Between that warm honey coated laugh and the smooth calm tone he always heals in his voice he had every girl and woman in a 10 foot radius always swooning over him. Not that he noticed his eyes were always on you and when you werent around his mind was thinking if you ate today, how your day was, what new hobby you picked up what conditioner you used? The last one was a bit unhinged.

Last week he made a complete fool of himself when he seen you in the shared hall of your apartment and finally gathered up the courage to ask you on a date but it started off so well. 

“Hello sweetheart, how was work?” He grins down at you waiting for your brown eyes to meet his and he feels his heart stutter when you do with a soft smile.

“Hey Geto, it was alright, glad im off though im starving” you answer” as you fumble with your house keys pushing some of your long curls out of your face with a single finger.

He can feel his insides exploding, this was it you just put the ball in his court for a lay up or whatever silly basketball analogy Satoru used when he told him about you, now was his chance.

“Oh? Theres a new family owned restauraunt that just opened nothing to fancy. You should go” he blurts out faster than he has time to think about it and his tongue instantly feels heavy in his mouth. His jaw feels hinged and hes clenching his mouth and fist so tight he doesnt know what will break first his teeth or the skin on his palms from how bad his nails are digging in.

“Yeah, i think i will. Have a good night” you wave and hes so in his own head he doesnt realize the way the smile doesnt reach your eyes from either dissapointment of him not asking to go together or the long day of work is something he spends the next few days pondering about once he gets in his apartment.  The only thing hes glad about is that neither Shoko or Satoru was there to embarass him endlessly. He always had a smooth slightly arrogant demeanor but when it came to you words fealt heavy in his mouth, his hands got clammy and his eyes could not leave you what so ever.

The next time he sees you hes shocked. Its around midnight after a full day of listening to anxiety by meg thee stallion on repeat loud enough for him to hear it in his living room that he begins to get worried. Its when he sees you in a dark blue hoodie blanket going to take out your trash that he stops you.

“Hey sweetheart, i can take your trash for you. You shouldnt be taking it down this late anyway” he reaches for the bag not expecting you to pull away.

“N-nah its cool, i got it” you voice cracks and he finally looks at your eyes seeing them puffy and red which makes him fall into defense mode. 

“Who did it? Ill kill them” and that wasnt exactly what he wanted to say but fuck it its not like he didnt mean it and it earns a chuckle from you. Ok, finally he was doing something right.

“Everything and everyone” you pout and he feels his heart soften at the helpless look of defeat on your face. If only you knew you had a man that would actually burn the whole world down in front of you.

“I dont have enough matches for the whole world but if you give me enough time i can run to the store to buy more and burn the it all down for you” he rubs his chin earning a smile this time.

“Maybe not the whole world” you start with a slight giggle and his heart starts doing that weird thing again “It's just… my anxiety has been in overdrive this week and my job has rumors about letting some people go and i think its me since i've been talking about being home sick and my hair stylist canceled my appointment which ruined my week because not only does she not know when she’ll return but my hair products are nothing more but empty containers that won't get shipped here until next month. NEXT MONTH Geto, i cant just put anything in my hair and nobody here can help me” you pout feeling your bottom lip tremble as you fight back tears not wanting to cry infront of your neighbor you needed to hold onto some shred of dignity— hes already watching you in this snuggie with kuromi socks on.

Your face is quickly found in his chest as he pulled you in for a hug and you nearly start sobbing, its not your fault when people hugged you when you were sad it only made you cry more.

“And then i forgot to go grocery shopping” you finally break the hot tears running down you face you wait for him to push you off instead he just holds you tighter resting his chin on your head and rubbing your back. His embrace kinda felt nice and this was the only thing that felt right in your whole horrible week you were going to bask in it.

“I can help you with your hair” Geto blurts and you wipe your eyes to make sure you heard him correctly.

“You what?” Your raspy voice questions looking up at the man whos tall enough to nearly reach the hallway ceiling.

“I can help you with your hair” he repeats, using a thumb to wipe some of the tears from under your eyes, his palm cupping your cheek to keep you in place. Completely unbothered by the fact that any of your other neighbors could walk out and see you two like this he’s just happy to have you this close.

“No shade but what do you know about kinky curly hair, plus im not trying to let anyone experiment on my hair let alone a man” you cross your arms but you don’t pull away from his embrace which he selfishly enjoys.

“You think this long healthy hair comes from using a body wash and shampoo 2 in 1? I actually take pride in my 8 step hair routine” he tells you reaching up to pull his hair from its bun letting his long obsidian locs cascade down over his broad shoulders the coconut scent hitting your nose.

You stare at him for a second debating how wrong this could go letting this man play in your head. I mean worse case scenario it gets tangled and you big chop after your hair crisis(amongst the several youve had throughout life) youve always said ‘fuck it im going to just go bald’ and maybe you finally spoke it into existance. 

You see the hopefulness in his eyes and know this man is fully convinced he can do your hair and will spend all night convincing you if he has to and you're not sure if it's his resilience or your lack of sleep that has you finally crack and let out a long sigh.

“I promise i can do it just give me a second to toss this trash, grab my products and i'll be over in a second” he promises with an excited grin grabbing the trash from your hand and taking off down the hall.

“And thats not all… they were roommates” you gossip with him as he runs the detangler through your hair after parting it into four sections. He was on the last section before having your lean back to begin the wash process and maybe he did know a thing or two about hair. Gently guiding your head back to the running water you hear the CLICK of the bottle opening before you feel the cold substance on your scalp.

Your eyes instantly close when his fingers begin massaging your scalp his nails feeling so heavenly against your roots.

“Oh my God Sugur your fingers feel so good” you nearly moan and he has to stop for a second, pretending to look for your detangler comb to not lose his composure. he cant even help his pants getting slightly tighter, he was honestly so down bad for you. 

He rinses repeats detangles conditions detangles again with very little instruction from you and honestly it was because you had began dozing off quite a few times enjoying the physical touch of another human while he is the physical embodiment of happy to be here.

He notices the song you had on repeat is also off instead choosing Sade to listen to which was alot more calmer. Its when he begins humming along that your brows scrunch and he panics assuming that hes hurting you.

“What you know about Sade?” Youre soft voice pokes making him chuckle and damn does he have a nice laugh.

“Im a man of culture” he pokes your temple and you jokingly pretend to attempt to bite his finger your goofyness slipping out easily around him. “Besides im washing your hair obviously im very cultured” he adds in and you cant argue there.

An hour later you find yourself rambling about all your favorite things favorite music, hobbies and embarassing stories of you from the fourth grade which he counters of embarassing stories of him in high school with him and his best friend satoru who he promises to introduce you to.

“And i'll section the braids up here into smaller parts So if you want a middle part or side part you have options” he tells you absentmindedly and you crain your head back to make direct eye contact but he gently grabs the side of your neck using his thumb to push your head forward.

“You'll get neck pain if you do that sweetheart” he commands softly in a way that makes your spine tingle and you rest your head against his large thigh.

“Have you done this before?” You ask your mind instantly floating to another woman and while there weren't too many girls that looked like you in japan with a hair texture like yours he was entirely too good to never have practiced this once.

“Yes” he answers honestly and you force yourself to push down the thoughts that make your stomach drop. “Though they usually fall asleep by the time i get to conditioning their hair”

And it's like you can hear the record scratch and the peaceful bliss you're in ends abruptly.

“So it's nice having someone to talk to up until the end” he tells you before finishing a braid and you feel it fall mid back before he shuffles around. There's a bright light gleaming on the side of your face and you turn slightly to see a picture of twin girls, one with dark hair and one with light brown, almost blonde hair.

“They're so cute, how old are they?” you ask taking the phone in your hands to get a better look as he swipes showing different clips from what looks like a trip to the aquarium.

“11, thats mimiko and nanako usually they are here with me but they are with uncle Satoru for the summer making his pockets hurt as they say and spending time with their little cousin megumi” he tells you before he stops sliding landing on a picture of him satoru the twins and a dark spikey haired little boy that looks angry at Satoru.

“He looks like he absolutely hates satoru” you giggle resting your head back on his thigh which earns a laugh from him.

“Despises him, actually thinks Satoru is so annoying but he loves him… deep deep deep down inside his tiny little body since he adopted him. We knew his dad… real piece of shit actually” Suguru admits using a bit more force on your hair, its not painful but you could tell he hated Megumi's dad more than Megumi hated Satoru. 

“You must've had them really young” you pry slightly which he snorts at before using the comb to detangle a section of your hair and adding in more product. 

“No, I met them at an old job. They were in a bad environment and I took them in. I just couldn’t watch them go through that horrible system it's not a place for innocent little girls” he tells you his touch becoming so featherlite you almost forget he's doing your hair 

“Yeah it makes sense you are such a girl dad. Definitely dilf material” you ramble going back to look at the pictures zooming in on how happy the girls look.

His eyes widen and breath gets caught in his throat he nearly has to stop what he's doing to focus on you again.

“Dilf? At Least take me out to dinner first”he jokes trying to calm his heart before you lean your head back once more making eye contact with him.

“How about the new family owned restaurant you told me about? You could even bring the girls I’d love to meet them” you smile at him watching the blush build on his face.

“R-really?” He stutters, not expecting you to ask him out on a date… shit was it a date?

“Yeah they seem to play an important role in your life and I need to make a good impression on them as well… I mean unless I’ve been taking your staring, heated looks and your kind offer to wash my hair the wrong way?” You tease with a sly smirk and he can feel the flush running through his entire body.

“Oh so you've just been letting me embarrass myself in front of you… this entire time” he exaggerates, holding a hand over his mouth in faux shock.

“I thought it was cute” you shrug watching his reactions before he tilts your head back forward using neck cramps as an excuse.

“Hey suguru?” You yawn, leaning your head back against his thigh and it was just the perfect head rest as his fingers began massaging through your scalp again.

“Yes sweetheart?” He asks slowing down for a second and you begin enjoying, a bit too much, the way he sounds calling you that.

“Thank you for washing my hair and styling it” you smile closing your eyes and shoulders dropping slightly and he grins at the signs of you falling asleep. He's seen it too often with the twins but he had to admit he may have been enjoying this more than you, acts of service being his love language that much was clear.

“Anything for you” 

[scarlettromanov]

Business as Unusual

summary: You have always been one of Wanda's favorite employees. You will do anything she asks. What happens when her wife finds out? What happens when you find out the secrets of the company?

pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanov x Reader

word count: 7.7k

warnings(18+only): brief mentioning of Steve Rogers; eventual kate bishop; CEO! Wanda Maximoff; Brief mentioning of Stephen strange; Jealousy; Dom/sub; Domestic Fluff; Eventual Smut; Hurt/Comfort; Childhood Trauma; Mob Boss Natasha Romanov; Smoking; Food; Caffeine Addiction; mention of drugs; Alcohol; Mentions of Violence; mob wife Wanda Maximoff; Angst; NO CHEATING!; all parties communicate; brief Stephen strange slander

Chapter One: The Fall

You were definitely going to lose your job today. You wished that you could say that this was the first time running this late to work, but that would be a bold face lie. To be fair it wasn’t ever due to general laziness, or lack of concern for your job security. The public transport into the suburbs from the city never quite arrived on time. Not to say that you couldn’t just drive to work, but the lack of owning an automobile created a whole slew of additional issues. Your prized water bottle thwacks hard against the back of your thighs, creating additional bruises, as you sprint down the sidewalk. It clangs with every step you take. It was a prize possession of yours. A treat to yourself for landing the job at R&M Industries just two years prior.  A purchase based on the fact that you would have to take the train into the suburbs, and your ex-girlfriend's constant pestering that you didn't drink enough water. Only two more blocks until you are safely to the office. Hopefully your boss, Mr. Rogers, is in the scheduled staff meeting, and doesn’t notice that you are 15 minutes late.

Crossing the intersection, the small pedestrian sign starts to count backward from 10 indicating that you will have to wait another few minutes to get across the street. You cannot afford another moment. Taking a deep breath you make a short dash across the street. Barely beating the pedestrian countdown clock. The weight of your backpack slamming into your back with every step. You do your best to not wince as the straps dig further into your bony shoulders. A piercing stab in your lungs continues to burn with each inhale. Taking a mental note that you should hit your inhaler once you are at your desk, you trudge forward.

Yet, as you are about to step up onto the sidewalk you feel your legs buckle and collapse beneath you, and you stumble (rather ungracefully) to the ground. The thin skin of your chin makes direct contact with the concrete of the sidewalk. Your teeth grind together, and you know that you’re bleeding before you can even register the embarrassment. Tear pool in the corners of your eyes. Blinking back the impending tears, you stare down at the palms of your hands, which are pretty scrapped up, but barely bleeding. So much for getting to the office at least 15 minutes late. You needed to get inside without causing any kind of commotion. Each entrance to the building had a secretary close by. Fists pressing against your eyes in frustration; you can feel the impending sob building in your chest.

“Fucking Idiot,” You mutter as you try to find your way back to a standing position. Breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, like your old therapist told you to do when your anxiety got the better of you. When you open your eyes again you take a moment to inspect the damage of your fall, and notice that your water bottle has completely fallen off its chain, nowhere to be found. Screaming internal profanities you blink back a round of fresh tears. Crying at the office was not like you. Crying was meant for the depths of your apartment. Solitude was the only place that such a shameful emotion could come alive. This was no condition to enter a work day with.

Nothing had gone right this morning. The hot water went, your cell phone didn’t charge, the train was late, and now this. On your knees in the middle of the sidewalk you try to pull it together once again. You couldn’t afford to miss a day of work. You're catastrophizing again, you think to yourself. “ Find the positives in the situation, Y/N, there is always a silver lining.” The therapist's advice rings in your ears. It must be a real fucking small silver line, you think, trying to push out his condescending advice.

“Y/N?” A warm husky voice asks. Looking up, a rush of realization falls over you. Your gaze is met with green eyes, which are wide with alarm.

“Ms. Maximoff!- I am so sorry I am late! I-” She cuts you off by crouching down to your level. If you hadn’t been sitting in your own shame, you probably would have been impressed with Wanda’s ability to crouch in heels. Her power suit of the day was a deep burgundy.

“Your face is covered in blood, Y/N.” Your cheeks heat with embarrassment. Looking down at your hands you spin the ring on your middle finger. Feeling like a little kid who fell off their bicycle.

“Oh, Yeah that. It’s nothing.” You say with a failed attempt at a laugh. Unfortunately your laugh has an air of hysterics in it. You scramble, trying to get to your feet. Wanda watches you. Her eyebrows knit together in disapproval. That’s when you can taste the blood in your mouth. The coppery metallic dances its way across your tongue. You grimace, and Wanda notices. Swiftly she slides the straps of your backpack off your shoulders, and you let her. Stunned at the touch from the older woman. She slings your pack over one of her shoulders with ease. Silently, you accept her assistance, thankful to not have the straps digging into your shoulders anymore.

“At least let me help you.” Wanda says with a kind smile.

“I’m sorry. I am probably making you late to the staff meeting,” She puts up a hand. Your mouth snaps shut.

“You’re not the only one who’s running late, Ms. Y/L/N, and honestly,” Wanda smirks looking down at you playfully, “between you and me, It’s Mr. Strange’s turn to present this month and well.” She feigns a yawn. You bite back a giggle. Wanda’s nose scrunches in the way it does when she’s genuinely happy. This is why you’d always enjoyed being around Wanda. She was fierce, and led with an iron fist, but there was a playfulness about her that came out whenever you two were alone. Secretly, you were glad that she found you.

