#based on the “pick your poison”-thing

[spkyart]

I am so normal about them

[unproduciblesmackdown]

truly further [2 sides same coin] of billions tragic failing of either quant's writing that the effective Demand that taylor & rian must have a very special dynamic is all about going "well i'm epic & you're epic" at every stage, which is nothing, while winston and taylor can never have a dynamic b/c he's so Not Epic, despite that he's more similar to taylor in any ways that actually matter or could mean anything, while also if rian was ever peers with winston / had a reciprocal dynamic there, maybe we'd Have to have had more of an actual character from that role, but instead once again [no] b/c he's so Not Epic. billions writing getting an award for [okay. tmc trifecta] as the only option heading into s6 & giving us Nothing instead

[writingsbychlo]

WITHDRAWAL | theodore nott

summary; theo decides to quit smoking, but doesn't realise that his decision would affect his girlfriend, too.

word count; 3007

notes; just a cute, fluffy little piece based on something that I was tagged in about 2 months ago! unfortunately, I cannot find the original post or tagger, but if it's you, please let me know!!

If there was one thing about Theodore Nott that couldn't be denied, it was that he loved with everything he had. 

He loved his friends; he was loyal to a fault and he’d never let them down. He loved his family, he wrote over fifteen letters a week to all his aunties and cousins, and still held onto his mother’s recipe book, even to this day. 

And he loved, adored, his girlfriend with everything that he had. He’d do anything for her, crawl across hot coals if she asked, give up his magic and his money and his legacy, just to make her happy. She’d never asked as such of him, still blushed when he pulled out his wallet when they shopped and smiled brighter than the sun when he gave her a handmade card or something he’d cooked. So, to his eyes, it didn’t seem all that much when he decided to give up smoking for her. 

She hadn't asked him to, never even pulled a face when he smoked. But Theo was damn sick of trying to blow the smoke away from her when she joined him at the astronomy tower, cuddled up to his chest, because he didn’t want that poison near her. He hated watching her shiver on the colder nights, he hated waking her in the middle of the night when he got up to satiate that itch, and he hated thinking of a future where he left her too soon, running short on time, because he ruined himself.

He chucked his last box into the fireplace one impulsive morning, and thought he might go cold turkey. He’d been so moody by lunchtime that he’d almost bitten Enzo’s head off over the way he pronounced ‘tomato’. That afternoon, he’d ditched his classes and trudged through the snow to the floo connection at the Hog’s Head, and picked up enough nicotine patches from a muggle supply store to knock out a fully grown Hippogriff.

He’d torn the packaging off of one in the grimy restroom at the back of the store and slapped it onto his bicep, and almost collapsed from the relief it gave him. It wasn’t nearly as effective as picking up a packet from the newsagent’s stand he’d passed would’ve been, but as soon as his fingers had twitched to pick up a box, your face had flashed through his mind. Your face, smiling at him, your face that morning telling him how proud you were of him when he’d shared his goals in hopes of support, and it was enough to deter him from the purchase.

You were his strength, once again, as you’d always been. 

And truly, you were so proud of Theo. Changing his patches for him every evening, in time with that first one. Reading up on the muggle solutions, and making sure you were fully versed on how to help him. Keeping him busy seemed to help, when he got bored, his eyes started flicking towards the door, and the slight irritability he’d been able to keep a lid on pretty well would begin to flare up. For the most part, he’d been staying at your dorm, in an active attempt to keep away from Mattheo, who wasn’t quite ready to give up his comfortable vice just yet. 

Unfortunately, as the days went on, while Theo seemed to be handling it just fine, you were struggling. The irritability grew, even Draco’s breathing was making you want to snap pencils in half in the library, or throw Enzo off the astronomy tower if he scraped his fork on his plate one more time. You were ravenous, and nauseous, all at the same time. You wanted to eat everything but could hardly hold it down. You were dizzy, and fatigued, and your grades were going to start slipping if this continued, because it had been almost a week since you’d been able to concentrate on any thought longer than a minute, never mind a whole class. 

And now, you were lying in bed, rubbing at your eyes angrily but unable to sleep as you stared at the ceiling. Theo, for once, was sleeping soundly beside you. Since giving up smoking, his sleep patterns had been getting better, while yours were getting worse by the night. Almost a week, and you’d barely gotten nine hours of sleep put together. 

When you shuffled again, pressing yourself a little closer to Theo as you rolled onto your side, he began to surface. The arm over your midriff tightened, pulling you in until your hips were bracketed against his, and he chuckled sleepily into your neck. Burying himself in, he pressed a kiss there, and another, and another. The rough pounding of your heart settled as you clasped Theo’s hand in your own, holding them to your chest as he littered your shoulder with kisses. 

At your sigh, he rolled you over, propping himself up on his elbow and yawning. Shaking his hand free from your own, he stroked the back of a finger along your cheek, and leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. As his hand settled on the side of your neck instead, yours slipped up to cup his jaw, and you melted into the tender love he offered you in the darkest hours. 

“What’s wrong, tesoro? Why are you awake?”

“Why are you awake?” you rebuffed, fingers lifting to comb through his hair, to push it back out of his eyes as he blinked himself a little more awake.

He shrugged, “This is about the time I’d normally go for a smoke.” He murmured, and your eyes flickered to the clock. 

You knew well enough the schedule Theo used to keep while smoking. Your timetable had slowly synched to it over the time you’d been dating. He’d wake up during the night, at some point around two, and disappear for a smoke. He’d take twenty minutes, or thirty if he bumped into Mattheo, and then he’d come back to bed. 

You didn’t mind the disturbance. Not when he’d come back slightly chilled from the night air and snuggle in close to you, wrapping himself around you.

“Actually, this is the time you’d normally come back from having a smoke, and give me my midnight kisses.”

“Is that why my girl is so restless tonight? Because I owe her some kisses?” He teased, leaning down until your noses were bumping, and you could taste the mint on his breath. Normally, he tasted like smoke, not toothpaste, and the shock of his warm lips instead of cold ones made you hum. 

The languid kisses melted the time away, his hand sliding up your shirt, sitting on your ribs and squeezing softly as he lowered himself down, covering your body with his own. Theo had always been your comfort, and your happy place. Being in his arms made you feel safe, and his kisses made you feel relaxed. As he licked his way into your mouth lazily, you anticipated the hazy blur of relaxation that usually followed when he kissed you. 

But, like usual recently, it never came. Instead, when he finally pulled back, and pecked the tip of your nose, he found you frowning, instead of smiling up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” You huffed, frustrated at yourself, at your confusion and the growing irrational irritation. “It’s not the same.”

“What’s not the same, bella?”

“Your… your kisses.” Your words trailed to a whisper, knowing he wouldn't understand, and the hurt that flickered across his face made your heartbreak. 

“They’re not?”

“No. I don’t know why.” His lips curled further at the sides, and the look on his face made you want to cry. It made you hate yourself, aggressively, and if you could tear out your own heart and give it to him just to see him smile again, you would. Just another thing you’d been suffering with lately, an overwhelm of your emotions, worse than any mood swing you got when you were on your period. “It’s not you, Teddy, it’s me. You’re still my happy place, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“You’re not a problem, bella. But we should figure it out. I don’t want to… kiss you wrong, and see that look on your face. What’s different, tell me what’s changed?” His sweet words made tears prickle at your eyes, and you sniffed sadly as you looked at him. 

“I love you so much, Theo.”

“I know, tesoro. I love you too.” His thumb smoothed over your cheek, “Tell me.”

“I don’t know!” Your snap made his eyes widen. “You’re just… different. You don’t kiss the same way, you used to get all needy when you came back from a smoke, but you don’t anymore, and you taste different! You taste like mint right now, and it just doesn’t make me feel the same way afterwards.”

Your words were jumbled and hurried, rushed out as you smoked them and his brows furrowed as he tried to decipher what you meant. Second ticked by into silent minutes as Theo’s wonderful mind ticked and whirred, thinking the problem through, and playing with the information. Then, before you could say anything else, something clicked. You could see it in his eyes, when the gears stopped turning and the thoughts stopped flowing because he’d found the answer. 

Pulling away from you, he sat up, kicking back the covers and letting in the cold air, before moving across the room and shuffling through his gym kit left in the corner. Pulling out a nicotine packet from the box inside, he shook it out, using his teeth to tear open the packet as he made his way back to the bed. Sitting yourself up, you propped yourself in the pillows as he peeled off the plastic backing, and tried to unstick his fingers from it, holding it by the corners. 

“You’ve only had your patch on for nine hours, Teddy, it’s not time to change yet.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head and settling in beside you on the bed, legs folded underneath himself. “This isn’t for me, bella. Take off your shirt.” 

Slipping your arm out of your shirt, you pushed it to the side, watching as Theo brushed cotton fibres off of your shoulder, before sealing the patch onto your skin. He made sure it was properly sealed down, flattening it to your skin, before feeding your arm back through the sleeve of your shirt. He smoothed the top back down your torso, pressing a cheeky kiss to your breast over your heart as he did, and sitting back on his legs to wait. 

“Give it a second, then tell me how you feel.” He whispered, the moment feeling entirely too fragile as his hand took yours, fingers linked together. He kissed along your knuckles, his eyes locked on your face, waiting. And the moment you felt it hit, you knew he saw it too. 

It was like a cool, soothing balm over a raw, aggravated wound. It felt like running cold water on a new burn or healing a painful graze with a quick Episky. “Oh, Merlin…”

“I know, tell me about it.” He mumbled, the smile on his face at victoriously solving the problem melting away as realisation set in. “Cazzo, bella, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You have a nicotine addiction, and it’s my fault. All that time you spent with me at the tower, and the smoke on me, and kissing you as soon as I finished smoking. All your moodiness these last few days—”

“Hey!”

“It’s true, baby. It all makes sense.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and squeezed your hand tighter in the other. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I quit because I didn’t want this to happen to you, I didn’t want my problems to poison you, but it’s too late.”

“Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me, Teddy.” You demand again, pulling him in, and his mouth collides with yours as he makes a subtle groan of surprise and pleasure. 

His hand gripped the headboard behind you, the other skimming down your side. As you leaned back into the pillows, you took him with you, his body falling over your own, slotting between your thighs as our hearts thudded together where his chest pressed to yours. Your hands slid over his shoulders, skimming down his back, and he moaned again as your fingernails scraped across his lower back as you tugged at his shirt. 

He sat up, letting you pull it off of him, before his arms were back, caging you in on either side as he fell back down against you. Pulling one of your legs up to sit on his hip, he dragged himself away from your mouth, trailing wet kisses down your jaw, to the pulse point on your neck and back up. 

“Merde, bella. What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m complaining.”

“You’re perfect, Theo.” You smiled, leaning up to steal more kisses from his lips that he was happy to reciprocate, “You’re perfect, your kisses are perfect. I knew it was me, not you. I was the problem.”

“A problem I gave you,” He groaned, his hips rolling against your own as you giggled breathlessly. 

“Yeah, whatever. Now we’re quitting together. That’s the promise we made, we do everything together, right?”

“Damn right, tesoro.” He growled, teeth nipping at the underside of your jaw, as he began to make his way down your body. Your fingers were loose in his hair, settling back in the pillows, eyes slipping closed as he kissed along the insides of your thighs, teasingly. Finally, your body could relax, no longer tense and buzzing, but the foggy comfort of the night made your muscles ease into the bed, your body feeling heavy, and you sighed in bliss. 

Theo mumbled something, and you let your legs fall a little further apart, but your grip on consciousness was falling further and further away as the nicotine coursed through your body, finally letting you ease into sleep you’d missed for days.

“Bella,” Theo said, his voice sharper, and you stirred, working hard to force your eyes open, but they’d only made it halfway. His hair was ruffled, eyes wide and lips swollen, but his smirk melted away from his face into a tender smile as he looked down at you. 

“Sorry, what’d you say, baby?” The words slurred out of you, and he chuckled. His fingers unhooked from the sides of your shorts, and he leaned over to kiss your forehead. “M’sorry, I’m so sleepy all of a sudden.”

“S’okay, bella. Never apologise. C’mere, let’s just cuddle.”

Tucking your body into his, you shuffled your hips back into him, and he threw his leg over yours as he held you tight to his body. “You’re hard.”

“It’ll go down, don’t worry.” He snickered, kissing the back of your head. “S’your fault anyway.”

“Sorry…” You whispered, again, sleepily. “I’ll make it up t’you t’morrow.”

“Go to sleep, amore.”

But you’d already drifted off.

It was just as you were closing your History of Magic book, that Theo announced his presence in the common room as he walked in alongside Mattheo. They were loud, and raucous, and thankfully, you were less inclined to bite their heads off for it today. 

In fact, alongside Enzo, you’d been able to catch up on all of the History homework you’d been missing out on for the last week or so, getting you back on track for at least one of your subjects. 

“Patch change time, bella!” Theo announced, making his way over to you as he untucked his shirt and began to undo the buttons down the front. Tugging the tie out of the way, he crashed down ungracefully onto the couch beside you, Mattheo nudging Draco to move up so he could sit down too. 

This had become a regular part of your routine now, and you pushed the edges of his half-unbuttoned shirt aside to reveal the patch sitting on the middle of his left pectoral. Picking at one corner, you peeled it away gently, careful not to tug on his skin as you did, and Theo watched on adoringly in silence as you took care of him. Unwrapping a new patch, you brushed off the spot, before sticking a new patch onto him and smoothing down the bandage. 

He patted it himself, before doing a couple of the buttons on his shirt back up for modesty, as though he hadn't already given half of the common room a show, before he leaned in to peck your lips. His fingers fell to the buttons of your shirt, and he began to undo them slowly. “Your turn.”

He undid just enough to reveal your shoulder, without letting anyone else catch a glimpse of anything underneath, and as he leaned down to begin peeling away the old patch, you caught Enzo’s confused expression. 

“Why are you wearing a patch?” He asked, and Theo laughed to himself quietly as he changed your old one out. 

“Because loverboy here got me addicted too, through kisses and secondary smoke.”

The others burst out laughing, unfettered by your glaring as they made kissy sounds and crude remarks, while Theo buttoned your shirt back up. Your glare turned to him as you caught sight of his smile, and he shrugged, a lopsided smile on his lips. “What can I say, bella? I’m just that good.”

“Oh, shut it,” You smacked his chest, and he took your hand, tugging you forward to cuddle you into his chest as he kissed your temple. 

“I happen to think it’s adorable that as a by-product of how you got addicted, that means you were addicted to me.”

“Mhmm.” Your eyes rolled, and he squeezed you even tighter. 

“You had me addicted to you without any substances at all, bella. Just you.”

“Alright,” You scoff, “Stop sweet-talking me.”

“Never.”

[gremlingottoosilly]

Imagine another soldiers GF is visiting him and Konig sees her and is like "My GF now" what is he gonna do? Challenge the 7 ft. Tall killing machine?

Visiting Paul wasn't the sanest thing you did - and not the proudest of your moments, too. Your relationships started to crack a while ago, not helped by the rumors his squad buddies are spreading whenever you're in the earshot or Facetiming him. You just wanted to give him a visit, maybe woo him over with some homemade goods, and maybe be a normal boyfriend and girlfriend again. Maybe. You didn't expect his colonel to give you such a scolding. "You know that poisoning the troops is a war crime, ja?" You're terrified. His colonel is fucking huge, has a creepy name - seriously, what did he do to be named King instead of Potato or a Shrimp - and has that weird boyishly rough voice that lools you into the sense of security, only for it to be broken the second he laughs, tearing into the dumb box filled with dumb cookies you made for Paul and some of his squadmates. You had friends at his station, you thought you could just get in without the bureaucracy bullshit - only closest family members are allowed here, and you are quite certain that your boyfriend won't wife you up anytime soon. "It's not poison, s...sir" "I look like a sir to you, Maus? Call me colonel" You want to answer that he looks like a fucking nightmare crawling out of your bad dreams, but you bite your tongue. Don't even resist as Konig gets his huge gloved hands into the box, slowly taking one of the cookies. You whimper as he snaps the thing in half - hours of hard work, you can already see them being trashed away all because Paul didn't respond to your calls and didn't pick them up immediately and because he didn't mention his colonel is going to be on the base and- Konig gets one of your cookies under his hood, the sounds of munching like music to your ears - an angel's horn, maybe, the ones that play during the apocalypse. You wait patiently to be prosecuted for your crimes - the ones you aren't quite sure you even committed, to be honest. "You'll do. Horangi will show you to my quarters." You think you're hearing things. Maybe, you somehow managed to hit your head on the way to the colonel's office, and now you're hallucinating the entire encounter? The colonel stands up - he is huge, god, too fucking tall to even be alive, you think - and drops a heavy hand on your shoulder, patting you almost awkwardly. You hate the way he looks at you right now - almost soft, almost gentle, his hand squeezes your skin in a way that is way more loving than your boyfriend ever did before, and you feel pathetic for leaning into the touch, if only for a second. You didn't know that Konig got his eye on you even before you went to the base. He knows a lot about his soldiers, and your sorry fuck of a boyfriend clearly didn't deserve a sweet little thing like you - for fucks's sake, you literally just brought homemade cookies to the military base; how much more of an angel you can be. He also knew that you're not quite satisfied with the relationships if he can judge by how much bitching Paul is letting out during his free time. Konig also knows that if he gets you to marry him as soon as possible, sooner he could put you in his house and make you bake him cookies every day of his retirement - that doesn't seem like such a bad opportunity now, not if he would have a pretty housewife attached to his hip. And if you don't really want to be with him, well... Nothing that a few weeks of extensive home training couldn't fix.

[diz-eaze]

thinking about the intimacy of visions,,,, and visions with yans in general.

; includes; childe, escoffier, sethos, xilonen, diluc, arlecchino, albedo, emilie, wanderer, ifa, & shenhe.

; yandere, yandere themes, some of them being freaks per usual, unhealthy relationships, minor suggestive content for some, mentions of captivity for a few, not proofread i both rushed and wrote this in one go.

childe exchanges his hydro vision with your vision before engaging in combat. of course, his element doesn't change: it's still his water blades that glide through the enemies' skin as if mere butter, but there's romance to be found in their last moments, being the vision situated on his belt, glinting its eerie glow at them in farewell. a sense of pride sprouts from the recesses of his chest, stemming from his beating heart as he thinks of your vision as a form of reaper that sends off their souls to the afterlife. should your vision be stained by their blood, then childe will dutifully take on the task of wiping it clean, not stopping until he greets himself in its reflection. he takes great care of your vision, seeing as it was his idea in the first place, yet he hopes that you also take care of his in a similar way.

escoffier finds your vision out of pure coincidence. she finds it haphazardly lying on the ground floor of hotel debord, disconnected from its usual place on your thigh strap. it's only logical to assume that you lost it and haven't a clue, so in an act of kindness, escoffier bends down to pick up the dainty thing. once in her grasp, she twists and turns it around to inspect as she walks back to her kitchen. yet in her palm, the sight of your vision flows into her psyche, poisoning her mind with debaucherous thoughts of what she can do right now. it's not right, that she knows, yet temptation runs deep when she thinks about how your vision is so often strapped to your thigh.... with a bite of her lip, escoffier retreats to the very back of the kitchen, where her sins are unknown to all but herself. her tongue peeks out from between her lips, she nears your vision to the base of her mouth, and she licks it from bottom to top, all while feeling the cold metal of its casing.

sethos uses your vision as a bargaining chip, holding it high above your head as he waves it back and forth in taunt, saying that you have to do this and that for him in order to get it back. once back in your grasp, he'll challenge you to a 'friendly spar' to keep your senses sharp, or so he says. but even with the ba fragment gone from him, his strength is still commendable, as he has no qualms with defeating you even with your vision. you always feel like a sore loser afterwards, too, and he'd be there to wriggle into your side as he coos out comfort and compliments, half-baked they may be. should you permanently let go of your vision, and refuse to take it back from him, you'll find yourself in a similar standing to those shogunate soldiers who went mindless after their visions were ceased - sethos retells you this tale whenever you're being a tad bit too bratty with him.

xilonen, in classic artisan fashion, forges customized accessories specially tailored for your vision, all under your behest and wishes. she'll yawn and roll her eyes at the request, yet less than a day later, you'll find her holding out the newly crafted item in front of your jaw-slacked figure. you'll laugh and thank her, excitedly attaching the charm to the bottom of your vision, completely missing the phlogiston engraving she had embedded in. it's nothing new, really, this is how she's always done your vision accessory requests for ages, and you've remained blissfully unaware in your own euphoric joy. she may not personally seek you out to follow around natlan, but through feeling your steps and location from the phlogiston alone, is enough to satisfy her.

diluc, for all his morally questionable actions, longingly encases your vision between his fingers as he drifts to slumber every night. since you're not quite ready to share a bed with him just yet, he settles his perpetual yearning by sleeping with your vision under your reluctant acceptance. the constant glow it radiates often causes him to envision that it's you by his side, sleeping soundly with your body fitting into his like gears clicking into place, yet reality often disappoints when he opens his eyes to empty space and the vision still in his hand. beggars can't be choosers, still, his longing is starting to seep through the bottle supposed to contain it, and it's only a matter of time before he tires of the glass orb and instead breaches the topic of sleeping together once more over dinner.

arlecchino persistently insists on giving you her pyro vision as a protection charm, seeing as you lack the means of one. her innate power stemming from the balemoon curse is more than enough to protect her, even without the vision or her delusion. while it grants you no actual power, the meaning of arlecchino offering it up for your hands to grasp is clear; she will always be your protector. she herself will be your vision to wield, the power for you to use as you see fit. her vision, her curse, and her delusion are all yours, similar to the rest of her. offering up her vision is not a sign of submission, but that of sacrifice. arlecchino lays down the gift from the gods at your feet as a taste of the lengths she can and will go through for you.

albedo is intrigued enough to research the complexities of visions. it's within his nature as a researcher and alchemist to probe into the mysteries that plague teyvat, and visions are no exception to this. however, rather than using his own vision as his test subject, he uses yours instead. it's a multi-faceted reason; he sees you more often, he gets to touch an item you often touch, he learns more about visions, and he learns more about you. as far as he's concerned, studying up on visions is a goldmine of opportunities and interactions with you, and he's not willing to pass up on such an offer anytime soon. he'll study you under the microscope, no different from studying your vision.

emilie, during the times she's forced into combat, greatly prefers to stick to one elemental reaction. her dendro vision glows brightly as she channels her innate power into fruition, yet she'll look behind her to see if you've already applied pyro to the surrounding area of the enemies before making her move. burning. it's the only reaction she ever creates during battle, even more so if with your pyro vision there to enable hers. frankly, nothing else gets her going more than this. in the aftermath of the battle, the horrendous smell of burnt fabric and smoke lingering in the air disturbs the romantic ambience she was going for, and so she creates floral scents from her dendro vision to mask the displeasing smell. like this, life is perfect - consisting of only you and her, nothing else. pyro may burn dendro into nothing more than ashes, yet with her dynamic with you, it seems as if the places have been switched despite all logic.

wanderer falls back into hideous habits, one specially gifted by his former self, most likely, in the form of keeping a captive in his temporary place on the outskirts of the main city. with your current situation in mind (and less than savory responses...), he's forced to attend classes and duties without your company. to remedy this, wanderer opts for settling your vision right next to his anemo one whenever he goes out. the clinking caused by the two visions constantly colliding into each other as he walks creates a cacophony of sounds that seems so euphoric to his ears. there is something so exhilarating about your vision being entwined with his. it causes a smile to itch on his lips, it leaves a pleasant tingle down his spine, and anticipation at the tips of his fingers as he counts down the seconds until he's able to see you once more. old habits die hard, though this specific habit is one he's not letting go of anytime soon. love has always been selfish in that regard.

ifa's anemo attacks strike harder and faster whenever you're around, evident by the constantly stronger teal color of the item at his back. some may assume that this is done on purpose to show off in your presence, yet what most fail to take into account is that ifa is unaware of this phenomenon that only you can cause. it's subconscious; his anemo bullets fire off with astounding speed, and he maneuvers through the air with a sense of expertise that's not even found in soaring qucusaurs. though, the truth behind his increased strength around you is caused by the intense feelings he experiences. his ardor simply cannot be contained within just his body, and is thus transferred into his vision, wherein his capabilities surpass what he's used to. feelings of madness is what propels ifa to greater heights, and while it seems idealistic at surface level, this illusion will fall apart once he's made aware of this and decides to utilize it against you. for a man of intellect, it'll only be a few days before truth dawns upon him.

shenhe firmly believes that her cryo vision only serves one purpose: that being to serve you. her cryo clone is created with the sole intention to protect you, while she fights enemies head-on without you ever having to lift a single finger. when visiting her during work, shenhe will protect you from the smoldering heat inside wanmin using her cryo to cool you off. should a single bead of sweat form on your face, a frown will appear on hers for hours to come. when you crave icy treats, she's two steps ahead by having already frozen them beforehand. it's comedic, even endearing, at how eager shenhe is to please you using the power bestowed upon her from the heavenly principles. yet the use of her cryo vision extends past helping you with trivial tasks and wants. it's especially useful when it comes to extermination, death caused by hypothermia rather than slaughter is considerably easier to clean up in the byproduct of such actions. in her belief, her cryo vision is nothing if it can't help or serve you.