“Let’s get you inside. I think Yelena has a first aid kit in her office,

Wanda carries your backpack with ease as the two of you make your way up the two flights of steps to Yelena Belenova’s office. As you rounded the corner you notice that Yelena is nowhere in sight, but Wanda lets herself in without hesitation. She places your backpack on Yelena’s desk. Nervously you stand in the doorway to Yelena’s office. Wringing your hands together behind your back. Yelena was a friend of Wanda’s, you knew this. Yelena was also the head of her department, and more importantly she was COO of the company. But what held the most importance was that Yelena was Wanda’s sister in-law. Wanda had privileges as CEO, and as the Executive Chairwoman’s wife. Since starting with the company two years prior there had been an unspoken rule of stay out of an office unless invited, and do not speak without being spoken to. As a people pleaser with a need to avoid conflict at all costs… These rules were easy to follow.

Wanda doesn’t really notice that you are hovering in the doorway until she’s rummaging through Yelena’s filing cabinets behind her desk. She pulls out box after box of microwavable Kraft Mac and Cheese. There had to be at least six in her desk drawer alone. You wonder how Yelena stayed so fit when her breakfast every morning was espresso and a cup of Microwavable Mac and Cheese.

“Always so messy,” Wanda mutters to herself in disapproval.

For a moment she looks up at you. The corner’s of her mouth turning up the tiniest bit as she stares at you in the doorway like an obedient child. She plucks the medium sized box red and white from the cabinet. Holding the first aid kit in her left hand, she pulls your backpack back over her right shoulder. Wanda places a reassuring hand on your shoulder leading you away from Yelena’s office.

“C’mon, let’s head up to my office so we can get you cleaned up,”

Wanda and you make your way to the elevators, and take it to the 6th floor. Her arm stayed draped across your shoulders. It feels reassuring to have someone holding you so close. You can’t remember the last time someone held you this close. You allow yourself to bask in the feeling for just a moment. But when the elevator chimes, and the doors open, Wanda’s arm pulls away as she gestures for you to lead the way. Her secretary quickly hangs up her cell phone, and stands to greet us. She smiles kindly at Wanda, her brown eyes filled with warmth.

“Ms. Maximoff, Good Morning.” She turns her smile to you, and it falters as she takes in the state of my face. Your stomach sinks as you cannot recall her name. Despite being with the company for over two years now… you kept a pretty low profile. The sinking feeling makes you squirm under her gaze. Her curly hair pulled into a low bun, with a few strands hanging loose in her face.

“Y/N, are you alright?” You nod your head, tearing your gaze away from the girl. Cheeks blazing from the unwanted attention. Suddenly the floor has captured all of your attention with the way you stared down at it.

“MJ, Y/N had quite the fall on her way into the office this morning. If anyone calls wondering where I am tell them that Y/N and I are in a meeting,”

“Will do, Ms. Maximoff. Is there anything I can get for you?”

“I’ll have my usual, Y/N?” Wanda looks down at you expectantly. She gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“B-black coffee please,” Your voice sounds small, and you grimace at your nervous stutter. It reminds you of all the times your father forced you to order my own food at a restaurant. Claiming that a stutter would resolve itself if you could only “gain a fucking backbone.” You divert your gaze to the floor again, studying the patterns in the linoleum tile.

“And a bottle of water for Y/N. Her water bottle appears to have gone missing,” Heart springing to life in your chest at the small detail that Wanda noticed. Wanda opens the door to her office, and ushers you inside with a delicate hand on the small of your back.

You had been inside Wanda’s office before, briefly, the day Natasha hired you. Natasha sat opposite of you at Wanda’s desk. Since Natasha primarily worked remote, and when she came into the office she would work in Wanda’s office. Her wife didn’t seem to mind. You think back to that day as you sit on the sofa in Wanda’s large office. The room is spotless, and filled with plants. Wanda sat down across from you, perched on the coffee table. She opens the medium sized first aid kit, and pulls out bandages and antiseptic. At this point the blood in your mouth had stopped flowing, but the bitter taste lingered.

“I can do this. I-I’m sorry. You probably have so much to do, and I am just eating up your time.” You reach forward to take the first aid kit from Wanda’s lap. Her hands still, and she tilts her head with a smile on her face as she looks up at you.

“Y/N if you apologize to me one more time,” Wanda warns with a stern tone, her Sokovian accent leaking through. Your mouth snaps shut. Wanda hums approvingly, and reaches for your hand, flipping it palm up. She rests your hand gently in her lap, and begins to dab antiseptic over the scrape. It burns, and you suck in air between gritted teeth.

“Now, tell me,” She says as she puts antibiotic ointment over a bandage, “Is there a reason that you are late again?” She smoothes the bandage over the wound. Her thumbs smooth the sealant of the bandage. You purse your lips, trying to think of the right words. Shame flooding your thoughts. She notices you hesitating, and squeezes your knee with her free hand.

“You are not in trouble, Y/N. You can tell me,” Her voice is sweet, and her gaze bores into yours. Taking a deep breath, mustering up the courage to tell Wanda your reasoning.

“I don’t have a car and I live in the city so the train runs late most of the time.” The words began to rush out of you, “And I know, I know! I could learn to drive, but I live alone and don’t have anyone to teach me, and cars are expensive, and…” Your voice comes out high pitched and nearly frantic. You feel your blush deepen as you sit there not wanting to admit a deep rooted fear of driving to your boss. Wanda rubs small circles into your knee with her thumb, it’s reassuring.

“And?” She urges you to go on, your eyes meeting again.

“I’m scared to drive,”You whisper, hanging your head, looking anywhere but her eyes. You can feel her gaze burning into you.

“That’s a valid fear, sweetheart. Many people have a fear of driving. There’s no need to be embarrassed.” You think she can tell that you desperately want her to drop the subject. In that moment there was nothing more that you wanted than the floor to open and swallow you whole. The vulnerability left you feeling weak. Wanda opens her mouth to say more, but a knock on the door interrupts her. Mentally you thank the universe for the interruption.

“Ms. Maximoff, I have yours and Y/N’s drinks.” MJ’s voice announces on the other side of the office door. Wanda finishes up your other hand, and says

“Come in MJ,” Wanda’s voice is lighthearted. Wanda pushes down on her knees as she stands up. MJ enters Wanda’s office, placing the tray on the coffee table.

“Your hands look much better, Y/N!” She smiles at you kindly. You delicately smile, and motioned to Wanda,

“Who knew Ms. Maximoff was a business woman AND a nurse,” you giggle, and MJ joined in. You mentally take note that you should ask MJ to grab a drink sometime. God knows did you need more friends. You and MJ smile at each other as Wanda rolls her eyes.

“Please- I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” She brushes her long strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, “Just have that instinct I guess,” Your breath hitches as she smiles at you again, her nose scrunching the way it does which tells you she means it. MJ agrees before turning to Wanda,

“Ms. Romanov just called, and she is on her way to the office. Shall I call the Italian place around the corner and reserve a table for you for lunch?” Wanda doesn’t hesitate before responding,

“Yes, please tell Dominic to reserve our usual table.” MJ nods her head, and exits the room without another word. Wanda opens the bottle of water on the tray, and hands it to you,

“Drink, honey. You lost quite a bit of blood.” Nodding you bring the bottle to your lips, and take a sip. The cool water sloshes around in your mouth, clearing out the residue of dried blood lingering on your taste buds.

“Very good, Y/N,” Wanda’s voice is gentle as she gets back to work preparing to clean your face. She brings a warm wet cloth to your chin, assuring that the wound is free of any bacteria. Wanda’s closeness has your face burning. You hear every breath she takes with her face a couple of inches from your own. Wanda clearly does not mind the close proximity of your faces. Why would she be bothered? Like she said, she has a maternal instinct about her.

She is just helping you since you’re an employee, and she probably doesn’t want to get sued or something for falling on company property? You say to yourself over and over again.

“This is going to hurt again, be brave for me,” Wanda says with a softness that creates knots in your stomach. The antiseptic burns, and you wince again as Wanda dabs it onto the wound.

“More than halfway there, sweetheart.”

She talks you through the process, as she grabs the final bandage from the coffee table. Like before she adds the antibiotic ointment to the bandage, and smoothes it against the wound on your chin. Wanda’s hands cradling your face. The coolness of her rings feels amazing against the heated flush of your face.

“There we go, all done!” She runs her thumb over your cheek bone, and smiles down at you, before adding, “You did so good for me,” Little does Wanda know that your stomach does a backflip at her words. You beam under her praise. Wanda hums and releases your face. Like in the elevator, the feeling of instant loss falls over you from the lack of her touch. Your body craves  her warmth. Were you really this touch starved that you would ache for your married bosses touch? Wanda pats your knee before walking over to her desk.

“Well I guess I should get to work, Thank you again Ms. Maximoff-” Wanda, who was thumbing through a stack of papers on her desk, looks at you. She cocks an eyebrow.

“Wanda, Y/N.” You swallow dryly. You’d lost count of how many times that you blushed in front of her today, praying that she mistook it for shyness.

“Wanda, thank you for everything, but I should be getting back down to my desk.” Wanda sets the stack of papers back down, and leans back against her own desk. She smiles, crossing her arms across her chest. You stand feeling her gaze on you again, hands behind your back in their usual position, fingers squeezing together.

“That won’t be necessary. I am ordering a car to take you home. Your assignment today will be to rest. Go home, read a book, take a nap, take a walk in the sunshine, and return back here, to my office at 9am for your next assignment.” You can not comprehend what she is saying. Take the rest of the day off? That might be all well and good for someone that could afford groceries, but you lived off of Instant Noodles and Peanut Butter toast.

“Wanda, I really need to work. I desperately need the money. I-” She cuts you off with the stern tilt of her head, before she continues,

“As far as anyone is concerned, you were here today. You were running errands for me, and I will see to it that Mr. Rogers knows that you work directly for me now.” Her eyes remained on you,  cocking another eyebrow, as if to say, ‘ Is that understood ?’ You nod your head, indicating that, yes you understood. Her words were loud and clear. Yes you would work for her, and yes you would go home, go for a walk, take a nap, and return back to her well rested. Wanda’s stern expression melts into a more gentle one.

“Good girl, now have a seat while I call you a car,” Without another word you sit back down on the couch, and pull out your phone. Scrolling aimlessly through Instagram. Trying to desperately distract yourself from the woman across the room. Wanda calls the car, and when it arrives she helps you put your backpack on. Before you go you turn to thank her for all of her help today, but the words don’t find your lips. Her hands begin to fiddle with the straps of your backpack. The sagging pressure of your belongings lifts. Instantly you feel the digging of the straps on your shoulders lessen. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“There you go, that’s been driving me nuts. We can’t have you throwing out your back now can we?” Wanda giggles before spinning you around guiding you to the door. She opens it for you. Your voice finally finds your lips again.

“Wanda, I just wanted to Thank y-” She doesn’t let you finish the sentence.

“Get home safe, Y/N. Remember the assignment I gave you. I expect to hear all about it tomorrow,” She winks, and her door closes. You stand there like a deer in headlights. You are pretty sure you stand there for a solid minute before your brain catches up again. MJ giggles from her desk.

“She is really something,” Your voice is strained. MJ cracks up, nearly doubling over in her chair. She looks up at you, giving you a wink.

“Whatever that something is, I think you like it,” You roll your eyes with a smile, secretly agreeing with her.

“See you tomorrow,” You throw her the peace sign before hitting the button for the elevator.

“Bright and Early!” MJ nearly shouts as the doors open. You step inside, and the doors close.

“Bright and Early,” You say to yourself as the elevator brings you down to the car Wanda ordered for you. Your fingers run up and down the straps of your backpack. The way her fingers adjusted the straps replaying in your mind.

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

A Night In Nice

Chapter Three

Based on this ask and made into a separate post due to being two parts

Rated Explicit | Warning: light choking, body worship, virgin norton

Ao3

Chapter Two

The bedroom is the simplest part of the house. A bed, two dressers, a mirror beside the dresser, and a window to gaze outside to the backyard. The moonlight graces the room mixing with the dim gas ceiling light. Standing in front of one another, you know to take your time with him. The kiss you shared is telling enough: he never did this before.

It… Sweet to know you will be his first.

Norton wants to do this properly on the bed, comfortable and private with only the witnesses being you and himself.

His suggestion quickly followed for the table might not be able to handle the lovemaking about to happen.

Or is it supposed to happen— His anxiety kicked in suddenly realizing what you are about to see. He swore he was ready, ready to kiss away every trace of another man's touch on you forever, to slip this ring on your finger while inside of you.

Until he stood here now fearful to be naked.

“It's the scars, isn't it?” Stopping the second his hands grip yours in panic, a few buttons undone revealing part of his skin. “They are beautiful, Norton.” He frowns at those words. “Can I show you how beautiful you are?” He seems unsure but nods as he releases your hands.

Each button undone, pulls the tucked part of the shirt out of his pants, he takes it off slowly. 

Shirtless, the light hides nothing from your gaze.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.” The most it gets itchy when wears certain fabrics or when he has nightmares. Phantom pains are rare these days.

You touch the top center of his chest, his heart racing against your hand. “I love you. Thank you for trusting me.” His breath nearly stops as your hand slides down his chest. The button of his pants is undone with two fingers, “Take these off for me then lay down?”

He follows your directions though he sits on the edge of the bed unable to completely not feel less anxiety.

“Can I show you how beautiful you are, Norton?”

He nods, it is a lie when he still covers the scar on his face with his hair. It is a touchy subject, one you try to tell him when glares at his reflection how beautiful he is. Not just handsome, beautiful like the way someone calls a diamond when it shimmers in the light.

“Words, my love.”

“Yes.” Breathy, deep, his eyes widen seeing what you are doing.

The mirror moved in the front bed, you crawled behind him wearing only your smalls. “Keep your eyes on the mirror.”

Norton can see and feel your hands trace the outline of his arms, your lips on the side of his back covered by scars from the blast. Each touch sends a shiver down his spine straight to his cock. The rise and fall of his chest felt up by your hands, he groaned at the way you groped his pecs. Your teeth bite into the damaged skin and for the first time, he learns it is sensitive. His eyes are not on the wandering hands mapping him out but on your hooded eyes that stare at him through the mirror, it is akin to a panther stalking its prey.

A thrill as his cock twitches with eagerness, with laboring breathing as your hand squeezes digging nails and dragging them downward leaving angry red marks in its wake. He hums when you play with his nipple, hips jerking up when he feels your other hand on his thigh rubbing up and down before slipping towards his inner thigh.

“How do you feel, love?” A sweet purr of your voice close to his ear.

“Good.” Your nails dig into his chest, “Harder.” Said when you bite into his shoulder.

You smile and start marking every part you can reach, “That’s a start.” Spoken against his skin, savoring him, making sure he feels the buzzy of desire first. “Be vocal for me.”

The reflection of his confusion changes immediately when your index finger traces the clear outline of his defined cock. Norton is by no means small, you know you will need some prep before even attempting to fit half of him inside of you. It has… Been a while for you.

“Shit.” Cursing out a groan as you use your nails to tease the poor man, “Touch me.” He had fantasies about you back then. Any man at the mines would have given you were the only woman there. On lonely cold nights when his mind raced with too many troubles, the easiest way to tire himself out without going to the mines was to exhaust himself. Not an ideal jerk placed himself in the quarters he slept in, yet, most of the men either slept at the brothel or were too drunk to notice him.