[thiefcatmoth]

pac: how do people around you see you?

general reading. pick a pile, listening to your intuition. if nothing resonates, leave this pac behind.

pile 1

soft and sharp, warm and cold, changeable, but combining opposites so harmoniously. you have the ability to hide secrets inside and surprise others with little unusual bits of your personality. you have an inner stability, the ability to accept the twists of fate and use them to your advantage. people think that in feelings you give yourself to the bottom, both good and bad. some people find you too authoritarian, but you have a natural ability to make (or advise) others to do what you need or want. despite the general impression, some see your fragile spiritual core, and some may even say that you give them your light. even if you do not plan to illuminate someone's life, it happens on its own. many people do not strive to see beyond the facade that you have erected and may not realize that you can hide wisdom, knowledge, depth of words behind jokes and light-mindedness, a mask that you deliberately put up for others.

pile 2

others see you as a loyal, hardworking person, although not without a hint of something… gloomy? not hostility, but something dark or gloomy. you work even when obstacles arise, your persistence is admired by others, maybe even became an example or a source of inspiration for someone. at the same time, a special feminine energy emanates from you - cool, fresh, even a little youthful. energy that attracts, like a flower in the morning dew, but not everyone likes it. in general, you give the impression of someone who is difficult to gain trust, you don't let everyone in your inner circle, some think that you are too difficult to find the keys to. I think they just do not realize that you choose people based on your emotions and your inner circle is so important to you in order to develop, learn and work on yourself.

pile 3

some people think that you are capable of doing anything with your own hands. every little bit of what you do - art, handmade, cooking, whatever - has a special uniqueness, everything is a meaningful masterpiece. people see great wisdom in you, even when your words are not liked or seem poisonous. in addition, you know how to use all your knowledge for good. some people think that you are overprotective? the energy of excessive care, maybe even an attempt to prove that your views on everyday life and the material world are the most correct. someone may think that you were greatly influenced by your ancestors, and that is why your advice, even when you talk about something modern, can be perceived as outdated, similar to ancient wisdom. they are never devoid of meaning. few will be able to understand that helping others and caring that you do is not your favorite thing or a way to show yourself. these are just intuitive actions.

pile 4

the energy of an intelligent but closed person. clearly with a mind of your own, with clear internal and external boundaries. do you like black humor or sarcasm? or maybe there are notes of healthy cynicism in you? people sense that there is a storm of energy hidden inside you, it seems to them that your inner strength and impulses are more than enough for your desires and goals. for the sake of your goals, you can be assertive, choose smart paths and apply your efforts correctly. but others think that you are too free with your time, as if you own it. and some catch too many flirting signals. there is something in your behavior that reminds them of a socialite. to someone you may even seem frivolous in those moments when you deviate from your mask and image. someone notices that you often change your habits, style, lifestyle, and not everyone will understand that this is not a burden, not forced. you are able to adapt to any physical changes, from food and apartment to clothes, workouts and weight. it's like you are changing subtly every day. just don't pay attention if someone ignorantly considers it insignificant.

thanks for the reading!

dividers by @strangergraphics-archive, all images are not mine

[boopjuice]

Humans are Space Orcs: Melons.

Okay, hear me out. Humans are omnivores, and this is widely known throughout the greater Galactic Alliance. They have insane tolerance to things most would consider poison, and can eat just about anything deemed nonlethal by most other races (there are, of course, some exceptions).

Anyway, there's no need to wait for an animal to be ready to eat. Sure, a deer that's too young or too old won't have as much nutrition, but there's nothing stopping you from eating it. Fruits and vegetables have to grow and ripen before humans can eat them, and are often determined ripe based on color and size.

Now imagine, if you will, an alien crew visiting their human's home in Earth during the summer. Some of them are drastically overheated and have to stay in the ship, while the more heat tolerant species are out and about with the human at a grocery store.

"Human- I mean, Sarah, your parent mentioned requiring a 'watered melon's for the third meal, yes?"

"Watermelon, Chi'l'zak, but yeah, Dad did ask me to pick some up. Why?"

"Well, there appear to be some over there to choose from."

"Oh, nice spot! Let's see here..."

And the alien's watch in as their human picks up the biggest melon in the pile and observes it for a moment, presumably checking the color, only to smack the large fruit, frown, and set it back down.

"Hu- Sarah, why did you put down the fruit?"

"It's just not quite ready yet." The human picks up another melon, smacks this one a few times, and sets it down.

"But I thought these 'grocery stores' only sold ripe foods?"

"Well, everything here is technically ripe, but that doesn't always mean it's ready. I mean, the avocados they sell are ripe, but they aren't usually ready to eat. They don't taste as good, or they're too hard. You just have to know how to pick your produce. Ah, here we go!" A few smacks to a new melon, and Sarah looks pleased. The melon doesn't appear any different from the others.

"How are you certain that one is the best? It is colored the same as the other fruits, and is smaller than some. Surely this fruit isn't ready, as you said."

"Of course it is, Chi'l'zak. Here, listen."

Sarah smacks the watermelon they'd picked out a couple times, then smacked the first melon they'd picked up. "See? They sound different. That's how you know this one's good."

"But Human Sarah, those sounded exactly the same."

"No they didn't."

"Well, how were they different then?"

"I dunno. They just don't sound the same."

They ended up bringing home the ready and unready melons to display the difference. Anthropological notes were updated that night in the ship's log.

"Ripeness of human fruits: Some fruits on the human Mother Planet can be identified as 'ready to eat' by sound. The preferred method seems to be to smack the fruit known as 'melon' with an open appendage and listen. While most of the team were able to notice any significance between a ready and unready melons, human participants were able to easily distinguish ready from unready melons and select accordingly."

[ifellintothestyx]

It will never not be funny to me that in Thousand Autumns, Shen Qiao is just the one normal, reasonable person while everyone else is living in a classic Wuxia drama

Basically every book conversation is just this:

Yu Ai: I had to poison you because you disagreed with everything I said, so I deemed you an incapable and naive sect leader! You would bring Mt. Xuandu to ruin!

Shen Qiao: I'm sorry, "had" to? We could've talked things out, y'know, like how normal people settle disagreements, but no, poison was clearly the only option left. You "had" to poison me. Right.

---

Yan Wushi: You and I are diametrically opposed. You are weak and undeserving of my attention. You fail to live up to my expectations and bring shame upon your master's legacy. Why would I need a friend like you so presume?

Shen Qiao: I didn't say you needed one, just that that's what I call you. You literally followed me around for months, ate with me, sparred with me, saved my life, and opened my eyes to the outside world... What on earth did you want me to call you that wouldn't be rude?

(Honestly knowing YWS's melodramatic ass, SQ probably just went through a mental list of statuses you could give to someone based on their proximity, realized that YWS is very much an outlier and also very much particular about his titles and general importance, picked "friend" as the safest option.)

---

Chen Gong: You look down on me because I'm from poor origins and never had the background or pedigree that you did so you disdain my methods!

Shen Qiao: ... You are holding. A child. Hostage. Literally every time I've met you you're doing something that doesn't agree with my morals and endangering human life. I genuinely do not care about your background, you just happen to be doing something I don't agree with and also tends to end up becoming my problem.

(No really, CG has like such a massive unrequited hatred for SQ while SQ is just lamenting that they somehow always end up meeting at the worst times in the worst places)

---

Half of the characters: Look how lowly you've become! From sect leader to boy toy! Everyone point and laugh!

Shen Qiao: Harsh but true, I suppose. Oh well, I should get back to what I'm doing.

[captivating-flavors]

maybe | sylus

pairing: sylus x non mc assassin!reader

prompt: -

summary: maybe it was not as one-sided as you thought it was.

words: 2,441

warning(s): period, hurt/comfort

a/n: thats the longest ive ever written ever in my entire life. inspired by period and this. enjoy?? reblogs, comments and feedbacks are much appreciated <3

masterlist

There was a high-grade protocore that had been stolen en route to the Onychinus base a few days ago. You managed to track it down and found that the theft had been arranged by one of the auction houses and that it was going to be auctioned off tomorrow night. Therefore, you had to go in and retrieve the protocore tonight.

To say it was complicated was an understatement, since apparently the auction house took liberty to strengthen their security system and increase the number of guards on standby ever since the stolen protocore landed in their warehouse, but using your inconspicuousness evol, you managed to avoid detection until the moment you lifted the protocore and the alarms started blaring. Which had alerted the guards to storm the warehouse.

Going on missions whilst being on your period was a normal thing but one thing you didn’t see coming was the excruciatingly painful period cramp that hit you mid-fight, despite you already taking painkillers for it earlier.

“Oh god. Talk about bad timing.” You groaned to yourself as you knocked the last one of the guards, who had nicked your side with the tip of his knife, with the butt of your empty gun.

You could still hear a swam of footsteps coming from outside the warehouse. More guards were coming. On a normal day, you would’ve been able to take them out but today, you could no longer stand upright due to the pain of the cramps, so you opted to use your evol to sneak away and drove–more like speed off on– your bike straight to base instead.

You had no idea how you even managed to drive yourself to base but you managed and upon arriving at the base, you were almost doubled over due to the pain, as you had your arm to your stomach whilst having your hand still clutching on to the protocore. You used your free hand to support yourself against the wall as you walked to Sylus’ office, with great effort.

“What’s up, Bossman?” You were trying to be casual with your tone, but you were sweating and breathing heavily due to the fight and pain, mostly the pain. “Guess what? Mission accomp–”

And everything went black.

-

“Y/N!” Sylus shouted as he ran towards your body, which fell to the ground with a hard thud, the protocore falling out of your grasp and rolling away to some corner.

The first thing he noticed as he cradled your upper body was how pale you were. It was like blood had rushed away from your body. The second thing he noticed were the blood stains on your clothes.

“Luke! Kieran!”

The twins rushed over to the office upon hearing his shout, “Yes, Boss.”

“Get the doctor. Now!” Sylus said as he picked you up from the ground and left the office to lie you down on his bed.

A million different thoughts swirled in his brain. What poison was it? Where can he find the antidote? Was it deadly? Why else would you collapse like that? You’ve had stab wounds, broken bones and gunshot wounds before, and it never made you collapse the way you just did. Worst of all, was he going to lose you?

“I heard you called for me, Mr. Sylus.” The doctor said as she entered the room.

“Help her.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“She came back from a mission and passed out. I think she’s been poisoned.”

The doctor moved to your side and started to examine you. She gently pressed her finger on to the skin under your eye before slightly dragging it downward, noting that you had a pale conjunctiva, surmising that you must’ve been bleeding somewhere. The doctor started by cutting you out of the blood-soaked fabric before proceeding to disinfect and bandage the cut on your side with a waterproof bandage.

Sylus could only watch as you lay unconscious on his bed. He wanted to do something to quench the gnawing worry eating at him. The fact that there was nothing he could do to get you to wake up sooner ate at him as he was forced to stand and watch as the doctor further examined your body for more injuries. The more time passes, the angrier he got, and he swore that once he found out who did this to you–his precious girl–he would make them pay.

“I–uh… I don’t think it’s poison, sir.”

“Why has she passed out, then?” Sylus snapped, failing to keep his anger at bay.

“It seems to be because of her period.”

“Period?” Sylus stopped his pacing, confused.

“Yes, she came to me this morning for some painkillers for her cramps. She’d come to me several times before as well due to her heavy flow and cramps. But seeing as she’s still engaging in strenuous activities despite both might’ve caused her to collapse.”

Sylus stayed silent, which prompted the doctor to continue, “I will be prescribing her usual painkillers and some iron supplements as well this time, since it appears to me that she is also anemic. Please make sure that she takes them after her meal and that she stays away from strenuous physical activities for the time being.”

“How long is she going to be out for?”

“She should be up in about half an hour.”

“Is there anything else that could help her with the pain?”

“You could use a heat pad on her abdomen area, that should help ease the pain.”

Sylus nodded, “Alright. Thank you.”

The doctor placed the bag of medication on the bedside table before bowing and leaving the room, leaving Sylus to wait for you to regain consciousness by the chair he had pulled on to the space beside his bed.

-

You opened your eyes to a familiar yet unfamiliar scene. You’d been here before, but this was most definitely not your room.

“Where am I?” Your mind foggy and your own voice sounded groggy and scratchy as you attempted to get up, wincing at the sharp pain on your side.

Sylus stopped you from getting up, “You’re in my bedroom, Sweetie.”

“What… What happened?”

“You passed out on me.”

“Sorry about that.” You let out a small cough, propping yourself up against the headboard before continuing, “But I managed to secure the goods, didn’t I?”

Sylus walked over to the table in front of the couch to pour a glass of water before handing it over to you. “Thanks.” You said, before dunking the contents of the glass.

There was a short pause as he watched you, “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve sent someone else instead.”

“Tell you what?”

“That you were in pain because of the cramps.”

“It’s fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“What do you mean it’s not a big deal? You passed out. You–” His increasing tone had you looking up at him, it was not like him to show such… concern? He had to clench his fists to stop himself from raising his voice because he knows that’s not the first thing you need upon waking up before continuing, “I thought I was going to lose you.”

 “Well, you didn’t. It would take a lot more than that to take me out.” You chuckled softly averting your gaze from his, still puzzled by the emotion so clearly displayed on his red orbs.

“I know. You’re a big girl.”

“But it would be a shame if that took me out, wouldn’t it? You know for a fact that no one can finish these missions as efficiently as I can.” You let out a smile as you said it.

Sylus sighed, “That’s not what I meant, Kitten.”

You were about to respond but instead let out a curse as you felt your cramps coming back. “Shit.”

“Here. The doctor said a heat pad would help.” He said as he handed a heat pad over to you.

You were still puzzled, but you took it and put it over the lower part of your stomach, “Thanks.” The heat pad did make your cramps feel slightly more manageable.

Sylus looked at you for a second and got up to go into the bathroom. You then heard the sound of water running and the sounds of Sylus rummaging through something. After about ten minutes, he walked out of the bathroom and stood by the bedside.

“C’mon let’s get you cleaned up first.” Sylus said as he tried to pick you up.

You held your hand out to stop him, “Whoa. I can walk myself.” You tried to stand on your own but staggered, clearly underestimating the pain you would feel as you stood.

He reached out but you rejected his help yet again, “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

“Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean you’re not in pain, Y/N. Let me help you.” He said as he reached an arm behind you to keep you steady and added, “Please.” Gentleness and desperation(?) laced in his voice.

“Okay.” You eventually relented and let him carry you into the bathroom.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to help you. It’s just that you didn’t want his actions to water any seeds of delusion that you have about how your relationship could be something more.