It was quick, a few good strokes and he would cum to the idea of you sucking him off. Not really creative when it came to his fantasies honesty, all of it was straightforward.

“(Name),” The tossed-off long johns, “Fuck.” His brain was drawing blanks on what to say when your hand is pumping his cock so differently than he did, your hand barely fits around it too. Hot, hotter than he ever thought.

You lick the shell of his ear, tease his nipple, and stroke building him up; all captured in the reflection you had him stare into. “Beautiful,” You mean it, “I don't think I could handle sleeping another night without touching you.” Desire, raw, you express it using yourself as the brush and him the canvas. 

His cock is hard now, weeping precum, his hair sticking to his face as he gets worked up. Your rhythm is evil, going slow then suddenly picking up speed nearly knocking the wind out of him, only going back a slow pace. His hands grip the edge of the bed, his body leaning slightly forward, his eyes squeeze shut as his mouth is agape as lungs are working hard to keep him breathing.

Your body weight on Norton’s back, “Relax, relax, love.” Your other moves to rub his back, your stroke going to a stop when he started wheezing. “Easy, take it slow.” He misses the warmth of your hand on his cock even if his chest is killing him.

There would be tears in his eyes from how gentle you are with him, supportive by being there simply with your presence, loved even if he believes himself a monster.

When he finally can breathe again, you ask something of him.

“Are you able to lay down for me?”

“Yes.” It might be better to expand his chest he figures.

The bed creeks as you get up and move in front of him and Norton shifts to lie completely on the bed. His body aches to be touched again, to feel your hands all over him, yet he wants to return the favor.

“(Name), I want—” 

“Soon, I promise.” Crawling up the bed to hover above him, he swears he is gazing upon an angel.

There is no rush, you told him this. There is no need for him to push himself, you assured him of this. But he is a prideful man and you will not deny him when he gives such a desperate-- a hungry and merciful pleading look. The worship you gave to him from head to toe and the places in between have made him jittery, excited, and itching to have his way with you. The darker part of him that refuses to submit, to be gazing up at you.

Norton all his life has been forced to crane his neck at the rich and powerful. Forced to bend his back, to dig tirelessly in the earth, to poison his lungs, to fight to keep his scraps, to— “Norton.”

Your voice pulls him out of the dark fog that took over his mind for a brief moment, his eyes blinking A few times then focusing on you under him.

“Looked in a daze.” Your hand moves behind his head and pulls him further down, touching foreheads, “It's okay. You have me.” 

He has you, they have you.

The kiss is heated, consuming, with teeth, as the former prospector— Your soon-to-be husband, feasting on you like a starved man.

His hands are everywhere, studying and mapping out the body he hated at times sleeping next to you. Smelling you long when you are in deep sleep, longing with the ache to touch you. Killing him to not take you, killing him.

Your moans are music to his ears, the way you gasp, smirking when you cling and scratch his biceps. Though inexperienced, Norton knows the linguistics of where to touch you. The miners shared their tales of conquest like a badge of honor, most sounded like hot air being blown though.

“Curl them,” Softly telling him how to please you, “Norton, right there!” As he finds your g-spot, that part inside of that he is excited to use against you. “Oh!” Edging your orgasm until his face is between your legs. Then you see stars, your body falling apart, hands tugging at the dark fluff of his hair, your cries of bliss saying his name.

To say it took all night would not be a joke, of course, you both have the rest of your lives to have many chances to bed each other but at this moment it is like opening a door you both have been walking past.

When Norton finally entered you, the union completed, he did not move immediately.

The stillness gave you time to adjust to, God help you, very gifted cock. Filling you and the slightest movement have you whining needing everything. Everything that is him.

His lips on yours, cheeks, your neck; your neck and breasts littered with hickeys.

His hand creeps up then wraps around your throat, he so badly to ruin you.

“Like this.” Adjusting his finger placement then grinning, “I won't break.”

“We'll see.”

Oh, he groans at the way your cunt squeezes around him clearly stating your excitement.

One arm holding himself up, the other applying pressure and his hips setting the fast and hard pace. Mercilessly and hellbent on ruining you completely and only for him.

You both are early birds, old habits. This morning, afternoon now, neither of you got up from bed. Norton’s weight is comforting, his skin on yours, his snoring muffled by him burying himself under the blankets and your breasts.

The cats outside are meowing, the birds singing, and the wind rustling the trees.

A happy ending. That is what this is, a fairytale happy ending achieved and living through together.

[thedreamlessnights]

Someone to shed some light - pt. 7

Astarion x gn!Reader

{series masterlist}

Synopsis: After your discovery of Calthir's letter, you and Astarion make an escape.

Warnings: Mentions of death and blood, descriptions of an anxiety attack.

Word Count: 3.4k

As the final words of the letter and their meaning sink in, something dark and unknown takes hold of you. It’s foreign and bitter and cold, but it laces its way through your lungs without permission, bleeds into your veins, takes control of your locked muscles even while your mind stays frozen.

Even before you’ve realized it, you’re running.

The journey is only flashes of things. A string of images. Cazador Szarr signed in neat script on a letter. Your boots squelching in sticky mud. The scent of sweet, wet grass. When you find yourself back at the tent, your body battered and bruised, it’s nearly a surprise. Your mind is still in that tent, staring at that letter and fleshing out the cost.

But your body is here, gripping the paper in your hand with such force that’s practically crumpled into a ball. The inside of your mouth is metallic and warm with blood from where you’ve bitten your cheek. Your breathing is jagged and harsh, and your eyesight is blurry. You’re shaking. Is it from anger or fear?

What a joke your kingdom is. Their arrogant form of ‘justice’ is no better than Erelin’s. Their determination to take the throne and the amount of blood it will shed is no better than the way she rules. In attempting to make the kingdom better, all Calthir has done is stopped down to Erelin’s level.

Bile churns in your stomach at the thought of it. Your heart pumps steadily, but your chest strains for air, and your lungs burn with every breath. Astarion, you think, shivering from head to toe. He has to know, no matter how horrible the knowledge is. The two of you need to run, no matter how little of a chance you have to escape.

You finally stumble into the tent, boots still muddy, vision starting to blacken at the edges as you make your way further in. Breathe, you tell yourself. You can’t warn him if you’re dead. You can’t get the hells out of here if your brain isn’t getting the oxygen it needs.

After a moment of slow, deep breathing, you come back to yourself. Your thoughts clear. The ache lessens. Astarion is trancing on his bedroll, relaxed and undisturbed, and thankfully alive. Or, more accurately, undead. You hate to rouse him, but this can’t wait.

You set a hand on his shoulder and gently shake him. “Astarion-”

Considering everything, he takes his rest being disturbed fairly well. He opens his eyes and sits up, blinking as he takes you in, muscles winding with tension. He relaxes when he sees that it’s you.

“Well, hello,” he greets, tilting his head and flashing you a smile. Whatever else he was going to say dies on his tongue when he sees your face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, straightening, his gaze darting over your expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I… they’re going to… we need to-”

All your calm has faded away, now that you’re trying to say it. You’re so frantic that your words jumble together, barely coherent - trembling so much that your teeth are clanking together.

Astarion grips your arm, coaxing you down into a sitting position, and you suck in another deep breath. “I heard Aris and Cal talking,” you start, swallowing hard. “They were arguing about something. I couldn't tell what it was, but I went into the tent after they were gone, and I - I found this.”

You lift up the crumpled paper and press it as flat as you can, not wanting to give it to him - not when it feels like poison against your skin. But when he gently pries it from your fingers, you let him. You watch his gaze run over the words as you tuck your knees into your chest, and your nails dig into your palms to draw fresh pain.

His brows pinch at first. Confusion. Then he stiffens, looking as though he’s been slapped. A small, quiet loss crosses over his face. “I…” he starts, shaking his head as he trails off. “Gods. Of course they are.”

“Is it really him?” you ask.

“That’s him, alright,” he says, voice sour. “I’d know his handwriting anywhere.”

It occurs to you that you should be comforting him, not the other way around. You gently rest a hand on his shoulder, hoping it will help, rather than make things worse. “I won’t let them give you to him.”

“You can’t stop them,” he says sharply, sucking in a deep breath. “Trust me, dearest. They’ll probably separate us at first light.”

“No,” you insist, “I won’t let them. I mean over my dead body, Astarion. We’re leaving.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” he snaps. “We’re trapped, remember?”

“We leave now,” you answer. “We’re close enough to the city. It’s busy enough that no one will notice until tomorrow. By the time they realize, we can be in hiding. I know someone - someone who’d take us in without any question. Or… well, she’d probably have some questions.”

You pause, giving him a chance to respond, but he doesn’t. He’s not looking at you. “Even if they do find us in the city, they can’t take us without making a scene,” you continue. “We can make it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, reaching up to massage his temples with his fingertips. “This is a terrible idea,” he says, shaking his head. “Gods - alright.” He lets out a brief sigh, shifting up to his knees and reaching for his pack, and you know he’s come to the same conclusion that you have.

Anything is better than staying here, waiting for Calthir’s plan to be executed.

A wave of sheer relief rolls over you as you follow in his lead, slinging your pack over your shoulder. There isn’t much left inside, but it won’t take more than an hour or two to get to the city, and once you arrive - well, that can be sorted out later. You can’t exactly go back to your tavern, but…

It doesn't matter. Anything is better than staying with these people.

You’ve never been more grateful for Astarion’s stealth as the two of you slip through the crowd. He steals two hooded cloaks from a nearby bin and both of you slip them on, covering your faces. The darkness is doing its part for those without darkvision, but the other soldiers are wearing hoods, too. Your chances are better like this, blending into the crowd.

Leaving camp feels like holding your breath, despite the shallow pulls of air that rush in and out of your lungs. Your shoulders pull tight, your jaw clenches, your body creeps slowly past the camp limits. Your face remains impassive, but your gut floods with fear.

Nothing, yet. Miraculously nothing.

The two of you make your way into the trees, and there’s still no sign of any soldiers nearby. Silver moonlight floods through the leaves, glittering on the damp grass. Birds fly from tree to tree, startling you as the leaves rustle with their weight.

You’re just about to feel relief when the orange light of a torch flickers through the trees, coming toward where the two of you stand. Your fingers ache for the knife that had been taken from you. Astarion slips his dagger out of its sheath.

You know your luck has officially run out when the figure stalls at the sight of the two of you, both of you without a torch and without any good excuse. Astarion’s dagger glints in the light.

“You!” the figure calls. “What’s your business here?”

Your eyes register the familiar face as soon as the voice hits your ears - Cal. It’s Cal again, looking angrier than you’ve ever seen him. To your surprise, some of that fury melts away when he sees that it’s you, and he lowers his torch. In his other hand, his blade is at the ready.

“You shouldn't be here,” he says.

“Cal, please,” you start, but he shakes his head. Pain washes over his eyes.

The sharp crack of a branch sounds in the distance - another patrol strolling through the trees, judging by the torchlight that floods the nearby woods. All three of you freeze at the sound, your hand automatically reaching for Astarion’s arm.

Cal’s gaze flickers between you and Astarion. Then, toward the sound. “Go,” he says, keeping his gaze toward the trees. “I’ll end the tracking spell, but you won’t have much time until they realize you’re gone.”

It takes you a moment to realize what he’s saying. “Cal-”

“Go,” he urges. “Now!”

It doesn’t escape you what they might do to him when they find out what he’s done. Something tight and painful throbs in your chest, squeezing like a fist.

“I love you,” you say.

He smiles, finally meeting your eyes. “I know you do. And you know how I feel. Now go, and don’t look back.”

So you run.

Astarion is faster than you; it’s all you can do to keep up with his nimble movements, blindly following behind him. Adrenaline is red-hot in your blood, pulsing with every beat of your heart. Your footsteps seem much too loud in your ears. Every time a twig snaps underfoot or a branch pulls at your cloak, you’re sure that someone is going to catch you.

But they don’t.

Scraped hands. Aching feet. Sides feeling like they’re splitting as you struggle for breath. It’s all you can register in the darkness aside from the silver of Astarion’s hair and the swish of your cloak behind you.

Your adrenaline fades further as the two of you scramble through the trees, making your way toward the distant view of the castle, and it’s exhaustion that takes over in its absence. Your vision blurs. Your muscles fatigue. It’s not long before you’re forced to come to a stop, your hands on your knees.

Astarion stalls beside you. You don’t hear him say your name until the third time he’s said it, reaching over to brush his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

You hadn’t noticed - the mild stinging had been second to everything else. One of the sharp branches must have dug into your cheek as you ran.

“It’s nothing,” you reply quickly. It isn’t safe here, and you know it. “We should get going.”

He hesitates. “I am sorry, you know. About Cal.”

“Thank you.” The words come out soft and broken. You attempt a smile, but it falls flat. “They were going to turn you in. He knew what he was getting into.”

Your words don’t stop the deep hole that’s built its way into your chest.

You adjust your pack on your shoulder and start off again without waiting for a reply, and the rest of the journey is silent. It’s a difficult trade-off, trying not to sprint the entire time, but never feeling like you’re quite going fast enough. It feels like there’s an outstretched hand behind you, forever waiting to grasp onto your cloak and tug you to the forest floor, wrenching Astarion out of your life forever.

But it doesn’t come. The moon travels across the sky, and the two of you make it to the city in one piece.

Home. The smell of cooking meat and spices in the air. The familiar stone underfoot. Distant songs played in distant taverns. For the first time in months, you’re finally home.

It’s late, but there are still plenty of people milling around the Lower City - enough to make you blend in with the crowd, weaving through until you’ve finally arrived at your destination.

You brace yourself and knock, and find silence. Another knock, and then a voice responds, “Coming!” on the other side.

The door opens, and you find Karlach Cliffgate at the other side.

It’s been so long since you’ve received a hug that you’d almost forgotten what it felt like. But Karlach takes one look at you, eyes widening, and pulls you into a bone-crushing, soul-healing hug that could chase away even the darkest night.

“Soldier, is that you?” she asks, her voice wobbling a little. “Gods, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not been the same, going to that tavern and not having you there. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

“I think I have a clue,” you tell her, choking out the words between your ribs being crushed.

She releases you and grins, ushering you and Astarion inside.

“Friend of yours?” she asks, and you nod. The alternative is not something you’re keen on at the moment. You’re just about to introduce them to each other when another voice comes from your side - a voice you know very well.

“Would you look who it is!”

Wyll Ravengard steps forward, every inch a distinguished gentleman, and every bit of tension you might have about him dissolves when he pulls you in for a hug, too. “Well, well,” he says, grinning widely as he pulls back. “In the flesh. Newly married, if I’ve heard right!”

“Married?” Karlach asks. “What? Tell me that isn't true.”

“Oh, but it is,” Wyll says. “Tell me - how does it feel, my friend? Being a newlywed?”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, and you finally let it pull into a full smile. All these months of misery and here you are, as close to home as you can possibly get, warm and with your friends.

“Horrible,” you answer. “But that reminds me. Everyone, this is Astarion. Astarion, this is… everyone.”

In the midst of this, still wearing his cloak, Astarion looks to be two things: uncomfortable, and very out of place.

“It’s good to meet you,” Karlach says, stepping forward and extending her hand. “I’m Karlach.”

She’s scarcely dropped his hand when Wyll is there, shaking it with a new, dashing smile. “And I’m Wyll,” he says. “Though, most people call me the Blade of Frontiers.”

“The Blade of Frontiers?” Astarion asks, looking to you for confirmation. “You keep famous company.”

“You’ve heard of me?” Wyll asks. “I’m flattered.”

“Indeed I have,” Astarion says. “Fighting off monsters on the Sword Coast? You’ve made quite the name for yourself.”

“I’ve only sought to rid the world of what seeks to harm it,” Wyll responds. Humble as always. His gaze turns over Astarion and sharpens a little. A form of suspicion.

Karlach’s looking him over, too, but her gaze is much less severe and much more admirational. She’ll probably adore him, despite his sharp edges. The room goes silent for a moment, and the realization of who Astarion is seems to settle in.

“So,” Karlach says, “this is your… husband? And…”

All of them seem reluctant to finish her words, so you do it.

“The prince, yes.”

There’s a long beat.

“Hey - what are we doing?” Karlach finally exclaims, breaking through the awkward silence. “This calls for a celebration! It’s not every day that an old friend gets married! And I wasn’t even invited.”

You grimace, though you know she’s just teasing. What you wouldn't have given to have her there, riling the crowd and making you smile. “If it’s any consolation, I had no control over the invites.”

“Nah, don't worry about it,” she says with a grin. “I’ll bet it was boring anyhow.”

And, gods, it really was.

She leads the three of you into the dining room, gesturing for you and Astarion to sit at the table. Astarion removes the cloak from his head, lightly tapping his fingers against the wooden table, but you can tell he’s still anxious.

Wyll takes a seat across from the two of you, and Karlach grabs hold of some Ithbank, pouring all of you a glass.

“So,” she says, clearly trying to mask her curiosity. “What brings you here, Your… Highnesses?”

“Please don’t call me that,” you request, laughing a little. You sink back into your seat, pulling your glass toward you, and sigh. Your skull is throbbing with the telltale signs of an oncoming headache. “As for why we’re here? Let me down this drink first. I’ll need it for the story I’m about to tell.”

Karlach and Wyll take your story better than you’d thought they would.

You leave out some choice details, of course: Astarion’s vampirism, the Gur hunter. Wyll’s brow furrows when you mention his father’s involvement with Calthir, but he doesn't interrupt. You allow Astarion to chime in with as much information as he’s willing to share during the sore subjects, and soon the four of you are sitting in silence.

“I cannot fucking believe they took you prisoner,” Karlach bursts out. “They’re supposed to follow what you want, not… force you into their own plan!”

“That’s royalty for you,” Astarion snipes dryly, taking a sip of his wine. “Trust me, it could have been worse.”

“So I’ve heard,” Wyll replies. “As terrible as it sounds, the two of you got lucky. My father… I can’t believe he’s truly involved. Not of his own will, at least.”

You don't want to believe that this situation could have been any worse, considering the letter you’d found, but the fact that Astarion is at your side says enough. They could have killed him at any time. Despite your stubbornness and your threats, you would have been powerless to stop them.

As for Wyll’s father, it wouldn’t surprise you if Aris had been lying to you about Duke Ravengard’s involvement. She’d lied about nearly everything else. Still, something doesn’t feel right. Guilt slithers through your ribs like vines, crawling between bone and blood. You’ve put everyone here in danger by coming to them like this.

“I’m so sorry for roping the two of you into this mess,” you tell Karlach and Wyll. “I didn't know where else to go, and-”

“Stop that,” Karlach interrupts. ���Stop that right now. I’m happy to have you here, soldier, you know that. Whatever happens, I’m at your side. Alright?”

“As am I,” Wyll agrees. “If what you say is true, then we may just be looking at a full-blown war on our hands. Whatever danger lies ahead, the Blade of Frontiers is ready to meet the call.”

“Oh!” Karlach says suddenly, “and Gale will be here in the morning! He’ll want to help, too!”

Your brows rise. “Gale? He’s in the city?”

“Wizard stuff,” Karlach explains. “I don't know much about it, to be honest. There’s that bookshop he likes here, you know? I invited him over for breakfast - thought it might do him good to see some friends. We can tell him what’s happened as soon as he arrives.”

“Thank the gods,” you murmur.

If Gale decides to help with your cause, then you’ll have gathered a formidable little team. Not enough to hold off Calthir’s entire army, of course, but enough to delay your capture and figure out some way out of this.

You finish off your Ithbank, and find your eyes heavy. It’s been a long day, and your body is aching and tired. Karlach must notice, because she leans forward and examines your eyes.

“You two look exhausted,” she says. “I’ll fix up a bed for you, alright? We’ll talk more in the morning.”

You drag yourself behind her like a corpse, following her to your makeshift bedroom.

“Are you two alright sharing a room?” she asks.

You glance toward Astarion, and he raises a brow. The two of you have been sleeping in the same bed or the same tent for months now. There’s no reason not to continue that, really.

“That’ll be fine,” you tell her.

She leads you in and fluffs up the sheets, pointing out the bath and extra blankets. You know this already, of course, having been here dozens of times, but Astarion doesn’t. He listens without a word.

Just before retreating, Karlach pulls you into another hug. “I’m glad you’re here, soldier,” she says, letting you go. “Get some rest, yeah?”

“I can’t thank you enough for taking us in,” you reply. “I owe you.”

She nudges your shoulder. “The only thing you owe me is five gold from the bet you lost on Returning Day, alright? Hush up and go to bed.”

She leaves without another word, and it’s all you can do to kick off your boots and climb in bed before you’re lost to the world.

tags: @amica-aenigmata-naboo @sadslasher13 @peachy-possum @the-lonely-abyss @maddiedrmr @starved-kitten @catching-fire-in-the-wind @aoirohi @g0retash

[polyamorousmood]

Hi I need some advice.

So I identify as poly even tho ive never had a poly relationship before and made that very clear to my girlfriend before we started dating. She said she was fine with it, and that we could always discuss terms when I start to like another person. We've been dating for a year, and I'm starting to like one of our mutual friends. I was excited to tell my girlfriend, but when I did she freaked out about it and said she couldn't do it. Because she was freaking out, I said it was OK and agreed to be in a mono relationship (I often will say anything to get someone to calm down, and I know that's a flaw of mine which is why I was open about everything before anything was at stake). I don't think I am OK with it, but they way she spoke about it sounds like she won't be convinced either.

I feel like I was lied to? And now I'm in this situation I didn't want, but I don't want to break up with her because I do love her. Functionally our relationship is the same as it always was so maybe I can handle it, but I just don't understand why she would have such a negative reaction when she seemed completely OK with it at the beginning.

I mean... maybe she said it was okay when it wasn't for a similar reason you did? Because she wanted to make you happy more than she wanted to dig into the issue? While I understand this probably felt like a major gut-punch after you made a point to be open about it, it seems to me unfair you'd hold her to a higher standard than you're holding yourself now wrt voicing what you'd be okay with.

Anyway, TL;DR: I think y'all both need to "come to Jesus."

What do I mean by that.

You need the classic Uncle Iroh moment

And it really, really fucking sucks, but you both will have to consider if the life you want -- poly for you, monog for her -- is feasible with each other. I'm sorry, I know it hurts even to think about, but even if everything gets worked out, you will have to think about the possibility it won't first.

First, you're going to have to bring it up again, and explain its importance, and explain your confusion, and acknowledge this is clearly difficult for her. I think a strong possibility is that she's okay with you dating someone else, but not someone she knows. It being her friend may be the sticking point! I've found a lot of people don't consider that a possibility until they're confronted with it, and it drudges up a lot of bad feelings and anxieties that you "always really wanted them and not me," so that's worth investigating.

... Its also really possible she never gave it a ton of thought and assumed it was never really gonna happen🫤. Its also possible your timing was just shit in a way you're not mentioning (maybe didn't even think of!) like, if you mentioned it a week after y'all Had A Talk™️about her feeling really insecure lately, I can see how that could cause her some panic. You are just going to have to grit your teeth and talk🗣️. It is the ONLY path forward that has a chance of everyone feeling fulfilled. Which to me at least, makes it the only path forward, period ⏺️ It sucks. Its hard. You'd rather saw off your toes.

But here's the secret -> people regret more the things they didn't do than the things they did do. A life spent wondering is generally much harder than anything else.

So if after you talk to her, she does have a problem with polyamory, there are only a few options for how this shakes out:

You never get the polyamory. Either because you kept your mouth shut 🙊 or because you asked and it was clearly never going to be okay with her. You stay with her forever and cut off this desire of yours to make her happy. Most poly people find this a very constricted existence.

She consents to polyamory even though she doesn't like having to share you. You guys broker some sort of compromise. Maybe she comes around, but maybe its always a sore spot, and she always feels like she's settling for half a relationship.🌗

You break up💔. Maybe now, maybe after years of trying and failing to do one or both of the first two options.

That's all there is. There's room within those categories, of course, but every outcome is one of those three. Give each of them their fair consideration, because there are some major, long-term pros and cons with each of them, and you need to know what you're signing on for. Oh, and if you're not willing to talk about it? You're locking yourself into the first one. Maybe she's worth it to you, but if that's the choice you're making, you cannot hold that choice against her later, because she won't even have realized you made it if you don't talk about it.

And if you do broker some sort of deal, you better fasten your seatbelt. Because you will have to talk about things she's uncomfortable with very regularly. Accept that right the fuck now. You know its true. You know that even if she understands, there will be new situation after new situation you will have to go through together. And a lot of them will be hard on her. And it will be on your shoulders to see her through.

This is, without exaggeration on my part, one of the worst situations to be in ever. My heart goes out to you.💝 I hope from the depths of my soul there's some sort of misunderstanding that gets resolved without much drama, and you're all okay. I am also truly sorry if that sounded harsh, but I don't want you to waste your time looking for miracle fixes. Everything from this point on will be messy and labor-intensive, but I hope it can be a labor of love.

Wising you the strength to see yourself to a life you love 💙💖🖤

[softshuji]

10:54PM | HANMA SHUJI  

cw: use of pet names (doll, sweetheart, best girl), brief mentions of violence, briefly suggestive, mentions of possessiveness, likes and reblogs appreciated!

Hanma Shuji is quiet tonight, in a way he never usually is. Usually he's loud, boisterous, flirty and his laugh is a deep rumble that reverberates from his chest. He's mysterious, and teasing and quick to grin at you, his eyes flecked with gold.

Today he's uncharacteristically quiet, sullen you might even be tempted to say. It’s in the way he drags his feet into the house, curses when he trips over the carpet and shuffles to the bedroom, in the way he prods at the dinner you've made, his forehead creased with concentration, his foot tapping incessantly against the floor. You're watching him from beneath your lashes, your eyebrows furrowed as his lips part. He clicks his tongue, shakes his head and clenches his jaw as his knee bounces under the table.

He opens his mouth, closes it again, his fork tapping against the ceramic plate and the silence is almost unbearable in your house that is usually so thrumming with his laughter. You're about to make a comment, reach out a hand to touch him, trace your thumb along the scars on his knuckles when he suddenly stands and stalks off towards the bedroom and you're left staring at the space, at the abandoned plate that's barely been touched. Something stirs in your chest. It starts as a faint flicker of anxiety, a snake coming to life around your heart.

But by the time you've tentatively knocked on the bedroom door, the coil of tension is tight and taut as a wire, digging its way into the lining of your stomach. Your plate sits abandoned with his on the table. 

'Shuji?' Your head pops around the door, your voice quiet and prodding all at once. 

There is no lilting laughter from the other side this time, no teasing. Just a subdued and wordless assent and when you step over the threshold of your shared bedroom, the lights dim, the shadows of the street lights snaking up the wall. 

His back is facing you, his shoulders curved inwards, his shirt falling over the swell of his arms, deep skin flashing a burnished bronze. The hair at the nape of his neck curls towards his ears. 

‘Shuji sweetness?’ You try again, the light from the hallway leaking into the room. Your steps are soft, hesitant as you pad to the bed, running a hand over the duvet pulled up to his torso, his hair spilling in gold and copper across the pillow.

He glances back once, hands tightly clenched around the corners of the blanket, before his eyes drift back to the spot on the wall, his mouth parted. His lips are dry, you realize, the skin under his eyes sallow and pale as he sags further into the bed.

You bite your lip, your tongue heavy in your mouth, the tension coating your teeth. You hear his stomach thrum with hunger and it sends a spasm of concern rushing through your veins.

You lift the duvet and Shuji shivers when the cold air kisses the bare skin of his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His shirt has ridden up and his abs flex with the sudden chill.

You slip into the bed, pull the covers tightly over the both of you and Shuji exhales, his breath coming in shudders. The light from the parted curtain falls in slices on the discarded suit on the floor, a crumpled heap, red spots and blotches on the collar, creases that are sharp as a knife against the clean white of his shirt. You slide your arms around him, your hands finding purchase on the smooth planes of his stomach and the dips in his hips and pelvis that are perfectly curved to fit your palms, as if his body was made for you to fit against.

‘You’ve been quiet today.’ A whisper against the flesh pulled tight across his shoulder, your breath a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades. You press your lips to the bones jutting out, the curve of his spine that curls all the way down and he releases a shaky breath, involuntarily pressing himself against you. 

He clears his throat and his arms slide against yours. ‘You miss my voice that much Doll?’ His voice is hoarse and dry with disuse, sluggish and languid as sleep tugs at his eyelids. 

You hum and your arms tighten around him. ‘You know that I do.’ Any other time, you’d joke about it, tease him if only to hear that deep chuckle rumbling from his chest, but tonight, you only murmur your truths into his skin. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing sweetheart,’ he says and his eyes flick to the ceiling, where a spider weaves a silky soft web, undulating against the fixture in the roof. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell you. He does. But the words are thick in his mouth and his head is a maze of confusion. How does he explain that mass of voices in his head or the weight of memory that is a burden on his shoulders?

He glances once, to the crumpled suit on the floor, to the patch of red that looks more brown now, and he shivers, flinches almost, when your fingers lightly trace a circle on his abdomen.

You can still smell the scent of gunpowder on his neck, the tinge of fire and aftershave, smoke and blood and all of it clings to him like a second skin. Even still, your nose brushes the crook of his neck as you hoist yourself up to slot your chin against the curve.

‘S’not nothing, tell me,’ you say, your voice muffled by his skin, a breathy whisper against the silence. ‘It’s okay.’

His eyebrows knit together as the words churn on his tongue and he feels them out, chews them up before he speaks.

He digs up the memory, lets it hook its claws into him again. 

A baby, a pram, a wail in a park as he walks past. The strange sense of abandonment, the pram facing away from him as the child inside cries, screams its lungs out and Hanma Shuji is rooted to the spot, eyes frozen, locked on the slow shake of the pram swaying in the wind. He considers going over, and his usual sure-footedness suddenly betrays him when his feet waver, torn between staying and walking away. But the crying is so deafeningly loud, and Hanma Shuji feels a little cramped, like his tie is suffocating him and he needs to leave immediately. 

So he does. And the crying recedes as he puts more distance between him and the baby in the park and he wonders at what manner of parent leaves a child and never looks back. And the mountain of corpses beneath his feet laughs as he runs as if to mock his hypocrisy.

‘I saw a kid,’ he says, his voice a faint mumble under the thwack of branches on the window, muffled by the mounds of cotton against him. ‘Just sitting there in the park alone, crying.’