Sylus put you on your feet in front of the bathtub before turning around to let you get out of your clothes. You quipped, “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before.”

“I’m being respectful, Kitten.”

You shut off the water and tested it with your hands, suds sticking to your wet palm. You got into the tub and said, “You can turn around now.”

Sylus then walked over to the tub and knelt beside it, watching you as his arm rested on the edge of the tub. You felt uncomfortable under his gaze. It was too… warm and tender.

“Quit looking at me like that.” You grumbled, splashing some of the water onto his rolled-up sleeves.

“Like what?” The warmth in his gaze now had hints of mirth within it as he smirked.

“Like I’m some wounded stray you picked up off the street.”

He laughed, the sound deep, rich and velvety. “Oh, Sweetie, you’re so much more than that.” His hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You coughed. The heat rushing to your cheeks and the pounding of your heart prompted you to change the subject, “Sorry about your sheets. I’ll clean it up later.”

“It’s fine, Kitten. I can handle it. I’ve handled much worse.”

The two of you stayed there in silence for a while. Usually, you would’ve come up with something witty to say but the warmth of the water felt too good on your aching stomach. Sylus was the one to break the silence, “I’ll get the chef to make you some food.” He then stood and added, “The towels, pads and change of clothes are over on the counter.”

He left you in the bathroom to your own devices, where you decided you would soak in the warmth a little bit longer. It felt nice to just relax for a bit, especially after the mission you’ve been on but you couldn’t help your thoughts that were starting to wander off to Sylus.

Several months ago was when you first realized that you were falling for him, but you knew you had to keep it under wraps since it has always been nothing more than something casual between the two of you. That had been the agreement, hadn’t it? No strings attached, just business. And pleasure, sometimes.

However, the warmth and tenderness in his gaze tonight was really… unfamiliar. He had always treated you well, of course, but tonight it felt as if he was being overly sweet and that unsettled you, as it gave you hope for something more. Could you, though? Could you ask for something more?

The coldness of the tub water brought you out of your thoughts. Guess you stayed in the tub longer than you thought. You got out of the tub and straight into the shower, before changing into the fresh set of clothes Sylus had prepared for you.

Sylus glanced up at you from the stack of papers as you walked out of the bathroom. “Come. Sit.”

You looked around the room to see that the sheets had been changed. You walked over towards the desk and sat on the chair opposite him; a plate of steak and a bowl of tomato soup was laid out in front of the stack of papers he was going through. “What…?”

“Eat. You’ll have to take your medicine.”

You ate in silence as he went through more of the paperwork on his desk. Eventually, he’d left you alone to shower. After you were done with the food, you took the meds as instructed on the packaging and you scrambled to gather your things.

“Where are you going?” Sylus’ voice startled you.

“To my place…?” The statement came out more like a question, because you yourself weren’t entirely sure. You weren’t exactly in the condition where you could manage the walk to your apartment three blocks away, but you���d never stayed the night before.

“It’s late. You should just stay the night.”

“…Is it okay for me to?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Sylus gave you a puzzled look as he got out of his towel and into his robe.

“I mean… I’ve never stayed the night… Even after,” You gestured between the two of you, “you know.”

“You’re always gone before I could ask you to stay, Kitten.”

His unwavering gaze and response got you speechless, “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Just get on the bed and sleep, yeah?” He chuckled before turning the lights off.

“Wait, Sylus.”

“Yes, Sweetie.”

“Can I ask you for a favor?”

“Anything.” He replied as he walked over and laid down on to the other side of the bed.

You turned to look at him, “Will you hold me?”

“I wasn’t planning not to, Kitten. Turn over.” He said as he reached onto the bedside table to grab a heat pack. He pulled the sheets of over the both of you before resting his arm over your body, holding the heat pack against your abdomen.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

You felt your eyes growing heavy by the minute. The warmth of his body pressed on to your back was all too comforting. One thought did swirl around your head before you fell asleep, though.

‘Maybe it’s not as one-sided as I thought it was.’

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Wouldn't you like to see something strange?

HI I know the new Halloween character isn't out yet but I needed an outlet for my excitement (Yes, I am unfortunately a Nightmare Before Christmas girlie) 💀 so please be advised that he may not be in character here, I'm just writing based on vibes! This is technically a twisted!Jack Skellington x Reader fic, but the Reader is basically playing a role similar as Sally from the film.

P.S. I want everyone to know that I busted out my drawing tablet to make this special border for him the same day he was first announced... Yeah...

Boo.

On the nights with full moons, he liked to steal away to the Spiral Hill on the outskirts of town.

The outcrop of land overlooked a vast graveyard and field laden with pumpkins, perfuming the air with the crisp sweetness characteristic of autumn. Beyond it, uncharted territory. When he squinted into the darkness, he could make out the vague shapes of naked trees, their gnarled branches like fingers beckoning him to approach, whispering his name.

He draped his long, lithe legs over the hill, letting them hang in the frigid air. Spindly as he was, the wind easily blew them, knocking his legs around like the straw-stuffed limbs of a scarecrow. He kicked with the breeze, carefree as a child on a playground swing.

The moon stitched his pinstriped suit and tattered cravat with silver thread, touched his pointed crown at its highest points. Even the white ribbons ribbing his jacket and the pattern of bones tugged over his gloves seemed to glow under the celestial light. He liked the view, and the view seemed to like him, too.

Held in his skeletal hand was a single flower. He stroked a silken petal, then slipped another finger under it, plucking the petal free. The wind claimed it, setting it sailing off into the unknown.

He continued. A second, a third. So on and so forth, until the flower was left stripped down and barren, even robbed of its leaves.

He dropped the stem off the hill. The pumpkins below consumed it, and the once lovely flower’s body became one with the patch.

"I figured this is where you were."

He lowered his dark circular lenses. His bright eyes slid to the figure that had approached from behind, on feet so swift they hardly made a sound. They came in with the sweetness of deadly nightshade, the trace of a poisoning committed at midnight. "Not a lethal dose, just enough to knock the doctor out for a few hours," as they always said. "How else would I sneak out to see you?"

Dry, ghostly lips dashed with hatch marks pried into an open smile, both teeth and the gaps between them. Charming, in a crooked sort of way. "My dear. You've come."

You bent down. “If you don't mind, I'd like to join.”

“The spot beside me is always reserved for you.” He patted it, inviting you to take a seat.

"Such a gentleman." You sunk down, folding your hands in your lap. "And so handsome when you're brooding. You're terribly good at that."

He was, he was, especially silhouetted by the moon. The man was practically monochrome, but bathed in silver like this, his pale skin was less sickly and more ethereal. He almost appeared like a cruel angel in the light, descending to expunge evil.

"I'm not brooding," he pouted, "I'm dreaming."

“Dreaming." You reached out and tucked a strand of alabaster hair behind his ear. "Father says it’s a ridiculous, wild thing.”

"Ah, but that's what makes it so much thrilling. Life’s no fun without a good scare.”

His mouth quirked to one side, and his smile became off-kilter--as his ideas often were. "He'll bring us to ruin with his crazy, new-fangled thinking and flights of fancy," your father would complain. But you adored that about the boy. How spontaneous he was, how his curiosity was never-ending. He'd race about like a child, picking items up and sticking his face where it probably shouldn't go.

Full of life in this otherwise lifeless town.

"What's this? What's this?" he'd say. "I must know!"

"He's gone daffy," your father would declare.

"Mmm." You nodded absentmindedly, tracing your fingers along the shell of his ear and down to his arm. "What were you dreaming about today?"

He lifted his head, looking beyond the hill and to the woods. Not a word was exchanged. None had to be.

"The Hinterlands?" you whispered. "But we don't know what's out there. No ghoul or monster has ever ventured out that far."

"Then sounds like I'll be the first! They’ll put me down in the history books as a pioneer." His laughter brightened up the gloomy night. When he quieted, his gaze was solemn—more solemn than you'd ever witnessed him. "... Don't you wonder about what's out there? Stuff that's cold and fluffy and falls from the sky. Things that come in colors we haven't seen."

"Sometimes," you admitted quietly, "but those are just dreams. I don't chase them."

"Maybe you should. We should," he mused, fingers tucked under his chin. "I bet there's all sorts of things we've never even dreamed of, too. And wouldn’t you like to see something strange?”

"I would. I really, really would," you told him in a soothing tone. Trying to reassure him as much as you were yourself. "Let's not doing anything dangerous though. I sense something in the wind—tragedy at hand. I can't shake that feeling that something bad is around the bend if you tread that path."

You gingerly laid your hand over his. Behind tinted lenses, his eyes widened.

"Stay here with me," you begged. "We can be together. Gaze at the stars. Be safe in one another's arms."

“… Sweetness, I would love for nothing more than to have you and to hold you ‘til death do us part.” His voice fluttered like the brush of a falling leaf upon your cheek. He regarded you tenderly, locking his fingers with yours and squeezing. “But you know that’s not the kind of man I am.”

“Yes, you’re every flavor of foolish imaginable,” you replied, pressing your forehead against his, “and I love you for that.”

“As do I.” He brought his icy lips to the back of your hand. A chill spider-walked up your arm, and you shivered.

“Then…”

“That’s why I must depart one day.” He pushed his glasses up. You caught the tragic reflection of your face in his lenses. “Out there… something more awaits us. I’m sure of that. I intend to find it and revive our town, this season that’s gone stale.”

“I won’t stop you if you decide to go,” you murmured. “And I will count the days until you return to me.”

“I knew you’d understand.” His smile—now it was touched with sadness, the knowledge of soon parting ways. “Thank you, dearest.”

He stood slowly, drawing you up with him. Your feet followed, as if pulled along by a puppeteer. How in sync the two of you were, how nicely molded your bodies were to one another’s. Your joy melded under the watchful eye of the moon.

“Shall we share a dance? One for the road,” he crooned. An errant breeze tousled his pallid hair, his tattered coattails—but to you, he was fairest of them all. “Our last dance for a while.”

“Alright, let’s make this one count,” you chuckled, “so I can send you off on your travels with a smile.”

“Excellent 🎵” He slid a hand around your waist, guiding you to lean into him. “Let the merrymaking commence!!”

“Yes…!!”

The midnight waltz began.

He led you, step by step, and you trailed after. Movements easy and effortless, like two intertwining maple leaves, spinning and spiraling. Their partner, the center of their universe.

“It’s as plain anyone can see,” he breathed.

“We’re simply meant to be,” you returned.

They danced as if possessed or an enchantment was cast upon their footwear. The moment too sweet, too succulent, to relinquish so soon. They wanted to savor it, indulge in it—and each other.

For never was there a more perfect pair than the Pumpkin King and his consort.

[konigslittleliebling]

I KNOW HE’S SO FOUL BUT I LIKE HIM A LOT! -> D. DIXON

— [ THE RICH WHORES. ]

table of contents; reader is 18 and daryl is in his early 20s, brief references to past abuse, you’re very flirtatious, it’s giving lizzy grant, mutual pining, sexual tension, hb is down bad, you bond over dysfunctional topics, loser!daryl, mildly implied gooner!daryl, implied panty fetish, he’s so awkward bless him, he’s got a staring problem, fluffy, public touching and kissing.

this is based on a super cute request sent in by my lovely bubbles anon <3

he used to see the way merle looked at girls like you and it repulsed him.

you’ve gotten close with the greene sisters; namely beth. you’re close in age and clothes size, too. beth’s jeans are a little tight on you but daryl’s not complaining. the way they hug your hips and cling to your legs. . . they look good on you.

the other day he noticed a little butterfly inked to the skin at your naval. a simple print that probably cost you twenty bucks; but it’s dainty and feminine, like you.

well, perhaps not dainty.

you’re not meek like your mother. you’ve got your father’s temperament. ed peletier.

daryl scoffs. gone too late. fucker had it coming.

though unlike ed—your temper is easily tamed. but feminine, oh yes. you’ve got your mother’s soft features. kind eyes, a gentle voice and one of reason. you’re the light of the group. the breath of fresh air. the innocence—though foolishly assumed and falsely perceived. daryl’s got a hunch about that seeming innocence of yours and its authenticity.

and there’s something in the way you smile.

you’ve smiled less and less since your little sister went missing, but still you find it in you to muster the odd one; which is where you differ to your mother who spends her time weeping, sleeping, or weeping herself to sleep.

your smile? well, it’s endearing.

no, no that’s not it.

it’s. . . enticing?

no.

dangerous. simply put, you’re poison to all men.

a venus flytrap, if you will—but for men.

whenever you smile at him daryl feels as though he’s in enemy territory. treading on thin ice. crossing some sort of boundary. you make him question his morals, like to look at you bends his code of conduct. he doesn’t really have a code but he knows he shouldn’t be looking at you like this, or thinking about you the way he does.

which is hysterical in the grand scheme of things since he’s barely two years your senior and you are a young woman. very young. jail bait, if daryl wasn’t just as young. but merle looked at you the same way back at the quarry.

just as bad as him. daryl muses, picking at the blades of grass at his feet. he scoffs.

then your bubbly laughter carries across the field and crawls up the hill to his tent, and why? just because. and you’re talking to glenn again, who daryl suspects had the hots for you (not that he blames him) before he met maggie.

thank god for maggie.

though he doesn’t think you like glenn any more than you do rick or shane.

then there’s the issue of sex. it’s all he thinks about when you’re around. he wonders if you’ve ever been with anyone. you dress revealingly, though you blame the georgia heat. tonight you’ve borrowed one of beth’s dresses—a summer dress that cuts off at the knee. it’s lacey and floral and super pretty.

there’s a chill in the air and the breeze is damp, but still you insist on wearing barely anything. it must be deliberate. he’s not calling you promiscuous but you have this nimbus about you.

daryl’s never felt the warmth of a woman squeeze him. the closest he’s gotten to that is the rough skin of his palm, or that one time merle paid one of his call girls to take his little brother’s innocence. (he bolted the second she stripped to her underwear.)

he’s just never been that into someone, or so he tells himself. it’s better than admitting he’s undesirable, not that he really cares—he also tells himself.

but he can’t help wondering what you must think of him. he’s never concerned himself with the opinions of others and far less with their opinions of him.

then you had to come along with your prettiness—effortless and natural—and a pair of legs that go on like route 66.

it’s ridiculous and he hates you for making him so smitten. no he doesn’t, not really. so he’ll just keep loving on you from afar if it means he won’t feel so vile for it. stupid, again.

and he can just hear merle’s voice now.