You wait, your thumb brushing the fine hairs on his stomach as it flexes under your touch. 

‘And all I could think was, how many kids I’ve left without parents because I killed ‘em in the next room. Stupid right?’ He hates the words even as they drip from his mouth, hates the self-consciousness in them, hates that you have to hear this from him. He forces a laugh, his shoulders rigid with tension under your cheek.

Underneath it all, underneath the mountains of guilt, an image sits at the back of his mind, and he wonders who this golden-eyed boy is that he often remembers, sitting on a step and waiting for someone who never came. He wonders where the guardians of that boy went, and why they never came back for him, why he grew up in the company of motorbikes and guns.

You tug on his shoulder, and his body comes towards you, his head moving to rest against your chest. His hair tickles your throat, the curls falling forward over his forehead, and in this light his eyes are haunting as they shine, bronze and copper and your reflection swirling in liquid gold. You think you could get lost staring at them, at the molten pooling inside.

‘It’s not stupid,’ you say and bring his knuckles to your mouth to kiss, each one littered with scars and cuts, your lips brushing over the black ink of sin and punishment. You kiss his wrists, the crown of his head and Shuji feels something painful in his chest at the tenderness. 

You don’t say it’s okay, you know it isn’t. You know it can’t be fixed with something like that. You know you can’t unwrap the layers of guilt, the convoluted webbing of who he is, the longing, the abandonment, the way he yearns. So you let him sit with his grief, nurture it and let it spend itself till it withers like a leaf in winter.

‘Don’t deserve this. Don’t deserve you.’ His lips pressed to your heart. 

You think of the man you met all the way back then. A man that had only just left boyhood behind trailing in his wake. You think of the boy, witty, sharp, quick to smile, and even quicker to grin. You think of that boy turning up his perfect nose at the fathers and mothers who swung kids on their arms between them, out of jealousy maybe, kicking stones at his feet and telling himself it didn’t really matter at the end of the day because what does a gang member need parents for?

And it’s not that he particularly cares. He’s filthy rich now, has more money than he knows what to do with, a partner he’d kill for. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about it, the Mother who probably traded him for quick cash, or left him in a coin locker after birthing him in a toilet in some seedy brothel.

You purse your lips and your thumb brushes the fine bones in his spine. As invincible as he is, the life underneath the bravado is fragile. You know he could die any day, that maybe a night like tonight will be the one you dread, where he never comes back. The thought has a lump coagulating in your throat, pressing so hard against your chest that tears prick unbidden at your eyes. 

‘Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that.’ A whisper against the golden wisps of his hair. 

His breath rattles and he shudders as his arms tighten around you. Your hands brush the swell of his biceps, his forearms, thumbs tracing the veins. He is so alive, so big and beautiful. You wonder if he knows that, how much space he takes, how grateful you are for all the infinity that makes him up, the vastness of him. 

‘Don’t leave,’ he says and his eyes snap to you, his features naked. The mask slips in a bare moment of vulnerability and there is no sign of that quick-witted smile, that boyish grin that’s usually so eager to tug at his lips. ‘Don’t leave me Y/N.’ 

It’s a plea masked as an order, a gift. A cat presenting a mouse as a token of love. 

Your eyes soften and the tear track on your cheek burns with the salt of your tears flowing freely. ‘Could never leave you Shuji. You’re mine. You’re my pretty partner in crime.’ 

Your hand moves to cup his jaw and your thumb skims the cut of his cheekbones, high and sharp, his lips, perfect and pink and belonging to you. You press your mouth to the corner and they part, his throat bobbing up and down as his eyes flutter shut, his long lashes kissing his cheeks. 

When he opens his eyes, there is you, only you with your frame outlined in perfect gold, your silhouette a ring of light. 

‘You’re getting soft on me Doll,’ he says and the tension breaks, a crack in the glass that has the sharp zing of trepidation unfurling like a curtain in the breeze. 

You giggle and Shuji’s chest trips at the sound, at the sniffle that comes after. He smiles against your collarbone, the first of the night. It feels almost foreign after a day spent frowning and chewing on his lip. His skin is tight with anxiety still, as if his mouth is only just remembering how to do it.

‘You won’t leave me either?’ You look down at him, his cheek pressed to your chest, hair tickling the hollow of your throat. You hope the nervous edge of your voice isn’t noticed at all.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘You’re mine aren’t ya? My best girl.’ He grins outright now, moves a hand to grip your hip and pull you flush against him and your pelvis knocks against his and all the while you hope the mahogany brown seeping in through the window hides your face enough not to betray the heat on your cheeks. 

‘So this means we’re stuck with each other then?’ You feign a huff.

‘Looks like it.’

‘Good.’ A chuckle, light and airy. ‘Not letting anyone else have you.’ 

He raises an eyebrow at you and tilts his head. ‘I like this possessiveness in you. It’s sexy.’ 

You swat at him and jab his side lightly and he laughs, a full hearty sound that has your chest bursting at the seams. 

You wonder if it is possible for you to tire of that sound. Without much thought, you find you have your answer already.

a/n: This was an idea I'd been tinkering with for weeks, and I love the idea of writing a shuji that's secretly a little insecure, and fears that one day he will outlive his usefulness to others ( a baby), it was a common practise for mothers with unwanted babies to use coin lockers to abandon babies (you only needed a small coin to rent them) so I went with it, it was something I discovered in a book called Coin locker babies, highly recommend!. This was also secretly for my shuji baby, i figure i owe you a lil present <3

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @mxnjiros @islascafe @swqllen @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @laziestdaisies @wotakuhime @snakegentleman @severellamahottub @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @nafarsiti @invisible-cardigan-33 @alias-sano @crown5 @clovcly @oikawascutie @the-travelling-witch @michiphoria @rottingreveries @qiiuusoup @hoetani @sinfulseashell @welcome-to-the-internet-it-sucks @obitohno @anxious-cherry-pie @oikawascutie @tetsutits @jojxba let me know if you'd like to be added!

[sicknessbysalem]

can you do a fic where meadow has a stomach flu and ends up having really bad diarrhea and vomiting. Maybe she has to run off stage but she ends up having an accident and gets comforted by one of her coworkers, an significant other or a friend because of how sick she is

tw for emeto, fever, scat (in conjunction with emeto), stomach virus

fun fact: novak is connected to meadow! well, by a few degrees separation but you know its fine

Friday nights were always the busiest at Whiskey Creek Tavern. Meadow knew that. Arizona and Allie had taught her that. Even April taught her that.

Meadow loved Friday nights though. She really did. The energy in the tavern was always bright and energetic, and for being what it was, most of the people who came in were very respectful and there were rarely belligerent drunks and disrespectful patrons. 

Meadow also loved the energy of Friday nights to perform. She loved Friday nights. Most Friday nights anyway. She was, however, worried about tonight. 

It started this morning, when she woke up with her stomach in knots. Tea didn't help, in fact it made her stomach worse. About an hour before Meadow was supposed to leave for work, she found herself in the bathroom, shaky and queasy as she brushed her teeth. 

Her stomach turned. She stood over the toilet, spitting. She didn't vomit, she felt like she needed to. Or needed something, anything. 

Her lower stomach cramped. She had to sit down on the toilet. A violent spell of diarrhea left her shaking even worse. 

She was late. Fifteen minutes, actually. April didn't mind though. Maybe she knew Meadow wasn't feeling well

As the afternoon stretched into evening, the tavern came alive. There were people, ordering food and ordering drinks. Local musicians took turns on the stage. They played originals, did covers, kept the crowd engaged. At one point, someone turned on a football game. Meadow caught a few moments, smiling as she recognized the quarterback of one of the teams. 

Number 17. Landon. Her brother. 

She waited tables, cleaned them, and for a bit thought maybe, just maybe, she could forget she was even feeling questionable in the first place. 

But then after leaning over to clean a table, her floral corset seemingly digging into her stomach, Meadow had to excuse herself to the bathroom. More diarrhea, she had to grab the bathroom trash bin to heave, though it was all dry. It took her a good ten minutes to get herself back in order. 

As Meadow composed herself in the bathroom, trying to push past the waves of nausea and discomfort, she couldn't shake the worry that Landon would notice something was wrong. She took a deep breath, splashing cool water on her face to quell the queasiness.

When she returned to the bar, she spotted Landon sitting at a table near the stage, surrounded by friends and fans. His presence brought a mix of pride and anxiety to Meadow's heart. She wanted to greet him with a smile, to show him that she was fine, but the persistent ache in her stomach made it challenging to mask her discomfort.

Her and Landon didn't see each other much. He was always busy, raining and leading his team and traveling for games. He had his life, he had his friends. As did Meadow. 

Meadow forced herself to focus on her tasks, refilling glasses and taking orders with a practiced ease. The evening wore on, the lively atmosphere of the bar contrasting with the turmoil inside Meadow. She stole glances at Landon whenever she could, a mix of admiration and apprehension swirling in her mind.

At one point, Landon caught her eye and waved her over. Meadow plastered on a smile, ignoring the twinge of nausea that threatened to resurface.

"Hey sis, great to see you!" Landon greeted her with a warm hug as Meadow tried not to flinch at the pressure on her stomach. "How's it going?"

"Hey Landon, good to see you too!" Meadow replied, mustering all her strength to appear cheerful. "Just another busy night at the bar."

"That corset really brings out your eyes," A blond guy with long hair said to her.

"Novak, dude," Landon said, "That is literally one of the gayest things I've heard you say."

"My girlfriend is a figure skater," Novak said, "She's trained me in observing aesthetics. And my mom is an artist, so again, aesthetics."

"The fact you know the word 'aesthetic' and can use it correctly does not help your case bud," Landon said. 

Landon glanced at her, his keen eyes narrowing slightly. "You sure you're okay? You look a little pale."

Meadow forced a laugh, brushing off his concern. "Oh, you know me, always working too hard. I'm fine, really."

But as she turned to attend to other customers, the discomfort in her stomach intensified. She struggled to maintain her composure, the urge to rush to the bathroom becoming harder to ignore.

After a particularly long wait at the bar, Meadow excused herself under the guise of checking on something in the back. She hurried to the bathroom, her steps unsteady as she fought the urge to be sick again.

As she leaned over the sink, trying to calm her racing heart, she heard a knock on the door.

"Meadow, are you okay in there?" Landon's voice carried concern through the door.

Meadow took a deep breath, trying to steady herself before responding. "Yeah, just... not feeling my best tonight. I'll be out in a minute."

She splashed more water on her face, hoping to hide the strain in her voice when she emerged from the bathroom. But as she returned to the bar, she knew that keeping up the facade of wellness was becoming increasingly difficult.

As Meadow tried to focus on her tasks, the discomfort in her stomach escalated. She couldn't shake off the feeling of nausea, and every movement felt like a struggle. Despite her best efforts to push through, she knew that something was wrong.

When it was time for her to perform on stage, Meadow summoned all her strength and determination. She took a deep breath, strumming her guitar and starting her set. But as the first notes escaped her lips, a wave of dizziness hit her like a freight train.

She stumbled mid-song, the room spinning around her as she struggled to perform. She never struggled to perform. Not like this.

"I'm so sorry," Meadow managed to gasp, her voice strained with effort. "I need... I need to go."

Houston, another musician who often performed at the bar, stepped in seamlessly, taking over the stage as Meadow hurried towards the bathroom.

But Meadow didn't make it far. The combination of nausea, dizziness, and weakness overwhelmed her. She covered her mouth, but liquid spurted out from behind her hand, on the wall.

Someone cursed. Meadow felt someone's hands on her. She wanted to punch, to fight, something. She didn't trust people putting their hands on her. But she saw him.

Blond hair. He was tall. His hair was long. Well, past his shoulders she supposed, longer than she usually saw. The guy from the table. Noah? Nick? Meadow couldn't remember.

"Meadow, what happened? Are you okay?" He asked, his voice filled with genuine worry.

Meadow could barely speak, her body wracked with spasms of nausea and pain. She stumbled towards the bathroom with his support, but before she could reach the relative privacy of the restroom, she doubled over, unable to hold back any longer.

"Okay, here, in there," He had said, "I'm going to get Landon for you, you probably trust him more than me."

Meadow stumbled into the bathroom. She needed to get to the toilet. She was going to vomit. She'd been feeling it all day and now it was happening. 

Her corset felt like it was clawing her gut, she gagged. Her stomach seized. A thick wave of vomit splattered into the toilet. She felt her hair sticking to her face. Her stomach lurched again. She felt something. Her stomach pulled, and as embarrassing as it was, she felt something in her pants she wore under her skirt.

In a panic, she pulled everything down. She pulled off the pants, but the skirt stayed in her lap. If someone came in the last thing she wanted was to be naked. 

Meadow's breaths came in ragged gasps as she leaned over the toilet, her body trembling with the force of the sickness. The bout of diarrhea had only exacerbated her already unsettled stomach, and now she was faced with a messy and humiliating situation.

Desperation fueled her actions as she tried to manage the chaos erupting within her body. With her corset digging into her abdomen and her hair clinging to her sweaty forehead, Meadow's mind raced with thoughts of how to handle the situation discreetly.

As another wave of nausea hit her, Meadow's instincts kicked in. She used her skirt as a makeshift catch for her vomit, the fabric quickly becoming stained and soaked with the mess. She grimaced, the embarrassment of the situation washing over her.

She felt more vomit rushing up her throat, but that time she was able to grab the trash can. She was such a mess, she knew she was. It was a humiliating and agonizing experience as Meadow was sick from both ends, her body wracked with the violent upheaval of whatever had been ailing her all evening. 

-

"Landon, hey," Novak said, looking over his shoulder and back to Landon, "The girl with the flowers in her hair…"

"Yeah, Meadow," Landon said, "My sister. She just left the stage-"

"She's sick," Novak said, "Like, really sick."

"What do you mean she's-"

"Like Sacramento," Novak said, "She looked and sounded every bit as bad as I was in Sacramento."

"Wait but you were like, dying," Landon said.

"Yeah, swear you threw up half your body weight," Henry said, "Not to mention, you know, everything el-"

Landon smacked Henry upside the head.

"I'm well aware," Novak said, "And thoroughly traumatized. But, seriously. Your sister seems real sick."

"I'm the last person that should help her. I love her but she's closer to the Dixon's," Landon said, "I'll grab Arizona. Thanks."

Landon got up, going to hunt down Arizona. 

Landon's heart raced with worry as Novak's words sank in. He had seen Novak battle through illness before, and if Novak was comparing Meadow's condition to that experience in Sacramento, it was serious.

"Henry, keep an eye out for her," Landon instructed, his voice tight with concern. "Novak, you okay?"

Novak nodded, but the concern in his eyes mirrored Landon's own worry. "I'll be fine. Just... keep an eye on her, okay?"

Landon nodded, already planning his next steps. He knew Meadow well enough to sense when something was seriously wrong, and Novak's comparison to Sacramento had set off all his alarms.

He hurried through the crowded bar, weaving between tables and patrons, until he spotted Arizona chatting with a group of regulars near the entrance. Arizona was like a sister to Meadow, always looking out for her and offering support in times of need.

"Arizona, I need your help," Landon said, his urgency evident in his tone as he approached her.

Arizona's smile faltered as she registered the seriousness in Landon's expression. "What's wrong? Is it Meadow?"

Landon sighed, "I don't know. Novak said he saw her go into the bathroom and says she's really sick, so."

"Yeah, her leaving the stage like that was concerning," Arizona said. 

Together, Landon and Arizona made their way to the bathroom where Novak had last seen Meadow. The bar's bustling ambiance seemed to fade into the background as they focused on reaching Meadow as quickly as possible.

When they arrived at the bathroom, Landon knocked gently on the door. "Meadow, it's Landon and Arizona. Can we come in?"

There was a moment of silence before Meadow's weak voice replied, "Yeah, come in."

"Just wait here," Arizona said, "Just in case."

Landon nodded.

"Meadow, sugar, what's going on?" Arizona's voice was tinged with concern, her Appalachian dialect adding a comforting familiarity to her words.

Meadow took a deep breath, trying to steady herself despite the churning in her stomach. "I don't rightly know, Arizona. Woke up this mornin' feelin' like a hound dog's chew toy. Thought I could make it through the day, but seems like my insides had other plans."

Arizona's brow furrowed with worry as she glanced at Landon, who stood nearby with a concerned expression. "You been sick all day?"

Meadow nodded weakly. "Couldn't keep anythin' down since this mornin'. Tried teas, crackers, even that ginger ale trick folks swear by. Nothin' seemed to settle my stomach."

Landon frowned, his worry deepening. "Maybe we should get you to a doctor, Meadow. This sounds serious."

Meadow shook her head adamantly, her stubborn streak shining through despite her discomfort. "No hospitals, Landon. Ain't nothin' they can do for a stomach virus 'cept tell ya to rest and hydrate."

Arizona placed a comforting hand on Meadow's shoulder. "She's right, Landon. Sometimes these things just gotta run their course. You wanna take her home and look after her?"

"Yeah," Landon nodded, "I'll get her, don't worry."

[incorrect-koh-posts]

Your knowledge of medieval stuff is really impressive! You said in the tags of that ask you answered that you majored in literature? I would love to hear more about your passion for medieval literature and just medieval times in general. Did it start with Kingdom of Heaven or were you interested in it long before watching the film?

Ahh, I'm glad you think so, thank you! ☺️

I did my BA with a major in German literature and linguistics and a minor in English lit. For my MA (which I'm almost finished with save for my thesis defence), I switched to English full-time. My interest in medieval literature is really something that came with my studies - I've always had a general interest in history and read lots of historical fiction while in school, but I'd had basically no exposure to medieval texts (or the knowledge to engage somewhat meaningfully with them) until I had to take my first compulsory "Introduction to Medieval Literature" class at uni. From then on, I just kind of fell in love with the subject. We had a great prof - a really cool older lady who gave the most engaging lectures and with whom I later took seminars on topics like the medieval idea of monsters or animal depictions in chivalric romance.

Within all things medieval, the area that perhaps fascinates me the most is medievalism studies, which is a sort of sub-discipline of medieval studies that investigates, broadly speaking, the reception and depiction of the Middle Ages as well as medieval texts and topics in post-medieval media. Idk why it had to be that field in particular, but there's just something so beautiful in finding parallels and continuities between our world and the medieval one, especially since misconceptions about the Middle Ages are still so prevalent. Unsurprisingly, I wrote both of my dissertations on such medieval/modern overlaps: In my BA thesis I looked into the portrayal and function of mentor-mentee relationships in medieval literature and modern adolescent fiction (lots of commonalities there, interestingly enough!), whereas in my MA diss I focused on the construction of dystopian scenarios in recent British Arthurian fiction and how these respond not only to the older Arthurian material but also to present-day environmental and political anxieties. (Sounds a bit complicated but it makes sense, I promise.)

Perhaps this is why KoH has had such a chokehold on me these past 4 years. It's such a flawed piece of media that it makes me want to dig my teeth into it, in an academic as well as a fic-writing sense. There are so many moments in it that could be right out of a chivalric romance, yet also so many others where the film blows its pretence to historicity to all hell; there are so many interesting characters who only scratch at the surface of the historical figures behind them, and simply so much wasted potential. It's just ... ahhh.

The funny thing is that my growing interest in medieval literature kind of coincided with me discovering KoH, which in turn made me dig even deeper into the research side of things (a vicious circle lol). I think I wrote another post on this about a year ago, but me discovering - or rather re-discovering - Kingdom of Heaven was basically the result of the following chain reaction: I somehow stumbled upon an old novel covering the same events as KoH (Graham Shelby's The Knights of Dark Renown) > something in that book's depiction of Raymond of Tripoli scratched my brain in the right place > I investigated further and found KoH > I saw that skrunkly Mr Irons was part of the cast and decided I had to watch it immediately. In such matters I'm a simple girl - nothing will incite me to watch a film more than an old history man being hot 😂

And then half-way through the film I remembered I'd actually seen it before - with my former best friend during the early years of secondary school when she was obsessed (and by that I mean obsessed) with Orlando Bloom and made me watch literally every film with him that she could get her hands on. Which was a good thing only insofar as it made me discover Lord of the Rings. Though in hindsight it's very funny because she clearly intended for me to join her in her Orlando insanity, whereas confused 11-year-old me instead stared at Aragorn and Tiberias like this: 😳. Yes, I've always had impeccable taste, obviously.

And thus, in the spring of the year of our Lord 2020, I entered my KoH era, and so far the brainrot is still thriving.

I do wonder, though, how many people in the fandom have a similar background? The handful of people that I know or have interacted with seem to skew that way, with mostly history- or literature-related fields of study, but I wonder how representative they are of the overall fandom 🤔

In any case, thank you for the fun ask that did not flatter me at all!

[watatsumiis]

Orpheus' Mistake (Childe x Reader angst)

Summary: Childe would follow you anywhere, regardless of whether you asked him to or not. The question remains, would you follow him?

A Childe x Reader oneshot, in which Childe descends into the Abyss to save the reader, on one condition - that he not look back on the way out.

Content: Gender neutral reader, angst, no comfort. Reader death. Vague implications of suicidal thoughts at the end. Not proofread (or reread for that matter)

Tap tap tap tap.

The Eleventh Harbinger’s footsteps sound empty and lonely in the halls of the Abyss. They always have. He tells himself. No matter how many monsters join the fray, humanoid or otherwise. My footsteps are all that can be heard. 

The urge to look back is like an itch he knows he isn’t allowed to scratch, a tickle in his throat that he doesn’t dare to cough out. He opens his mouth and tries to talk, to comfort you, to let you know that you’ll be out soon, but the Abyss eats his words like a starving creature, ravenous for everything he has to give and more.

What if they’re not there? Childe’s critical thinking skills don’t often kick in - most times they do, he immediately wishes they wouldn’t. 

Of course, it’s not that he doesn’t trust you. He’d trust you with his life, his favourite blade, his family, each and every single thing he has, he’d hand over to you a million times over. His love is like a tidal wave, crashing down and surrounding everything around you both. 

He can recall the faces of the abyssal creature that guided him, as clearly as he can recall yours. Its twisting tongues and branching horns, every single eye and tooth and scale as it rasped out its advice in a hollow voice that clacked dryly from its twisted maw. “They shall follow along behind as you leave the Abyss. You know the way.” Teeth and bone scraped as it had talked, convulsing as it spat the words out. The mere memory sends shivers down Childe’s spine anew. “Do not look back until you are on the surface, else the Abyss will know what they mean to you and take them, for good this time.” The guttural chitter it had let out was somewhat akin to a laugh. “Even one glance, and your love will be torn asunder without mercy.” 

Childe had always silently judged his fellow Harbingers for their zealous hate of the gods and higher powers of Teyvat, but now he’s starting to realise why they feel so strongly. A wretched feeling seeps down his shoulders, settling in his chest and in his gut, bubbling away like overcooked fat. 

Tap tap tap tap. Hollow  footsteps echo on.

Not knowing pains him, more than any battle wound he’s ever received, any hit he’s taken. He’s never been a patient man, and he’s not about to start, but he knows that for now, he has to be. 

He pictures your face as he pushes forward. It’s a paltry comfort compared to the real thing, but he forces himself to stay strong. 

My muse, my love. Childe gulps, and it sticks in his throat awkwardly like a fish bone gone down wrong. My reason for moving forward. My reason to fight. He brushes his fingers across one of his blades, and his chest aches. Every step feels like it takes a million years, every breath a million more. 

He’s not sure when the tears began streaking their way down his pale, freckled cheeks, but they’re there now, dripping openly onto his scarf. At least they don’t have to see me like this. He thinks wryly. It barely even provides a paltry amount of comfort. He scrubs at his face with his sleeve and forges onward, up the ever-spiralling steps. It can’t be far now. The thought is almost a prayer, a hopeless plea to the gods he ceased believing in the power of long, long ago, when he’d first fumbled his way into this dark, hateful place. 

The dreadful anxiety continues to linger in his mind. What if it lied? The voice whispers, digging cold claws into the spaces between his ribs and sucking all the air out of his diaphragm. He clenches his fists so hard his fingers feel numb. 

They wouldn’t abandon me. He knows this is a fact. They’d follow me to the ends of Teyvat. It provides him no solace now he knows your fate is at the whim of the Abyss. 

Just one little peek. The idea grasps his brain and won’t let go. One tiny look. Just to make sure. I need to know they’re with me. Before it’s too late. 

He clenches his jaw and tells himself no, but the feeling lingers, growing stronger and stronger, louder and louder, until it’s all he can think about. Worse even than the ringing in his ears. 

It’s starting to get lighter. Childe isn’t truly sure if that’s the case, or if he’s just fooling himself. He redoubles his pace, but time seems to melt together and spread out all at once. He can’t seem to keep track of the steps beneath his feet. I can’t take this. He speeds up again, and again, until he’s running. They’ll keep up with me. His faith in you is as strong as ever, but his belief in the ones pulling the strings is waning fast. 

It’s not until he slows down to catch his breath that it all hits him. He’s halfway through turning around before he catches himself. No. No no no. He closes his eyes and snaps his head forward once again, his heart fluttering like a trapped bird inside his chest. 

Childe stops dead in his tracks, unable to breathe around the lump in his throat. I can’t do it. I have to know. We can’t be far from the exit now. Just one look. And with that, he finally, finally glances over his shoulder.

His shoulders slump and all his worries disappear the moment he sees you there - a thin, wispy shadow, but you nonetheless. His heart soothed, he turns back. One look didn’t hurt. It’s fine. With that, he marches onward.

A few more steps up, and he’s met with a door that materialises seemingly out of thin air. A delighted laugh bubbles in his chest and is out of his mouth as he steps out of the Abyss once and for all, turning back as he steps onto the warm sand, a crooked grin still on his face as he sets his gaze on you.

He’s too distracted basking in his joy to realise that something’s wrong until it’s too late. Dark shapes surround you, taking hold and dragging you back before you can even make it to the door. 

Childe’s face falls, and his feet scramble on the sound as he tries to throw himself back in, only to collide with what feels like a solid wall. He pounds his fists against the invisible barrier as he watches how you get dragged back down, one arm outstretched as if he’s able to take it.

He throws everything he’s got at the barrier, as if that will somehow negate the very rules of the world he lives in. Every attack, every power, every curse and plea, but none of it budges the boundary between the dawn-soaked sand and the cold, dark Abyss you’re now trapped in. The door fades, and before he knows it, Childe is throwing violent attacks at the empty air, kicking up sand and screaming his wrath to the gods.

It’s my fault. The thought hits him like a blow to the chest as his legs give out beneath him and he stumbles into the warm sand, gloved fingers digging into the course material as he sobs dryly. It’s all my fault. He curses himself and his impatience. If I’d just waited. Just a little longer. They’d still be with me. He tries desperately to bargain with himself. I can get to the Abyss again. I can find them. He chokes on the feeling of hope rising in his throat, and it plummets down, back into nonexistence, into the Abyss that Childe holds inside of him, growing steadily larger with your absence. 

Tears soak into the sand, clumping it together in little brown spots as Childe’s shoulders shake. I had one chance. One chance. And I fucked it up. A short, sharp breath wheezes in and out of his throat, and an awful feeling prickles up his spine. I can’t stay here. I can’t. He drags himself up, wishing with his whole heart that it had been him who had been punished for his impatience and distrust instead of you. 

But he knows that this is simply the reality he lives in now, the cards he dealt himself, and he loathes it. He drags himself to his feet, draws his weapon, and begins the arduous trek in search of a fight.

For the first and last time in his life, Childe doesn’t step into battle for victory. Instead, it’s in hopes that, eventually, he will lose, and the gods might be kind enough to finally let you be together once and for all.

Please don't repost, steal, copy or otherwise plagiarise my writing! I do not consent for my works to be translated and posted elsewhere, or used to teach bots!

[tomodachikun]

TW WARNING: attempts and mention of suicide, panic attacks, death, blood and more. Leave or block if unsuited for such content, thank you.

Fear. Anxiety. Vulnerability—hopelessness

His vision left in a blur faded to black. His mouth ran dry like a lake in a drought. His jaw aches, teeth clenched to stop the chattering—failing pathetically. He was losing himself, he could feel it. Demented, dehumanizing thoughts swirled behind his head; his legs give up in exhaustion, and Xiao hits the ground.

Where is he? He tries not to give in, but his world spins and tilts, is he falling? Is he flying? His persona, his identity: his mask, it falls off his face; the mask on the floor smiles at him, its taunting scowl now directed at him, he is no longer the hunter—he’s the hunted: the demon. Numbness reaches his fingers first, in response, he balls his hands into a fist, nails digging into his palms, and he draws blood. His ears start ringing and his vision has gotten worst. All he can do is close his eyes, yet white spots dance behind them as if celebrating his end. He fights and fights and fights; it’s not enough—it’s never enough. Shortness of breath, he can’t breathe properly. He’s on his hands and knees, his arms feel wobbly—they give.

His forehead rest against the foliage, his face pressed against wet grass. Wet..g..rass? He’s now aware of his mindless drooling.

He managed to heave a weak laugh. It’s dry and coarse, it hurt his chest and causes him to spasm. It held bitter humor, he looked pitiful. He knew this was going to be the way he died, he was ready for it, always was. Yet, it hurt—his karma was chewing his insides and gnawing on his mind. He couldn’t scream if he wanted to, his throat collapsed on itself ages ago. His sense of direction and time is severely distorted; his cognitive perception and awareness are gone—he can hardly recognize anything, snuffed out. His legs, arms, and lower body is numb; his abdominal muscles spasm violently. It’s over for him.

It’s his time to leave, and for some reason, a goodbye never felt so hard to him. There’s a small light flickering inside of him, it screams and begs: I want to live! He bites his tongue—it’s one of the only things he can do, yet he can’t feel the pain. Before he knew it, hot tears build up in his eyes. With a ragged, bone-weary exhale, his heavy eyelids open. He can hardly see, his world is black and gray—his tears m start rolling down his face.

With the last of his energy, he opens his mouth and a blood-curdling scream rips through him. Instantly, he coughs out blood in a concerning amount. He keeps screaming and screaming until he physically cannot make any more sound. The numbness has already reached up to his neck so he cannot feel the agonizing pain his throat is going through. His jaw suddenly tenses—it locks and forces his mouth shut. The force causes his teeth to dig into his tongue, nearly severing it from his mouth,

His gray-scale vision finally starts turning black. But before it finally falls silent, two feet appear in his view. They stand in front of him, standing completely still, it’s a shame he can’t look up, but it’s too late for that anyways—his world has fallen dark…

Xiao can hear his pulse beating into his ears, his head throbs and he can control his breathing. He’s weak, his eyelids flutter but fail to open, and he can’t lift a finger either. A heavy weight on his back had lifted—wait. He can instantly tell a lot of his karma is gone. What…what the fuck happened to him?!