‘look atchu, little brother. watchin’ ‘er from afar like you ain’t never seen a woman before. . . she’s a fine piece’a ass though, i’ll give ya that. so what’cha waitin’ for? stop chasin’ ya own tail an’ get yer virgin dick wet!’

“fuckin’ prick.” he grumbles, flicking the dirt beneath his nails.

“that’s not very nice now, is it?”

his shaggy brown hair slips from his brow when he snaps his head up, blue eyes landing on you. he never heard you coming. “didn’t mean you.”

“talking to yourself?” you ask him, amused, and tilt your head when he ducks his.

“nah,” he mumbles, barely loud enough for you to catch it, and resumes fiddling with the grass.

you smile like you always do, even in times of trouble, and pinch your dress to your sides when you settle beside him on the ground. “that’s okay. i do it, too.”

your shoulder bumps his and he tenses, then side-eyes you through a curtain of mousy hair. “want somethin’?”

“thought you might be lonely.” you shrug, looking out over the farm, hair floating aimlessly behind you.

“nah,” he eyes you, then looks down again. “prefer my own company.”

you hum, not making any attempts to move. all you’re doing is fucking sitting there and still you manage to slow the world to a stop.

daryl flicks his hair back over his eyes, anything to keep them from finding their way back to you. “shouldn’t ya be with yer mom?”

“every time i come over, you try to get rid of me.” you turn to face him, leaving his question to hang emptily and unanswered in the air. “why?”

he gnaws at his lip, then shrugs. “said i prefer my own company.”

you watch as his hands delve into the grass again to twiddle a weed. “you don’t like me, or something?”

“nah.”

you sigh, hands falling defeatedly into your lap. “was that a ‘nah’ as in you don’t, or a ‘nah’ as in you do?”

he huffs. “i do.”

you frown. “then why is it that whenever i try talking to you, you act like you’re allergic to me or something?”

he shrugs again and you roll your eyes, leaning toward him. he freezes. “you allergic to girls, daryl?”

only the pretty ones.

“nah.” he repeats again.

you purse your lips. “okay, then.” and stand up to fix your dress. as you do, his eyes wonder just high enough to catch a glimpse of your underwear. he swallows.

“good talk.” you tell him with a flat smile that looks almost painful to wear.

he watches as you turn, then as you start back down the hill. “fuck.” he throws the grass from his hand, then scrubs the green dew against his jeans. “hey, wait up!”

you stop and turn back to him, hopeful. “yes?”

he should’ve thought of something to say first.

when he says nothing, you nod and start to turn away again.

“ya don’t have to leave.” he then blurts, halting you. “i ain’t good at talkin’ but, uh, i’m good at sittin’.”

you smirk. “i’m allowed to stay so long as i sit in silence and watch you pick grass?”

he blinks, swallows, then nods. you snort. “alright, then.” and make your way back up the hill.

“ya don’t have to if ya don’t wanna—”

“shush, we’re playing the quiet game, remember?” you plonk yourself back down and hug your knees to your chest. your dress slides down your thighs when you do, bunching where your hips bend. he stares for a moment, and suddenly the grass is fascinating again.

you drum your finger against your knees, then blow a escapee hair from your face. you’re dramatic about it, making a deliberate raspberry-like noise.

daryl stops fidgeting to shoot you a fed-up glare.

“what? i had too much air in my mouth.” you tell him, then gasp and smack a palm to your forehead. “oops, does that mean i lost? that’s a damn shame. . . unless you wanna go for round two?” your smirk broadens when the double entendre swoops straight over his head. or maybe it doesn’t.

he rolls his eyes, but you spot the faint hint of a smile trying very hard not to show itself. “whatever, crazy girl.”

“crazy? me?” you press a hand to your chest, clutching your invisible pearls. “i lose one round of the quiet game and suddenly i’m the local rebel? coming from a bad boy, no less.”

daryl scoffs. “ain’t a bad boy.”

“well, you certainly look the part.” you grin and rest your cheek atop your knee, smushing it. he averts his gaze from you, afraid his mask will slip if he looks too long.

“says the girl who looks like she got lost on her way to church and wound up at the local strip joint.”

you let out a rambunctious laugh. “a girl can’t believe in god and expose her ankles? sorry, did i get lost on the way to church and wind up in the nineteen-sixties?”

daryl smirks. “yeah, better put those legs away before i jump on ya.”

then he clears his throat, ‘cause where the hell did that come from?

your brows shoot up. this is the most he’s said to you since the apocalypse started. “what, these old things?” you outstretch your leg, not bothering to pull your dress back down when you do, and scoot it against his. “try not to shoot any blanks now.”

his leg tenses against yours, but he doesn’t pull it back or nudge yours away. “more of a boob guy myself.”

he hasn’t seen a pair in his life, other than in merle’s magazines.

you throw your head back with a chuckle and he huffs out a laugh of his own. if he knew you were this easy to be around, he wouldn’t have spent so much time avoiding you. for a second, he forgets why he did in the first place.

then you roll your head to the side, hands cemented behind you. your hair falls back over your shoulders, neck and chest curving into the moonlight.

then he remembers.

he looks away, face suddenly serious. the air around you goes cold and you frown. “daryl?”

“should probably turn in soon.” he mumbles.

“did i do something?”

“nah.”

‘cause you didn’t, and never do. you don’t have to do a damn thing to make him feel this way. not anything at all. you could be a mute and he’d still be floored.

“will you stop saying that? my father died and my baby sister is missing. forgive a girl for needing a little fun.” you hug yourself, eyes drifting over the fields as they water. “thought you’d need some too with merle getting left behind and all.”

daryl joins you in your daze, his eyes finding a distant tree to focus on. “don’t need fun.”

you scoff. “right, no. you want peace and quiet. well, don’t worry, message received.” and take to your feet again.

a rough hand reaches for you, clasping you by the wrist. it’s unsure in its grip, fingers flexing. you pause halfway up, brow arching expectantly. he drops his hand, but this time he’s able to hold eye contact for longer than a nanosecond. “got grass stains on your ass.”

you heave out a frustrated laugh and rake your hands through your hair. “what is it with you?”

he watches with an unreadable expression as you pace the small space of his camp, hands on you hips.

“you tell me to leave, then you ask me to stay but i mustn’t speak to you; then you flirt with me, then you go all quiet and stare at the grass; then i try to leave again and you reveal that you can stare at my ass, but you can’t bear to look me in the eye.”

he lowers his head, ‘cause it is pretty bad when you phrase it like that.

unsure of what to say or if it’s even worth finding the right words anyway, he opts for silence. in his experience, it’s usually the safer option.

“then when i call you out on your bullshit, you’re at a loss for words.” you scoff, head shaking as you look around at nothing in particular. “sorry i ever bothered you. sorry i tried to be your friend when no one else wants to, i’ll let them know not to bother.”

he just sits there and takes it. he knows you’re right, knows he’s been a grade-a windbag. he should let you go. let you forget him. let you go fuck glenn or shane or whoever—‘cause at least they can say more than three words to you and not grow sweaty under the collar at the mere sight of you.

he should save you the trouble—let you hate him. but he already hates himself enough for the both of you.

“hold up!” he calls to you, actually standing up this time. as soon as your pretty face—crestfallen and lost—turns to him, silver beneath the moonlight and framed by hair that curls against the breeze, he almost forgets his own name.

the pause must’ve been a long one, ‘cause you turn away from him with a roll of your eyes, legs glistening under the stars as you wade through the tall blades of grass.

“ya don’t bother me.” he says anyway, the words clumsy and goaded by gravity with their leave. part of him hopes you don’t hear him and keep walking. but you stop, maybe listening, probably seething.

“ain’t good with girls,” he carries on, picking at his fingers and the various cuts and calluses they brandish. “never ‘ave been, never will be.”

that makes you look over your shoulder, a soft frown pinching your brows together.

“ain’t had a girlfriend, not since kindergarten.” he swallows, staring down at his feet like he’s only just discovered them. “lasted ‘bout ten minutes ‘cause she held hands with some other boy when he shared a crayon with ‘er.”

you can’t help but laugh at that. the fact that he’s not trying to be funny, but is being deadly serious. you wouldn’t be surprised if that actually happened, condemning him to a romance-less life ever since.

the sound of your laughter draws his gaze up, surprised. pleasantly.

a’right, keep sayin’ shit like that.

“i, uh, didn’t expect ya to stay this long.” he scratches his head.

dick.

you smile, arms folded as you lean your weight onto one leg. “that’s alright, it’s the thought that counts.”

he grimaces. “nah, it’s actions that matter most. i’ve been a prick.”

“you’re shy.” you start to approach him again, slow. “nothing wrong about that. in fact,” you keep walking, dress scrunched at your thighs to avoid dampening its hem. “i like my men kinda shy.”

he takes an awkward step back but you keep walking.

“you intrigue me, daryl dixon.”

he blinks, gormless, like you’re speaking a foreign language or asked him to recite the alphabet backwards.

“ain’t that interestin’.” he shrugs, then pockets his hands.

“well, you’re interesting to me.” you sit yourself back down and pat the space next to you.

it would seem you’re a believer in second chances. and third, fourth, and fifth.

“yer forgivin’.” daryl comments, joining you after a moment’s hesitation.

“there’s nothing to forgive.” you smile. “it’s natural to be nervous around your crush.”

his cheeks stain red and he averts his gaze. “ain’t crushin’ on ya.”

wanna protest any harder, jackass? his inner monologue berates.

“oh, yeah?” you grin, finding his embarrassment cute. “why’d you mention your kindergarten girlfriend and the fact you haven’t had once since, then?”

he fumbles, siphoning through his mental filing cabinet for a half-decent excuse. “makin’ conversation.”

“usually people start with the weather.” you prop your chin in the cup of your palm, fingers feeling the earth beneath you like his did.

“my mama used to tell me never to mention the wind in front of ladies.” he watches your fingers, then mirrors you with his own.

“yeah, the breaking of wind, perhaps.” you take notice of the way his shoulders have softened slightly, his demeanour less cagey. “you never talk about her. is she alive?”

those shoulders stiffen again and you eat your words.

“. . .nah.”

you should’ve followed your own advice. the weather it is. “it’s not so chilly tonight.”

he steals a glance at your attire. no shit.

“it’s quite pleasant actually, since it’s so hot during the day, and all.” you smile hopefully at him, silently encouraging him to engage with you. you know he’ll avoid you like the plague—or this brain virus—come tomorrow, anyway.

“yeah.” he agrees, sheepish.

you sigh. “have i saddened you? i’m sorry.”

“she died years ago.” he pulls at the lose threads that stray from the frayed seams of his denim. “doesn’t make me sad anymore.”

“it’s okay to be sad, daryl. she was your mom.” you place an ambiguous hand on his, experimental. chancing. testing the waters. “my dad was an ass, but i have my days where i miss him. or maybe it’s just sadness for my mom, or the fact that i don’t have a dad anymore and wish i did; or wish when i did have one, he was better.”

“never said i don’t miss ‘er.” he mumbles, hand still beneath yours. “i do—just ain’t sad anymore.”

you nod, unsure of what to say next. “okay. well, that’s a good thing.”

“m-hmm.” his finger flexes against yours, but whatever he’d built the courage to do, he thinks better of it.

“listen,” you clear your throat, the now somber mood contradicting your intentions. “thank you for your help with finding sophia. without your tracking skills, i fear our attempts at finding her would be a lost cause, so. . . thank you, daryl.”

he’s silent for a minute, glances at you, then back down at the ground. you see a flicker of shame. “she’s still missin’.”

“not for much longer, i hope.” you look away, also—up at the sky. “me and mom have been praying for her safe return.”

“been prayin’ to the guy who let ‘er go missin’ in the first place?” daryl asks, bewildered, a little frustrated. then he scoffs, ripping the thread he’s been playing with from its lining and chucking it somewhere behind him. the breeze takes it. “some god he turned out’a be.”

you’ve got nothing to say to that. you suppose he’s got a point, but abandoning your belief would mean facing reality; something you don’t want to do. not yet. not now.

because then you’d have to consider the possibility of never seeing your sister again, and your god has been keeping you sane so far. that much he’s been good for, at least.

“if yer askin’ him why he won’t let us find yer sister, mind askin’ him why he allowed a goddamn apocalypse to happen while yer at it?” he harshly adds. “would love to hear his reasons.”