Xiao is panicked; he has been scared before—but he’s never this badly. Fear creeps into his bloodstream and into his lungs. His breathing has quickened (his chest hurts from earlier—he assumes it’s from karma). Adrenaline makes his heart pound, nothing makes sense anymore! He can’t see, his eyelids feel glued shut. He doesn’t know where he is and he has no idea if he’s even alive or not! The vulnerability his situation makes him feel causes him extreme discomfort! He can only think of the worst—Xiao is ignorant of the fact he’s going through a panic attack.

Before it can escalate further, a warm hand is pressed against his chest.

“Calm down…no one is here to hurt you. I am here.” Their voice is soothing, he can tell it held no ulterior motive. The hand presses more firmly, and that’s when he notices he’s shirtless. The hand is soft, and warm with life on his cold body.

“Breathe in for me..” he obliged, his chest expands—he was expecting his chest to hurt, but it never happens.

“Now, breath out..” the stranger lets out their own exhale, they are also doing it. Xiao exhales, it comes out shaky but he starts feeling much better. The process repeats until the stranger stops. His heart no longer beats with vigor and his mind is clear. The stranger turns quiet and lifts their hand, Xiao can still sense their presence.

“Do you have enough energy to open your eyes, Yaksha?” He doesn’t respond verbally but the messy attempt to open his eyes answers. The sudden breach of light causes Xiao’s pupils to dilate and a noise he’s never made before slips past his throat. It rumbles in his chest…did he just growl?

One eye squints as the other tries to get used to its surroundings. His blurry vision starts clearing up; he’s in a room, it’s roomy and decorated well, but that’s not his goal. His eyes shift to the direction of where the voice came from. Next to him on a chair, sits a woman.

Her appearance makes him scowl instantly. Thick, burly horns curl at the side of your head, your eyes look normal until they turn slit because of the look on his face.

“Demon” he spat, venom laced in his words. You aren’t phased and sigh through your nose, you point at his forehead.

“Yaksha. You aren’t looking too good yourself either.” Xiao’s nose scrunches up in confusion, he hesitantly reaches to touch his forehead. Thin, elongated horns expand from his forehead, similar to an oni’s. His blood runs cold, his heart drops into his stomach.

“It would be rather hypocritical to judge me when you are no different..” you murmur and Xiao picks up on it instantly. His hearing has always been good but now they feel heightened. He doesn’t respond to you, instantly getting out of your bed. He doesn’t get far, once his feet touch the floor, his weak legs cannot support him and he falls. You’re quick on your feet, catching him with ease and picking him up in your arms bridal style.

Xiao hisses, his new claws digging into your skin and drawing blood. You wince but continue to hold him tightly.

“Do not touch me, demon! You did this to me!” He sounds frantic, trying to squirm out of your grasp but failing miserably.

“When I found you—” you let out a pained grunt at Xiao’s resistance as you try and place him back in bed

“You were already like this. However, before you died…I ate some of your karma.” You sit back down when Xiao freezes in his spot. He looks at you with shocked eyes.

“I feed on negative energy—negative life force, anything that causes harm. It’s my appetite, it’s how I live longer. In response, my body adapts to the change—to my diet. I am not a demon, I just look like one. You, on the other hand, are one.”

“It’s impressive how long you were able to live during the karmic takeover. But, unfortunately, you were nearly done with the transformation, making you more demon than you are adept—”

“SHUT UP! STOP!…stop talking.” He cuts you off, and his now new demon eyes rapidly dilate and expand. His expression is one of disbelief: denial; he looks at his hand, seeing how long his nails have grown, he covers his face in shame. His shoulders tremble and you can tell he can’t accept the fact he’s changed. Your urge to give him space is overwhelming, but you soon realize in the state he’s in it would do more harm than good.

“Disgrac..eful—” his jaw clenches unbelievably tense, a thick vein appearing from the side of his neck. The scent of blood tickles over your nose, you almost miss it—the scent is almost nonexistent, even with a your nose like yours. A trickle of blood slides from the side of Xiao’s closed mouth, you suspect he must have sliced his tongue (again) open with his teeth, no—fangs.

The fingers of his free hand, the one laying on the bed, twitches. Your eyes almost don’t pick up on it. It happens once more.

Again.

and again.

Your nose picks up on it before your eyes—the smell of karma. Despite being in such a low quantity, the smell is pungent; easily making your nose burn and mouth salivate, as much as you hated to admit it, the Yaksha was your prey and you hated playing with food. You push those predatory thoughts away, watching Xiao with a close eye.

“Wor…th..less.” he’s mumbling to himself, the smell of karma grows steadily intense—and before you knew it, desperation and self loathe sprung into action.

It happened quicker than your brain could comprehend, the summon of the polearm—the speed of your reflexes. You move out of the chair with reckless motivation, sending it crashing to the ground. The polearm—meant for the practice of conquering demons pierced through your hand. Xiao—who was wielding the weapon—was trying to impale his own throat, the tip of the blade imperceptibly sinking into his throat, almost ending his life where he sat. The implantation of your hand kills the momentum enough to prevent Xiao from ending his life by a hair.

Both of you are aghast. More Xiao than you. His trembling only worsens, and his figure sat speechless, staring at the scene he had caused. He feels warm liquid dribble down his Adam’s apple, he can’t tell if it’s his or your blood. The part of the polearm that pierced through your hand is covered in blood, the sickly smell of iron twists his nose. He swallows, the tip of the blade grazes his skin uncomfortably.

White searing pain flashes through your hand, and you see and feel the blood slither down your arm. Your other arm shakily grabs the weapon, slowly moving it away from Xiao without having you feel more pain.

“Yaksha..” you growl menacingly, your breathing coming out in shuddering breaths, adrenaline creeping into your lungs. His expression doesn’t change: motionless, eyes widen with pupils uncontrollably dilating, unsteady breathing. Yet, you’re not livid, you don’t feel the blood-boiling rage slam in, despite the blood-curling pain.

“You need to calm down. Not for the sake of me—but for you.” He doesn’t respond but you can tell he comprehended your words. His eyes—filled with horror—stares at your hand. It’s still skewed by his spear, regret pangs through his heart. He…he just needed to calm down, right?!

How. how. how. HOW. HOW. HOW. HOW—

“Breathe in.” As if sensing his panic, you take a deep breath in, as if re-teaching Xiao how to do it. He blinks away his foggy vision, watching your chest expand as you take air into your lungs. With a rugged inhale, he takes a long gulp of air.

“Now breathe out.” You exhale, it’s shaky as you try now to focus on the throbbing pain in your palm. Xiao follows along quickly, holding it in for a few seconds before breathing in. He does it without your help and in a few minutes, he’s calm, no longer panicking like before.

The weapon disappears from thin air, leaving behind a trail of karma and anemo. You nearly cry in relief, running to your dresser to grab a roll of bandages and other medical necessities. Xiao watched emotionless as you clean the wound and wrap it in bandages. Your arms strain as you work, clearly just as stressed out as him. He takes notice of your odd way of taking care of a wound, it would be considered foolish and deadly in the eyes of a mortal doctor. But, that’s exactly it, you aren’t mortal. He doesn’t know what you are—god? adeptis? Demon?

You finish, ears twitching, and turning to Xiao, spotting him stare at you with deeply furrowed eyebrows. You open your mouth to question him but he hears you to the punch.

“Why did you do it.” He’s curt, voice soft hardly above a whisper. His hands squeeze the sheets, knuckle turning white.

“Why.”

“Because…” you give a shaky grin, picking up the fallen chair and sitting on it, looking Xiao in his eyes.

“I was just like you before: disgusted, afraid and horribly alone. I can help you—” his eyes widen

“But I can’t guarantee it’ll work—you’re too far into your transformation. However, I refuse to help if you don’t promise me one thing..” your pupils dilate at him, waiting for his response.

“If there’s any way I can rid myself of demon’s blood, to continue protecting Liyue—I’d do it, even if it trades me my life.”

You sigh through your nose, pulling your head back to stare down at him, your large horns shadowing over your face, leaning into your chair.

“Well, I guess your out of luck—” you wince as you move your injured hand to point at him

“—cause in exchange for me helping you, if all fails, you continue to live your life with the blood of a demon.” Xiao stiffens, face scowling instantly

“A life lost is a life wasted, and I hate the smell of blood.” Your pointed hand slowly forms into an open hand, expecting Xiao to shake your hand to seal the deal.

“If we have a deal, why don’t you shake a poor sinners' hand, Yaksha.”

Tomodachi add-on!: “When I saw that one Xiao video that was shown on Mihoyo’s page, I was sent into the heavens. I had a small writers block, and when I randomly get inspiration, I write something new and stop half way—and the cycle keeps going. Now I have uhm…at least 12 drafts of so much writing..

But, that video sent me back up and running! (I hope)”⤺ “translated” with love! (*≧∀≦*)

I don’t know if I should make a part 2. honestly? I really really enjoyed writing this! So, maybe—who knows~

[prinvessdior]

okay I decided to upload the first chapter here but please head to here for full updates :3!

CW: mentioned panic attack/ anxiety lots of it. Mentioned gun (never used) panicking. Kinda a bitchy bitch? Idk

(Y/n) wakes up in her new home headed to school. (Y/n) can’t help but click on an early morning live stream of the ninja. She keeps watching one specifically though. Weird things happen..

My alarm screaming at the crack of dawn is something I thought I should be used to by now. It apparently was not as I rolled over, burrito-fied in my blankets. Blindly reaching for my blaring phone I haphazardly press around on the screen. The alarm shuts off and I groan rubbing the sleep out of my bleary eyes.

The early morning sun casts a sheen of yellowish orange across the expanse of my room. Given it wasn’t really a room yet. Boxes stacked and filled the corners of my room, remnants of what I had left to unpack. A soft knock on my door has me (begrudgingly) sitting up.

My dad pops his head in through my door after I mumble a sleepy, “Come in.”

His black curls bounce as he swivels his head to find me still in bed. “Mornin’ babygirl.” He affectionately greets sending me a soft smile when I catch his gaze. I yawn holding a hand over my mouth to cover my manners and the noise.

“Morning Dad.” I pull the covers over my body once again the winter air sneaking in from my bedroom window when Dad cracks it open.

In his hand is a plate stacked with pancakes, eggs and bacon I hum happily as the smells wafts when he sets the plate on the table next to my bed. The only thing I bothered to unpack.

“Big day! Being the new girl is gonna be a lot, especially you so a special breakfast for my favorite daughter.”

I smiled tiredly, “But I’m your only daughter?” I reminded with a frown, he frowns taking a seat at the foot of my bed.

“Whatever.”

Dad digs in the pockets of his pink sleeping robe, I snort to myself that he’s still sleeping with that thing. I could vaguely make out the sound of something jingling.

He presented me with a set of car keys, blown wide awake I threw my covers off I started at dad wide eyed. “Hiram says since its your last year of high school, and almost an official adult, that you deserved some freedom.”

My smile grew in size, I all but snatched the keys throwing my arms around Dad, “Dad! Thankyouthankyou I’ll call dad after school and thank him too!” He chuckled returning my attack of a hug with one arm his free hand ruffling my hair.

I pulled away to inspect the keys closer, turning them over in my hand a few times. Oh! I’d seen these before!

“Oh God this is the car Mr. Cyrus gifted to dad right?” I asked remembering way back when Dad was first starting his school Mr. Cyrus Borg had donated a lot of cash to get it started, I can remember Dad repaying him with his own class at the school and dad got a car out of it, cool.

Dad nodded standing up, “Yeah, so don’t break it.” I huffed rolling my eyes.

“Eat up princess, I’m riding along I need the car for work. Regroup in twenty.” Dad gave me a goofy salute, leaving me alone in my half unpacked room once again.

Humming a song I stood from my bed, first order of business was to take care of the rats nest on my head. I opened the door that connected my bathroom to my room, which by the way, so cool! Back in the village all the home’s layouts had been exactly the same, copy and paste. It was a nice change, what can I say I am a simple girl.

I had only managed to fully unpack the bathroom. Kicking an emptied box out of my way, assessing my appearance in the mirror. Huffing, I quickly slid a brush through my hair securing it into a low ponytail with one too many hair ties, I brushed my teeth.

Next on the agenda was Dads “special new girl breakfast”. Bounding on my bed taking my phone along with me, unplugging it from the charger. I ate in semi-silence as I scrolled through social media. I flicked through friends from private school seeing some girls I used to preform with preparing to go on vacation for winter break. There was the usual news, weather, and people posting their mornings on their stories.

An account I had followed years ago piqued my interest. The twitter account; a Secret Ninja force fan account specifically. Awhile ago when Hiram’s college first opened I remember Dad telling me about how it’d been attacked by..

I squinted at my phone as if the fan account would help me remember.

Whatever it was years ago anyways I was barley thirteen I think. Sighing thumb hovering over the notification at the top of my phone. The account was livestreaming.

“Early Morning skirmish with the Ninja!!”

Sure, an enthusiastic title, seemed like they had been live for awhile. I glanced to the time on my phone.

‘Who goes live at 6:32 in the morning’

About to scroll, I needed to be getting dressed for school anyways. I was still in my pajamas for gods sake. I had to pack my school bag, I barley had seven minutes to get dressed and meet dad outside, wanted to test drive my new baby too, I frowned.

I clicked on the livestream.

The footage was grainy at best, camera flying between each of the ninja. The ninja themselves were gathered around a group of people, I couldn’t tell the gender of the people they seemed to be deescalating a robbery situation. There was a lot of noise the audio was choppy and shitty too, barley registering what was being said.

This “fan account” sure had a shitty phone

I thought to myself as the commotion grew louder.

The cameraman tilting to an angle possibly hiding behind something as they continued to film. There were just enough context clues for me to discern the robbers had guns. I placed a hand over my mouth, suddenly remembering that this was real. A live stream happening somewhere across ninjago city.

Oh shit.

In my momentary anxiety attack, noises of fighting was enough for me to nervously glance back down to my phone. From what I could tell there was an eruption of color. So much so I had to turn away from my phone and shield my eyes, too bright even through a screen. The colors dissipated and assuming the streamer started explaining the whole ordeal. The teen’s voice yelled about how the Water and Green ninja had disarmed the robbers of their guns. The camera quickly switched away from the ninja as police sirens approached making it hard to hear again, the teen continued to yap praises for the ninja.

My gaze flicked over his shoulder to the aftermath, I could barley make out the green one with the robbers apprehended in tow making his way to the approaching police. I clicked off the stream my phone falling to rest on my stomach.

“Woah.”

Dad yelled my name from somewhere downstairs and I shot up from bed still clad in my pajamas.

“Shit!”

▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎

Three minutes was the fastest I’d ever gotten dressed I think. After hastily throwing on a light pink sweater, over my pj shorts I put on some thick winter leggings. Grabbing my phone I hovered over the sleep button gnawing on my bottom lip, overthinking. It was really weird how I’d went completely braindead not thinking before doing something.

What.. what was I doing before clicking on that livestream? I held a hand to my head wincing from a sudden oncoming headache.

Dad called my name louder this time, “C’mon babygirl! We’re gonna run late!”

“Coming!”

Breaking out of my overthinking with a shake of my head ridding the ache with it. I plucked my favorite winter jacket that sat atop a few boxes of clothes. I grimaced at all the unpacking I still have to do. Sliding the pink-inner-woolen fabric over my arms and zipping it all the way, I slid my phone into my pocket zipping that up too. I snatched my shiny new car keys off the bedside table along with my schoolbag lazily thrown over my shoulder and left my semi-room.

Hopping two steps at a time I met dad by the door; he was looking down at me then back to his watch.

“Twenty-seven minutes, seriously?”

I nodded even more serious, “Seriously, takes a lot to look this good.”

Dad snorted and rolled his eyes, holding the front door open for me. I grinned walking out into the chilly early morning air. Seriously Dad told me how cold the city gets in winter but seriously?

Fumbling to retrieve the keys with half frozen fingers, my grin grew as we approached the silver SUV. Sure, it was a soccer mom car but a car nonetheless.

Sliding into the drivers side I hurriedly turned the ignition over desperate for the warm air. Dad entered a few seconds after I threw my bag with my phone inside, Its better out of sight while I’m driving anyways, to the backseats. Dad takes control of the radio as I back out of the driveway.

Whatever song spills softly from the cars speakers as I pulled to the main city road. Dad nudges my arm to grab my attention I hum in query.

“Did you grab your sheet music?” he asked

I groaned hitting the side of the steering wheel. I had completely forgotten about it, I meant to pack it before I got dressed but well.. plus, wouldn’t the kids think it’s weird if I’m walking around school with oldie sheet music? I grew up singing, dad says I was born with a Tony Award in my chubby baby hands. Hell, Hiram has a school on our shared musical expertise.

“I.. forgot.”

Hoping that was the best answer, Especially because I didn’t want dad to know my thought about his oldie music it’d hurt his feelings if I voiced my feelings about it being weird.

Dad brushes it off, “I’ll remind you tomorrow.” I release an anxious breath. Fingers tapping on the wheel as we paused at a red light.

“Anyway, Hiram has a new assistant.” Dad finger quotes the word assistant “Basically this kid found out about Hiram’s daughter was transferring to ninjago high. She emailed for months begging Hiram to offer her help.”

I nodded half listening, “So dad got me a friend? Peachy..” I muttered with a gritted smile sinking down into the seat as a newfound bubble of anxiety enclosed itself around my head.

I sighed through my nose stepping on the gas once the light flicked to green once again. The song switch to ‘Walking on Sunshine.’

Nope. Not very sunshiny.

▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎☆▪︎

LeRoy stole my baby, my silver suv baby that I’d only known for fifteen minutes but my point still stands. Dad told me Hiram’s “assistant”’s name was actually Sapphire, pretty like the stone. He then sped away blasting some musical soundtrack I couldn’t quite catch. Leaving me to turn and face my impending doom.

I stood dumbly on the bottom of the stairs. Watching as groups of students and loners pass me. Some would give me weird looks as they did. I would too, seeing a new kid standing like an idiot at the bottom of the steps in forty degree cold.

Before I could gather my thoughts and stop the oncoming panic attack. Someone approaches me calling out my name I snap my blurry vision up to the feminine voice. The girl looked no older than me, I tilted my head confused but thankful she broke me out of my panic.

“Uh— yeah that’s me.” God. Why’d I sound so small.

The girl smiles down at me from her elevated height on the stairs. At this angle I was able to see her bleached, maybe too bleached blonde hair. Dark jet black roots poking back out from the dye job.

Bad dye job girl had on pure white earmuffs, her whole outfit was white actually. Save for the light gold puffer jacket she wore. My gaze flicked to my own jacket, my favorite jacket. Mine definitely was cheaper and I remember saving up for at least a month. I’d spent a pretty penny on it, bad dye job girl was pretty too I guess.

“Hey! I’m Sapphire!” the fake blonde smiled bigger though it wavered at the corners, she outstretched her hand to mine.

I smiled too, putting my hand in hers. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m so sorry I feel so bad my dads dumped me on you.” We shook before releasing hands, she pulled hers back quicker than I expected. Students stopped whispering and staring too I noticed.

Sapphire shrugs, “It’s not a big deal especially for that– oh let me see your chart.” She cleared her throat and I fished my phone from my jackets pocket. Pulling up a screenshot of my classes. Sapphire’s mittenened hand all but snatched my phone. She made a noise I couldn’t decipher and tossed the phone back.

I fumbled to catch it.

We made our way into the school, through the front doors. Sapphire toured me around the school. It was humorous how huge this place was. It had every room a school could need, even actual locker rooms with stalls. Surely gym wouldn’t be so bad then.

Sapphire asked, well demanded for my phone again, I complied. I watched as she put her phone number in my contacts, swiping out her own phone. She message me a map of the school, this time handing my phone back to me.

Maybe she’s just antisocial.

I wondered as bad dye job girl ranted on about the school, I was only half listening. She asked about Hiram’s school and I had to tune myself back in. I tried my best to answer all of her, really creepily detailed questions but the lack of information seemed to ignore her as she pulled a face.

Yeah. Total personality switch.

I grimaced.

As we walked I had to pause to look around the school. Circling back to the school being huge, Yeah it was massive. Multiple buildings for everything almost, one of the three story buildings was just a library in itself! Maybe I could rot away to study there. All the buildings connected so we didn’t have to track back outside to the cold and I got to bask in the heat of the hallways.

“So, do you do anything with music like your dads?” Sapphire asked after she was finished talking about herself, how we got to talking only about her I had no clue.

I nodded anyway.

“Yeah, Dads had me classically trained for singing ever since I was able to hold a note. I play some instruments too.” I explained a relaxed, easier smile growing. All that panic from before harmoniously melting away as I spoke of my favorite thing, what I grew up with.

Sapphire nodded satisfied with my answer this time. Sapphire stopped suddenly and so did I. She gestured to the door which was my first class for the day before she spoke again.

“You should join the choir, we had some weirdos drop out. So we need people to hum and sway in the background or whatever.” She seemed uninterested. Her suggestion didn’t seem like a question.

Shitshitshit

She tossed her bleached hair over her shoulder, turning her hand palm down to inspect her nails. I shifted awkwardly on my feet anxiously tapping the heel of my foot into the ceramic floor. Anxiety please you’re not actually being put on the spot. But.. what answer would she prefer? I didn’t mind being in the back of the choir, I came back to the city to be successful on my own without anyone else’s help, not even dads.

Sapphire’s obstinate blue gaze jumped to mine and I stumbled over my words gasping out any response.

“Fun!! Or Uh- sounds fun yeah I’ll join!”

An even more awkward smile spread across my lips. I spat out a yes befofe I could really even think about it. What is with it with me and spontaneity today??god so stupid.

Sapphire however, seemed to enjoy my response as an amused smile rose to her mouth. “Great! We get together on Friday’s after school.”

A bell ringing pulled us out of the awkward conversation, ha saved by the bell. Sapphire sighed stepping back

“I’ll see you later, shoot me a text if there’s any trouble.” She called out a few feet away, bidding me goodbye with an almost princess-esqe wave.

I returned the wave with the best smile I could muster. As she turned a corner my smile fell.

Aren’t choirs supposed to have auditions for newcomers?

My hand fell down to my side as I mentally slapped myself I wanted to scream.

The damn sheet music!!

[thecreaturecodex]

Priscilla

Image © @iguanodont​

[A present for my girlfriend, @abominationimperatrix​. As you may be able to tell from the art, this OC started life as a Houndoom in a Pokemon setting. So we talked about how to fit her into Pathfinder, particularly my take on Pathfinder, and settled on the gerulfus. There’s definitely a tradition, possibly more in line with fakelore than folklore but still, of relatively benevolent dog-headed humanoids, like the wulver or dwayyo. Plus, I’m still awfully proud of digging up “gerulfus” as a generic name for dog-headed humanoids.]

Priscilla CR 19 N Outsider (native) This humanoid appears to be an anthropomorphic hellhound, with curving horns and a spade on the end of her tail. Her fur is a dark magenta hue, and growths like an external spinal column and ribs stretch along her back and sides. She wears mismatched leather armor and a spiked collar.

Before there was Priscilla, there was a gerulfus in the Sanos Forest. Created by the fears and anxieties of the people of Sandpoint, Wartle, and other nearby communities about everything from goblins to ghouls to the Sandpoint Devil, this gerulfus was determined to make the Sanos Forest its territory. Unfortunately, there was already a powerful monster occupying the forest—a phouka witch named Gigi, who considered herself the “Scary Fairy Godmother” of Varisia. Time and again, the gerulfus threw itself at Gigi, and time and again, Gigi repelled her with tricks and spells. Eventually a combination of fatigue and curiosity got the gerulfus to ask, “Why haven’t you just killed me?”

Gigi explained that she was impressed by the gerulfus’ tenacity and zeal, and thought that those qualities could be turned to more productive use. That was enough to start a friendship, which eventually blossomed into a romance. They talked of Gigi’s patron, Mormo the Goddess of Predators, and about how Golarion in general and the Inner Sea region specifically was plagued by demons and on the verge of ecological collapse. They also talked of identity and presentation, and Gigi helped Priscilla to decide on her new appearance, gender and name. Now reborn as her better self, Priscilla is Gigi’s right hand monster, and one of Mormo’s most powerful servitors in Avistan.

Priscilla is the bogey’s bogey. She hunts monsters that cause undue suffering and ecological catastrophe. Priscilla’s favorite prey are demons, as they are tactically challenging, worthy opponents, but she has fought an entire codex of creatures and lived to tell the tale. Prisciilla might be the foremost authority on monster biology, behavior and abilities in all of Avistan: certainly in Varisia. She has sworn her service to Mormo, and combines divine spells with her natural cunning in combat to eradicate Lamashtu cults and powerful monsters. Varisia is her most frequent hunting ground, but she can and does use her gerulfus magic to open portals to travel across the globe and into the First World.

Priscilla is a tenacious combatant. She may stalk prey for hours, even days, in order to observe their strengths and weaknesses. Her spells are primarily used to enhance her tracking abilities and to bolster the strength of her and her allies. Priscilla often fights alone, but may also lead commando raids of other Mormo worshipers, or work with local monsters and people who want to fight back against greater threats. Although she carries a bow and arrow for flying enemies, Priscilla eschews the use of melee weapons—she still likes to get her teeth and claws dirty. Against weaker foes, Priscilla uses stealth to take them out with a single decisive strike, but she does enjoy a good old fashioned, knockdown brawl now and again.

Priscilla           CR 19 XP 204,800 Variant gerulfus inquisitor (sanctified slayer) 8 N Large outsider (native) Init +13; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +23, scent, see in darkness Aura frightful presence (30 ft., Will DC 23) Defense AC 39, touch 23, flat-footed 33 (-1 size, +6 Dex, +9 natural, +7 deflection, +7 armor, +1 insight) hp 303 (12d10+8d8+198) Fort +20, Ref +16, Will +21; +4 vs. negative and positive energy effects Immune fear; SR 21 Defensive Abilities fortification (50%), terror shield Offense Speed 40 ft., 60 ft. gallop Melee +5 bite +34 (2d6+17), 2 +5 claws +33 (1d6+17) Ranged +1 adaptive longbow +24/+19/+14 (2d6+12/x3) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. Psychic Magic CL 12th, concentration +19 (+23 casting defensively) 20 PE—crushing despair (DC 21, 3 PE), dancing lights (0 PE), dimension door (4 PE), dream scan (DC 22, 5 PE), ego whip II (DC 21, 4 PE), synaptic scramble (DC 21, 4 PE) Special Attacks bane (17 rounds/day), breath weapon (60 foot line, 6d10 fire, Ref DC 26 half, 1d4 rounds), fear feeder, fey portal, scourge of the enemy (+2, Lamashtu), sneak attack +4d6, solo tactics, studied target (2 targets, +2, swift or move action) Spells CL 8th, concentration +15 (+19 casting defensively) 3rd (4/day)—cure serious wounds (DC 20), dimensional anchor, heroism 2nd (6/day)—acute senses, follow aura, see invisibility, shield other 1st (6/day)—bane (DC 18), cure light wounds (DC 18), divine favor, shield of faith, tireless pursuit 0th—brand (DC 17), detect magic, detect poison, light, read magic, stabilize Statistics Str 32, Dex 22, Con 30, Int 19, Wis 24, Cha 24 Base Atk +18; CMB +30; CMD 55 Feats Combat Casting, Combat Reflexes, Dazzling Display, Exploit Lore, Extended Bane, Improved Monster Lore, Improved Natural Weapon (bite), Power Attack, Precise Strike (B), Shatter Defenses, Shielded Caster (B), Weapon Focus (bite) Skills Acrobatics +22 (+26 when jumping, +34 jumping while galloping), Diplomacy +30, Fly +26, Intimidate +27, Knowledge (arcana, dungeoneering, nature, planes, religion) +22 (+33 identifying monsters), Knowledge (local) +19 (+30 identifying monsters), Perception +23, Sense Motive +27, Spellcraft +20, Stealth +23, Survival +23 (+27 when tracking) Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Common, Sylvan, Undercommon, Varisian Gear manual of gainful exercise +4 (expended), manual of bodily health +1 (expended), belt of physical might +6 (Str, Con), headband of mental superiority +4 (Diplomacy, Fly), amulet of mighty fists +5 and natural armor +2, +5 defiant (evil outsider) moderate fortification leather armor, +1 adaptive composite longbow, bane baldric, ring of tactical precision, spiritualist rings, longarm bracers, rod of negation, dusty rose prism ioun stone, pearl of power (3rd level), flying ointment (x2), wand of divine power (25 charges), wand of lesser restoration (40 charges), scroll of true seeing (x2), scroll of arcane sight, potion of haste (x2), 60 arrows, steel holy symbol of Mormo, hunting horn, 5 platinum rings for shield other, 340 gp SQ cunning initiative, detect alignment (at will), discern lies (8 rounds/day), legendary, slayer talent (fast stealth), stern gaze, track, Zeal inquisition, zealous surge (15 hp) Special Abilities Fear Feeder (Su) A gerulfus gains one PE for every creature suffering from a fear effect within 30 feet of its space at the start of each of its turns. Fey Portal (Sp) This ability functions as the planar travel function of the gate spell, except that it can only allow travel between the Material Plane and the First World. This functions as a 7th level spell cast at CL 12th. Gallop (Ex) A gerulfus can switch between a two legged and four legged gait with ease. On all fours, its move speed is 60 feet, but it cannot make claw attacks any round in which is uses its gallop ability. Legendary Priscilla’s statistics are built with 25 point buy, and she has the gear of a 19th level player character. This raises her CR by +1 Scourge of the Enemy (Ex) Priscilla treats worshipers of Lamashtu as if they were her favored enemy (as the ranger class ability), gaining a +2 bonus on the appropriate rolls. Terror Shield (Su) A gerulfus gains a deflection bonus to AC equal to its Charisma bonus. Creatures immune to fear effects ignore this bonus, and a creature that casts remove fear on a gerulfus can make a DC 23 caster level check to suppress this ability for the duration of the spell. Variant Gerulfus Priscilla loses the spell-like abilities of a typical gerulfus, and gains a breath weapon instead. Zealous Surge (Sp) Once per day, when Priscilla is reduced to 0 or fewer hit points, she heals a number of hit points equal to her inquisitor level + her Wisdom modifier.