“if you’ve got a bone to pick, it’s not with me.” you tell him, exasperated. “i don’t want my first proper conversation with you to be a fight.”

“my fight ain’t with ya.” he meets your eyes now. really meets them. there’s a switch in his expression, subtle. you barely catch it. “it’s with that fucker up there—he’s got’a lot to answer for if ya ask me.”

“well i didn’t.” you snip, holding eye contact. there’s anguish swimming within those blues. anguish, deprecation, and sincerity. maybe tenderness, or something similar.

he drops the subject, tearing his gaze from yours to look out over hershel’s land. your stare lingers for a second longer, then you allow your eyes to drift out over the fields.

“your dad teach you how to hunt? you’re good at it.”

in your peripheral, he tenses. brittle and unannealed. “nah. just somethin’ i picked up through the years. merle taught me some stuff, but he was away a lot.”

you nod, getting the feeling you shouldn’t pry about his father. “doing what?”

“jail time.” he tells you, casual. “but before that, servin’. with the army.”

you reckon the topic of merle is a safe-ish middle ground to meander into. “so he’s served two different kinds of time?” you try to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t laugh or so much as smirk.

“uh-huh.” you see him visibly relax, more comfortable in and of himself. and with you. “got discharged from active duty for punchin’ out his general. served multiple sentences for drugs, mostly. few vandalisms, couple drunk an’ disorderlys. one battery charge i think, maybe two.”

your brows almost become one with your hairline. “wow, he always seemed sort of. . . untouchable.”

“sure thinks he is.” daryl lets out a chuckle, one of nostalgia and greater times. “truth is, he’s fuckin’ soft in the head. hard-hearted, though.”

you watch him divulge to you, embracing his openness. you feel special, like you’re the first and only girl he’s revealing such things to. you probably are.

“was always there for me, though. we were just always on the road—driftin’. all the drug shit an’ him runnin’ from the law. . . we could never stay in one place. all i’ve known is the road, mostly. after my mom. . .”

he zones out a little, the rest of his sentence never reaching the surface.

“my dad was in trouble pretty often, too.” you hug your knees to your chest, chin propped against your forearm.

“what for?” though daryl suspects the answer is obvious.

“domestic stuff.” you offer him a flat, tight-lipped smile. “but he never did time, just got a slap on the wrist.”

daryl shakes his head, brows knitted. “an’ you miss this guy?”

you shrug. “he was my dad, y’know?”

“yeah, i do know.” he bristles. “my dad beat me black an’ blue as a kid. hell, merle only joined the army so he wouldn’t kill him.” he tsks, eyes narrow. dark. “don’t miss him at all. not one bit.”

you sigh, wondering if attempting to befriend the mysterious daryl dixon was worth it.

“an’ since ya believe in that stuff, yer lookin’ in the wrong direction if ya wanna talk to yer pops.” he comments, jutting his head toward the ground.

“i do believe; but i don’t talk to him.” mist starts to roll over the hills, condensation settling on the grass. you inhale, hold it, then let it out. you feel alive, like you can breathe freely and without fear of consequence. “do you believe in hell. . . or your own version?”

“don’t ‘ave to believe in hell to think bad people go to bad places when they’re gone.” he bends his legs, knee bumping yours. “our dads are havin’ a blast together, i’m sure.”

you snort at that. “yeah, probably.” you nudge him with your shoulder. “sorry your dad was a dick.”

he side-eyes you, then nudges back. “right back atcha.”

you don’t move away when his arm remains pressed against yours, and you don’t look away to gaze at nothingness and ponder the meaning of life.

he doesn’t look away either.

think of somethin’ to say, genius.

“yer, uh. . .”

c’mon, mister big shot.

he wishes he was as good at talking to you as he is with himself.

anythin’s better than nothin’.

“you don’t have to keep thinking of something to say, daryl.”

thank god.

“just kiss me.”

shit. his eyes dart.

“or tell me i’ve read this wrong.” you know you didn’t. you see the way he looks at you when he doesn’t realise you’re watching. you’ve noticed the way he’s been acting tonight—nervous, giddy, and eventually, like himself.

“i know you’re sweet on me, daryl.” you recline onto your side, propping yourself up with your arm. “i like you, too. why’d you think i’m up here?”

he lets his eyes wander you, only landing on your lips briefly before they slip past your neck where they hover at your chest, then down to linger at your legs.

it’s not ogling or invasive or hungry. you don’t feel violated, you don’t even feel self-conscious.

you feel seen and appreciated. he makes you feel beautiful. like you’re the only girl ever.

you lean a little closer. he doesn’t back away, but he doesn’t meet you in the middle either. you frown. “what, never been kissed before?” it’s said in jest, but he doesn’t even try to deny it.

“oh, wow,” you don’t mean to sound so surprised, but you are. he’s just got that look.

the typical bad boy look.

the guy that all the girls want. the one who’s waiting outside school with his motorcycle, cigarette in-mouth whilst he smirks at passersby and onlookers.

you clear your throat and he does the same.

“like i said, always been on the road. . .” he rubs at the back of his neck, then slings his arm to dangle lazily over his knee. “ain’t like i never wanted to, never tried. ain’t ever been a good time.”

“please, don’t explain yourself to me.” you place a comforting hand atop his forearm and squeeze. “it’s no big deal.”

not to someone who’s been kissed.

he glances at your hand, fingers twitching with an ache to touch you. hold you.

he’s just so bad at this. how can someone who’s never felt love’s embrace know how to give it? learn to identify it and when to reciprocate it?

“just thought we could both use a distraction, y’know?” you lift yourself off your hip to straddle him in one swift motion, hands planted on his chest. he quickly straightens his legs to accommodate you, but he’s not sure what to do with himself beyond that.

“think about something other than the fact our lives didn’t get any worse when the world ended.” you flick your hair off your shoulders, fingers curling under the straps of his vest. “if anything, they got a little better. . . since i got to meet you and all.” you grab his hands and situate them at your waist. “you can touch me, daryl.”

he nods, gripping you a little tighter. “this yer idea of a distraction?” he swallows when you lower yourself, face inches from his. you’re even prettier like this. “workin’ yer way through the group?”

you arch a brow, provocative. “yes, you’re my final stop.”

he snorts, eyes flitting between yours and your pouty lips. you smile until it balls at your cheeks and crinkles your eyes; his heart stops. “rick’s married, glenn’s with maggie, shane doesn’t know whether he needs a shit or a haircut, and dale’s triple my age. i only want you, daryl.”

his name sounds angelic on your tongue, like it was written for your voice.

“why do you find that so hard to comprehend?”

he eyeballs you, his lids droopier than usual—so much so that you can’t see much past the blonde wisps of his lashes.

“never had a pretty girl sit on my lap an’ tell me she wants me. expect me to know what the fuck i’m sposed to do?”

“i already told you what to do.” you murmur, low. your breath fans over his lips, teasing.

so he closes the distance, slowly. hesitant. his nose brushes yours, five o’clock shadow scratching against your chin like velcro.

your eyes flutter shut when you finally feel his lips graze yours, cautious. unsure.

so you slide your hands up over his shoulders, nails nipping at the nape of his neck before scraping their way up through his hair.

it’s greasy, split, rat-taily and matted. you scrunch it, drawing a groan out of him, granting you the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

your face tilts, lips parting against his. he’s inexperienced, unpracticed, messy.

and you love every second of it.

he’s more confident now, too. his hands start to roam south, fingers creeping toward those pink frills.

the air isn’t so cool anymore, like you’ve both created your own humidity; and as he starts to grope you with a bit more need, you feel his hardness probe at you.

it’s actually pretty foul. all tongue, teeth, and claw.

and you’re finally living again.

it’s the distant call of your name that pulls you apart, the sloppiness of your separation almost echoing— tinny and crude as it floats over the land.

you’re breathless, fingers tangled in his hair and your lips kiss-bitten. “it’s my mom.”

daryl groans, his own lips swollen and spit-slicked. “let ‘er look.” and he leans in again, but you push yourself off of him with a sly, bubbly giggle.

“stop it.” you chastise, and dust yourself down with a smirk. “same time tomorrow?”

“will ya be wearin’ that dress?” he asks, wiping around his mouth with the back of his hand.

you correct your hair and swipe a thumb over your lips. “why, so you can rip it off?”

“i’d rather ya kept it on.” he retorts, expression dreamy.

why must he only know what to say when you’re leaving?

you shake your head, amused, then twirl on your axis to trot back to the rv.

“can’t ya leave yer lips?” he calls after you, cock stiffened angrily within its denim confinements.

you don’t answer, but a pair of panties land on his lap in response.

[hayatheauthor]

Have u done a post on anatomy of swordfight? Or like weapons in general. I have a lot of different weapons planned out: bow, different types of swords, daggers, shields, spears, etc. I can't find a single proper guide explaining how to write fight scenes for these that make sense.

The Anatomy of Writing a Sword Fight

Thank you for the ask! I really love your ideas/reqs and will be making at least 2 more blogs as a reply to this ask (that will cover bows etc). For now I've gone with swordfights.

This guide dives into the technical aspects of sword fighting—from the types of swords and injuries to the medical realities of treating these wounds.

My long-form posts are usually filled with long detailed paras but this time I wanted to focus more on the 'facts' and had a lot of things to cover so I stuck to concise pointers for each area. That being said, feel free to ask follow-up questions if needed!

Understanding the Blades

Firstly, here's a quick breakdown on the types of swords and their impact on injuries

Longswords Longswords are double-edged, straight blades often used with two hands. They cause deep slashes capable of severing muscles and tendons, and thrusts that can puncture organs or arteries. Heavy blows can also break bones.

Rapiers Rapiers are thin, pointed blades designed for thrusting. They cause precise punctures targeting vital organs or arteries. Less effective for slashing but deadly in skilled hands.

Katanas Katanas are curved, single-edged blades optimized for slicing. Their shape allows for those gory slashes that can amputate limbs or expose bones. Thrusts can also be fatal.

Sabers A saber is a curved blade with one sharp edge, typically used on horseback. These blades are designed for slashing, often causing wide, shallow wounds.

Short Swords and Daggers Smaller blades that are used for close combat can sometimes fall under the sword umbrella based on their shape and length. A Jambiya for example is categorised as a 'short sword'. These work for deep puncture wounds in tight quarters. Can sever arteries or puncture the heart or lungs.

In short, the design influences the wounds. Remember: 

Straight blades are versatile, causing both slashes and thrusts.

Curved blades focus on slicing, leaving gaping wounds.

Thin blades like rapiers target precision strikes to critical areas.

Types of Sword Injuries

As mentioned above I'm trying to cut to the chase with this blog so for each injury type, I've covered what I think are the key points. These are the appearance, severity, blood loss caused by this type of wound, and pain levels. I think these four basically cover everything a writer needs to know when picking their poison. 

Slash Wounds

Appearance: Long, open cuts with jagged or clean edges depending on the blade.

Severity: Superficial slashes may damage only the skin and fat layers, but deeper cuts sever muscles, tendons, and even arteries.

Blood Loss: Significant, especially if major arteries like the femoral (thigh) or brachial (arm) are cut.

Pain: Immediate burning or stinging, with sharp increases if nerves are involved.

Thrust Wounds

Appearance: Small entry wounds but potentially deep and catastrophic internal damage.

Severity: Can puncture vital organs such as the heart, lungs, liver, or intestines.

Blood Loss: Often internal, leading to hidden dangers like haemorrhaging or collapsed lungs.

Pain: Stabbing pains that radiate outward, especially if organs are pierced.

Blunt Force Injuries

Appearance: Bruising, swelling, or fractures from strikes with the flat side or hilt.

Severity: Can lead to broken bones, ruptured vessels, or concussions.

Blood Loss: Minimal unless skin is broken.

Pain: Deep aches or sharp, localized pain from fractures.

Assessing the Severity of Wounds

When assessing the severity of a wound, there are a few important things to keep in mind. To make it easier, I've put together a quick checklist to help you out.

Location: Wounds to the head, neck, or chest are often life-threatening. Injuries to limbs are less fatal but can lead to significant blood loss.

Depth: Shallow cuts are often cosmetic but painful. Deep wounds risk severing arteries, damaging organs, or causing fractures.

Angle: Oblique cuts may glance off bones or armor. Direct thrusts to unprotected areas are far more dangerous.

What Happens When Each Area is Wounded

It's kind of a given that each area of the body is different and would thus cause different reactions when pierced. While many writers stick to the 'blood dripping from the mouth, hand desperately clutching the wound' look, I think it's a good idea to consider the medicinal side of your injuries.

Are there arteries in this area? Vital organs? Muscle and tissue? Here's a quick breakdown of those questions (no I haven’t mentioned every area or organ of the body):  

Limbs

Forearms and Upper Arms: Severing the brachial artery results in rapid blood loss. Cuts to tendons disable grip strength or arm movement.

Thighs: The femoral artery is a critical target. Damage here leads to exsanguination within minutes if untreated.

Calves and Feet: While less life-threatening, injuries here severely limit mobility and can cause nerve damage leading to paralysis.

Abdomen

Liver: Heavy bleeding due to its vascularity. Potentially fatal without intervention.

Stomach: Leakage of acidic contents causes severe internal infections.

Intestines: Punctures lead to sepsis from spilled waste material.

Kidneys: Severe back pain and rapid blood loss from renal artery damage.

Chest

Lungs: Punctures cause pneumothorax (collapsed lung), leading to difficulty breathing and chest pain.

Heart: Even small cuts are often fatal due to rapid blood loss and cardiac tamponade (fluid pressure around the heart).

Ribs: Fractures can puncture lungs or other organs.

Neck

Jugular Vein or Carotid Artery: Severing either leads to death in under two minutes from blood loss.

Trachea: Obstruction causes immediate respiratory distress.

Spinal Cord: Severance leads to paralysis or death.

Back

Spinal Cord: Injuries vary from numbness to total paralysis depending on the location.

Kidneys: Vulnerable to back stabs; severe bleeding and pain radiating to the abdomen.

Face/Head

Cheeks: Slashes leave disfiguring scars but are rarely fatal.

Eyes: Punctures result in blindness and intense pain.

Skull: Blunt force may cause concussions or fractures; penetrating wounds can be fatal if they reach the brain.

Treating Sword Fight Injuries

In the chaos of a sword fight, providing immediate care can mean the difference between life and death. The first priority is to stop the bleeding. For deep cuts or arterial wounds, use a clean cloth or pressure bandage to compress the injury. If the bleeding doesn’t subside, especially in limb injuries, apply a tourniquet above the wound, ensuring it’s tight enough to restrict blood flow without causing further damage. 

Once bleeding is controlled, stabilize the victim. Immobilize fractures with makeshift splints, and in cases of suspected spinal injuries, avoid moving the victim unnecessarily to prevent exacerbating the damage. Finally, cleaning the wound is critical to minimize infection risks. Remove debris carefully and irrigate the wound with clean water if possible. Though battlefield medicine is rudimentary, these steps provide a fighting chance for survival.

Also, one thing people forget to go over is temperature. Keeping the victim warm is essential, as blood loss can lead to hypovolemic shock, which compromises the body’s ability to circulate oxygen. 

Historical vs. Modern Treatment

The approach to sword fight injuries varies dramatically between historical and modern contexts. While I can’t completely break down the differences, here’s (what I hope) is a quick overview that will aid in your research. 

Historically, treating wounds was rudimentary at best. Herbal poultices were applied to reduce inflammation, and cauterization—burning the wound to seal it—was a common but agonizing method to prevent bleeding and infection. Stitching techniques were crude, and the lack of sterilization meant infections like sepsis or gangrene were often fatal. 

Fret not, modern medicine offers a more hopeful prognosis. Sterile wound care, antibiotics, and surgical interventions allow for precise repairs to severed arteries, muscles, or organs. Advanced imaging technology can assess internal injuries, while blood transfusions and IV fluids combat shock effectively. 

This just underscores how important it is for writers to consider what timeline their story is set in. Sorry but your medieval prince won’t just have a full recovery after suffering a brutal gash, especially not if his only source of medicine was love interest’s xyz solution. Infections are a very real issue. In fact, most deaths during that time were due to infection. Do your research.

The Psychological Aftermath

The aftermath of surviving a sword fight extends far beyond physical wounds, leaving lasting emotional and psychological scars. Many survivors experience trauma or PTSD, manifesting as flashbacks to the battle, vivid nightmares, or an overwhelming sense of anxiety, especially in situations that trigger memories of the fight. I would absolutely love to see people incorporate this in their writing! If your modern OCs can get flashbacks and nightmares after a single gun altercation what makes you think the medieval ones won’t experience something similar? 

Survivor’s guilt is another common burden, particularly if the character witnessed comrades die or was forced to make life-and-death decisions during combat. These emotional struggles can deeply shape their personality, making them more cautious, resentful, or even vengeful. Villain arc here we come! 

One thing to remember; physical limitations compound the psychological toll. Permanent injuries like chronic pain, reduced mobility, or disfigurement can remind a character daily of their ordeal, influencing how they interact with others and navigate the world.

As a writer it’s important to take recovery into account. Exploring these aspects adds depth to the character’s recovery arc, making their journey more relatable and human. 

Remember folks; a sword fight isn’t just a moment of action—it’s a fight as brutal and dangerous as any knife or gun altercation you can think of (if not worse). 

Crafting the Fight Scene

To end this blog, here are my (and various Google articles’) two cents on what you should be focusing on/keeping in mind during a swordfight. 

Writing a compelling sword fight requires balancing technical accuracy with emotional resonance. Pacing is key: alternate between rapid exchanges of blows and brief pauses to allow tension to build. These pauses provide an opportunity to describe a character’s thoughts, pain, or strategic planning. 

Sensory details bring the scene to life—capture the sharp clash of steel, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the searing pain of a wound, and the slickness of a sweat-soaked grip on a sword hilt.

Focus on the characters themselves to make the scene more engaging. Highlight their emotions, such as fear, determination, or desperation, alongside the physical toll of the fight. Show how fatigue sets in, how their breathing becomes labored, and how every swing of the blade drains their strength. 

Injuries should be portrayed realistically; instead of dismissing wounds as minor setbacks, use them to heighten tension. A cut to the leg might slow a character’s movements, while a stab to the shoulder could make wielding their weapon excruciating. 

Balancing these elements ensures your fight scenes are not only thrilling but also grounded in a visceral reality.

Resources for Writers

Books:

"The Book of the Sword" by Richard Francis Burton

"Medieval Swordsmanship" by John Clements

Videos:

YouTube channels like "Skallagrim" and "Scholagladiatoria" for sword reviews and techniques.They’re very helpful for all sorts of weapons actually so OP I think you should consider stalking their channels you’d find a TON of info (I get most of mine from them lol). 

Articles:

I don’t have any precise ones but to boost your research consider medical journals on trauma and wound care. Oh and historical accounts of duels and battles.

[drchucktingle]

Hey Dr. Tingle, I understand where you're coming from, it sucks that people are so irony-poisoned that they don't understand that your work comes from a place of true passion.

But I am wondering - are your book premises meant to be taken entirely seriously? Because I always thought that the titles and images, while not *bad*, where meant to be read with a sort of lighthearted comedy, like the titles you pick and the contrastive style of your art seems like intentionally sort of amusing in tone and rhythm? Is that correct, or completely off base? Because I do feel like that's where people get primed to read more of a joke into some of these things than maybe was intended, and I think that it's true for the people who do take the writing seriously that they find the context a little amusing, also, and I don't know if that's on or off the intended track from your perspective.

Hope that makes sense! I don't want to come across as rude or anything

yes my books premises are meant to be taken entirely seriously.

i would say tinglers fall into genre of magical realism and erotica. i do not think of them as comedy although i understand that many, if not THE VAST MAJORITY of buckaroos see them that way. that said i often lean into comedy or have funny moments throughout, but honestly that is the way of almost ALL stories. funny things happen in every genre, but that does not make all stories comedy.

to my trot, what defines something as COMEDY is intent. the goal of comedy is to make you laugh. my main goal with tinglers in NOT to make you laugh, so i do not consider them comedy.

HOWEVER it is important to keep in mind that i am not the expert on my art just because i made it. if a buckaroo laughs at tinglers they are not wrong. it is just as much their art as it is mine, and my interpretation is not the END ALL BE ALL. just because i made a piece of art does not mean i know it better than you do, or that my opinion on it is more valid.

tinglers can be whatever you want, and i am not hurt or offended if you laugh at them. that difference in perception is whats so beautiful and powerful about art.

i think a good way to look at what i do is this: i am an absurdist PHILOSOPHICALLY, but absurdism is so often associated with comedy that sometimes buckaroos who do not know about the philosophy can think they are the same thing. something being absurd does not automatically mean it is meant to be funny. my art is also joyful, and i think joy and humor can also be confused sometimes.

all that is to say, laugh all you want buckaroo. you prove love is real in your own unique way

[angelicyoongie]

(you're) always on my mind (Il)

— pairing: bird hybrid jimin x (f) reader — word count: 5.4k — summary: When your workplace announces that they've decided to promote collaboration between departments, you suddenly find yourself face to face with your sworn nemesis Park Jimin. Your plans to avoid him are quickly foiled as his presence turns the floor into a madhouse, your coworkers all vying for his attention. With so many people at his beck and call, why is it that Jimin is always so insistent on getting in your way?

01 - 02 - 03 / Masterlist

You stifle a yawn, blinking your bleary eyes at your screen.

It's not that the project is so demanding that it's keeping you from sleeping, it's more so ... everything else. It's been two weeks since you started working with Jimin and those weeks have consisted of jealous looks from the bird hybrid's groupies and dealing with an increasingly infuriating partner.

The thing is, Park Jimin just won't leave you alone.

"Coffee, for you."

You look up at Jimin as he gently pushes a takeaway cup over to your side of the table. He holds another one in his hand, presumably for himself, and gives you an encouraging nod as he catches your eye.

You tentatively reach out for the drink, finding it just the right side of hot as you wrap your fingers around it. You eye it suspiciously as you bring it up to your nose, giving the cup a discreet sniff. It simply smells like coffee, nothing more and nothing less. You doubt Jimin would poison you – but you wouldn't be surprised if the bird hybrid's definition of funny would be to prank you by putting something less than savory in your drink. Still, you hold his gaze as you bring the cup to your lips, determined not to give him the satisfaction of reacting if there is anything wrong with it.

You take a small sip, expecting the worst, but the taste that hits your tongue is normal. You drink a little more just to be sure but the taste remains the same. Based on the roast, you know that it's from the café down the block, the one that sells really good but horribly overpriced coffee. You've gone there with Jungkook a few times for a special pick-me-up when work has been rough but it's not something you would splurge on regularly.

"Thank you," You mumble, confused yet grateful that Jimin went out of his way to buy it for you.

Jimin's lips curve with a proud smile as he sees you enjoying the drink, his feathers ruffling happily as he takes his seat.

"My pleasure," His eyes crease under the force of his grin, the pale blush in his cheeks quickly hidden by his coffee cup.

You turn your attention back to your work, determined to get as much as possible done. Somehow it feels like you've seen more of Jimin in the past two weeks than you did Jungkook in the past three years, even though you worked side by side for all that time. It might be because Jimin insisted that you would work on the project together – squeezed into the smallest meeting room the department offers. If you're not looking at your screen, there's nowhere to look but directly at Jimin.

The bird hybrid just seems to constantly demand your attention in one way or another. If he's not sitting in front of you, he's walking around in circles, airing his ideas out loud to get your input. No matter what changes you propose, Jimin is always ready to challenge them, often turning a simple yes or no question into a discussion. He has a peculiar working style that absolutely grinds your gears but you can't deny that it works decently well.

Though, the absolute worst part of it all, is that Jimin is somehow becoming more and more attractive every day – and it's not like you can avoid looking at him. Your traitorous heart is beginning to feel confused and it certainly doesn't help that Jimin keeps pestering you about eating lunch together every day.

Even now, it's like clockwork as the time shifts to noon, Jimin's piercing eyes flicking up to meet yours as he coyly asks, "So, what are you doing for lunch today? I found this really nice ramen place just around the block a few days ago, I think you'd like–"

"Jimin-ssi!"

The smile on the bird hybrid's face turns into a grimace as the door to your private work room is flung open, his question interrupted by the same gaggle of people that never leaves him alone. The woman who called out his name, the one you've learned is another bird hybrid from Jimin's old department, sends you a hard glare when you don't immediately remove yourself from Jimin's presence.

You know this situation isn't exactly well-liked by his admirers – you've seen the frowns and heard the whispers whenever you leave the room – but she truly seems to detest the fact that you're working together in such close proximity. You're not sure what gave her the idea that you would take her precious Jimin away from her when that's the last thing you'd want to do, but you don't want to stick around to stoke that ire even more.

"It seems I'll have to decline, Park. Do enjoy your ramen though."

You quickly grab your essentials, shooting Jimin a strained smile before you slip out of the room. As scary as that woman is, you're thankful for her interruption today. A small part of you was tempted to take Jimin up on his offer for once, just to see why he's trying so hard to share a meal with you.

Shaking your head, you beeline straight for Jungkook, desperate for some fresh air and to look at something that isn't Park Jimin. You think you might be starting to go a little crazy from being cooped up in that room. That has to be the only explanation as to why you'd be willing to spend more time with him.

Of course, you should have known that Jimin wouldn't give up that easily.

You've been working on the project for a month now and despite the constant interruptions by his groupies, he never misses a chance to ask you out for lunch. He is nothing if not persistent. You have steeled yourself since that day you almost slipped up – now more determined than ever to not give into Jimin's charms. The thing is, you still can't figure out if he genuinely wants to share a friendly meal with you or if it's just another ploy to one-up you somehow. So many weeks of working together has started to shift your perception of him and you can concede that he's not as horrible as you first thought, but that's all there is to it.

You hold back a tired groan as you settle into the two-seater squished into the corner of the room, taking the tablet Jimin hands you with a muttered thank you.

The project has finally gotten to the stage where it's time to review all the ideas and plans you have so far so that you can narrow it down and choose the best direction to move forward with. Once you settle on that today, you should only have to spend a few more weeks crammed in here with Jimin before the design department takes over.

You watch as Jimin chooses the chair next to the couch, his wings looking awfully squished in that narrow space. The bird hybrid looks as unbothered as ever, tapping around on the tablet in his lap. Still, you can't shake the feeling that maybe Jimin has just gotten so used to conforming and contorting himself in public spaces that he doesn't even notice it anymore.

Clearing your throat, you catch Jimin's attention, his eyes as attentive as ever as they find yours. You nod at his compressed wings as you say, "Let's switch places, you look uncomfortable."

"Oh."

Jimin stares at you as if you've grown two heads, the purples in his eyes twinkling under the overhead light as he cocks his head. He glances over his shoulder as if he had forgotten he even had wings, seemingly considering your offer for a second before shaking his head.

"That's okay. You're tired and the couch is more comfortable than this chair anyway," He smiles.

"Park, you're crammed in there," You huff, ignoring the warmth that creeps up the back of your neck at Jimin's consideration. "You have wings, I don't. Please take the couch."

You can tell from the gentle look that crosses Jimin's face that he's going to chivalrously deny your offer once again. Before you can stop yourself, the part of your brain that maybe cares just a little opens your mouth and you find yourself saying, "Then let's share the couch at least. It would still be better than that chair."

For a moment, the shock on your face is mirrored on Jimin's. The bird hybrid shakes off the surprise much quicker, his smile brightening to a grin as he pushes himself out of the chair.

"Well, if you insist, then I'll gladly accept your offer."

The couch dips under Jimin's weight, his deep blue wings taking up so much space it almost feels like you've squeezed in another person between the two of you.

"Are you sure this is okay?"

You can tell by Jimin's shuffling that he's trying to make himself as small as possible and that just won't do. You won't allow him to view himself as an inconvenience.

Scooting forward on the couch, you leave a decent gap behind your back and the seat, making room for Jimin's wings.

"There, you can relax them a bit if you'd like. It looks painful holding your wings so tightly to your back all the time."

You look away before you can read Jimin's expression, turning back to the tablet in your lap. You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, belatedly realizing that maybe you just overstepped a boundary – that maybe it would've been better to wait until Jimin asked instead of just assuming what he needed.

Your cheeks turn warm with embarrassment as you mindlessly click around on the screen, your mind elsewhere as you try to come up with a decent apology. Judging by how Jimin hasn't said anything yet, you fear that you really did do something inappropriate.

Just as the words reach the tip of your tongue, your hands clenched awkwardly in your lap, you feel movement behind your back. Jimin lets out a deep, relieved sigh as he loosens up the position of his wings, letting them splay out as much as the couch allows. Even with the added space you gave him, his wings are so large that you can feel the feathers ruffling against the back of your shirt in tandem with Jimin's breaths.

"Thank you."

Jimin says it so softly that it catches you off-guard, your heart skipping a beat from how tender his voice sounds.

It seems it has caused your brain to short-circuit, because the next thing that comes out of your mouth is, "Are they heavy? Your wings, I mean."

Jimin is quiet for a moment. "Yes and no? They're the same as any other limb so I'm normally not very conscious of them. I don't notice the weight, but they can get tired and achy, just like an arm. Choosing to work for a human-based company probably wasn't the best decision on my part – it's not exactly made to accommodate someone like me."

You see Jimin shrug out of the corner of your eye.

"I see," You murmur.

The pit of your stomach feels unexpectedly heavy. Even though Jimin is your sworn nemesis, it still upsets you that he has accepted that hurting himself is the only way he'll be able to fit in. It makes you wonder if Hoseok is experiencing the same thing too – if the deer hybrid hasn't told you simply because he's expected as a hybrid to change himself to fit in alongside humans.

Jimin lightly knocks his arm into yours, the touch shaking you out of your thoughts.

"We should start reviewing our work if we want to go home today," He says, raising an eyebrow as he angles his tablet in your direction. "But if you want to spend more time with me–"

"There's no time like the present, let's start reviewing!" You sputter, tapping your screen rapidly in other to wake it back up.

Jimin lets out a low snort at how easily flustered you are, hiding his smile behind his hand as he begins to look through your collected ideas.

Once your embarrassment dies down, you find that the review session with Jimin goes by without a hitch. For the most part, you both agree on what ideas to keep and which to scrap, making your review session more productive than you had anticipated. You had imagined that Jimin would oppose all of your picks just to torture you, but it's quite the opposite. The bird hybrid listens and agrees with your chosen ideas and for the few he doesn't like – he provides good reasons as to why they won't work. You find yourself nodding along to his criticism, agreeing with the points you hadn't thought of yourself. Not only that, Jimin seems to do the same – in turn valuing your input and insight when you go through his proposed plans. It's such a stark contrast to the Jimin you've gotten used to that it's enough to make you wonder if you stepped into an alternative universe this morning.

You pause as you click on the next slide, your brows furrowing as you see a familiar idea. 

You had included it in your proposal to Mr. Shin, the same one you threw away and never got to turn in. So how did it end up here?

"What's this?" You ask Jimin, pointing to your screen. "I never submitted these ideas."

"Ah," Jimin glances at your tablet, scratching the feathers at the back of his neck as he admits, "I did."

"I saw you throwing out your proposal when Mr. Shin announced that he had picked mine. It didn't feel right that you spent so much time on it and didn't even get to submit it because of me so I, well, turned it in for you. After you left that day."

You blink at him. "You went through my trash?"

"Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that!" Jimin groans. "I wanted us both to have an equal chance. Once Mr. Shin looked at it, he realized that your ideas were just as good as mine and wanted them implemented. I was favored because I'm a transfer, that's all. And I would never steal your ideas – I told him that I would refuse to use your concepts if you weren't willing to work together on this project."

You're not sure you like how it makes your stomach flutter. The high walls you've built to protect yourself are crumbling more and more with each passing day you spend together.

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

The smile Jimin gives you is almost blinding, his wings curving slightly inward almost as if they're trying to get a little closer to you.

You hate to admit it but maybe Jimin isn't as bad as you made him out to be. You may have imagined him as your enemy, someone who only wanted to tear you down and steal your opportunities, but so far Jimin has been nothing but nice to you. A little annoying sometimes sure, but he's never done anything malicious.

You offer him a smile in return, noting how the tops of his cheeks seem a little more red than usual.

Maybe it's about time that you admit that Jimin deserves a second chance.

"I've missed you," Jungkook whines, clinging to your arm. "Work is so boring without you!"

"We literally eat lunch together every day," You laugh.

You use your sleeve to wipe off the layer of dust that has settled on your monitor over the last few weeks. Jungkook holds on tighter to your other arm, pouting as he says, "That's not the same."

"I know," You sigh, lightly knocking your head against Jungkook's, "I missed you too."

After six weeks of working with Jimin in that small room, it almost feels foreign to be back at your desk with so many people milling about. You're honestly thankful that the bird hybrid had a meeting outside the office today, it gives you half a day to work without any disruptions. Your poor heart needs a few hours of calm and there's nothing like Jungkook's antics to take your mind off the rather confusing feelings you've been dealing with lately.

"Soooo.." Jungkook leans back in his chair, his eyes wide with faux innocence as he asks, "How has it been working with the enemy?  You haven't complained as much the last couple of weeks."

It seems you're quiet for just a moment too long, Jungkook letting out a gasp as he exclaims, "Don't tell me Park Jimin has won you over?"

"Shut up," You huff, knocking his hand away from your arm. You bite the inside of your cheek, annoying flashes of Jimin's smile as you accept the coffee he brings you every morning – and how he never ceases to be irritatingly attentive and kind – racing through your mind.

"I guess he isn't as bad as I first thought," You concede.

Jungkook hums, avoiding your sharp glare as he turns to his computer. You can tell from the slight smirk on his face that he definitely isn't going to let this go – he's just going to wait until the perfect moment to interrogate you.

"Interesting."

"Don't make it weird," You hiss, "He's just a decent person, nothing more."

Jungkook nods. "As I said – interesting."

You rub the skin between your brows, already regretting not faking your disdain for Jimin. It seems your time apart from Jungkook has softened you too much and made you forget just how much of a persistent gremlin he can be when he thinks there's some juicy gossip to be uncovered.

You boot up your computer with a groan. You still have four hours to go before Jimin will return to the office and Jungkook is going to use every available second to interrogate you until he does. A fleeting, hopeful thought crosses your mind that maybe Jimin will come back sooner than he's supposed to in order to save you. Just as soon as you realize what you were just daydreaming about, you pinch your leg so hard it makes you wince, bringing yourself back to reality.

You were so excited to have some time away from Jimin but the moment he's gone, you're what, missing him?

You shake your head, ignoring the little flutter in your stomach that confirms you're right.

Sure, Jimin might be charming and sweet when it's just the two of you but the bird hybrid is an absolute flirt and you really shouldn't be reading anything into his advances. It's a recipe for getting hurt.

It seems the time you've spent alone with him has made you forget just how shameless he is when it comes to getting attention. You don't have to wait very long, only a few hours in fact, until that reminder smacks you in the face again.

"You're so annoying," You whine, giving Jungkook's chair a shove.

The moment Mr. Shin left his office for a meeting in another department, it was like the whole floor exhaled, low chatter bursting to life as the elevator doors closed. 

Jungkook had seen it as his chance to get some answers, his mischief mode activated, and the constant pestering was starting to get on your nerves.

"Says you," Jungkook huffs, rolling himself back to his desk. "It's a simple yes or no question! Do you like him or not?"

"I tolerate him," You say, narrowing your eyes as Jungkook grabs the arms of your chair.

He pulls your chair flush with his, his own eyes narrowing in return, "That's not what I asked."

"Too bad," You wave your hand, "That's all you're going to get."

"Don't make me tickle you," Jungkook shakes out his fingers, "You know both of us will regret that."

"Jungkook, that's inappropriate! We're at work," You hiss as you snatch one of his hands out of the air, pressing it firmly against his chest. You're not going to let Jungkook expose you as a tickle squealer in front of your coworkers just because he's curious about something you don't have an answer to yet.

"What's inappropriate?"

You jerk back at the sound of Jimin's voice, shocked that you didn't notice the bird hybrid approaching your desks. You drop Jungkook's hand as you notice Jimin's burning stare, his violet eyes fixated on where your skin touched your friend. The fact that you feel so flustered by Jimin's sudden appearance makes it hard to think, your brain refusing to catch up.

"Nothing?" You squeak. You quickly clear your throat as Jungkook snickers under his breath, adding more confidence to your voice as you say, "It's nothing. You.. You're back earlier than expected, though?"

Jimin's gaze flickers between the two of you slowly, his expression unreadable. "The meeting didn't take as long as they first assumed. They offered to take us out to lunch to make up for it but I told them I already had an appointment I couldn't be late for."

Your heart thumps in your chest as Jimin pointedly looks your way. Surely he didn't rush back just to ask you out to lunch like he always does?

"Anyway," Jimin says, "I wanted to tell you that I'm back and that we can hold our progress meeting after our break is over."

"Right, sounds good," You smile.

"Talking about taking a break–"

Alarm bells start going off the moment you register Jungkook's teasing tone. The swift kick you land on the bottom of his chair is ignored, Jungkook's doe eyes spelling nothing but trouble as he continues, "If you don't have any lunch plans yet, Jimin-ssi, you'd be welcome to join us today."

It takes everything in you to not reach out and throttle him. You have no doubt Jungkook is doing this partly for the drama and partly because he thinks he's helping you in some roundabout way, but this is not it.

"I'm sure Jimin has some prior arrangement already–"

"I'd love to," Jimin's feathers ruffle happily behind his back, his beaming smile directed at you and only you, like you were the one to personally invite him. The force of it makes your heart race.

"Great!" Jungkook claps his hands, undeterred at being ignored. "Mr. Shin won't be back until the end of the day and there's only ten minutes left until lunchtime, so how about we head down now?"

Jungkook sends you a pointed look before you can protest. "Half the floor has already left, so we won't get in trouble."

"Fine," You smile through your teeth, your fleeting plan of sending Jimin to his desk and using that time to slip away foiled before you could even set it into motion. "Let's go eat lunch, then. Together."

"Let's," Jimin grins, taking a step towards the door. The bird hybrid's wings seem bigger than before, more relaxed, as he waits for you and Jungkook to grab your things.

You drag your feet as you follow Jimin, dreading the not-so-subtle questions you're sure Jungkook will be asking to test the water for you. While Jungkook is one of your closest friends and an overall great guy, you think his biggest flaw might be how much of a meddler he is.

"You and your damn muscles," You huff as Jungkook manhandles you into the elevator, blocking any chance you have at escaping.

"Please, you love them."

You only roll your eyes in response, knowing he isn't entirely wrong. You do like the extra space his muscles provide on packed elevator rides but aside from that, you couldn't be more neutral about Jungkook's body.

"Oh?" Jimin inquires, his violet eyes staring intently at Jungkook's arms, "They don't look that big?"

"I'll show you," Jungkook puffs out his chest, gladly offering his arm to the bird hybrid as a chance to show off.

Jimin wraps his hands around Jungkook's bicep, his gaze briefly flickering over to you before it returns to the man next to him. Something awed, maybe jealous, passes over Jimin's face as Jungkook flexes his muscles.

The bird hybrid doesn't shy away from squeezing and feeling up his arm, a sly smile crossing his lips as he says, "I didn't think you could get more handsome Jungkook-ssi, but look at you."

Jungkook sputters at the unexpected compliment, his cheeks turning red under Jimin's undivided attention.

You cross your arms, something unpleasant bubbling in your stomach as you watch Jimin's touch linger, the bird hybrid offering a few more compliments before the elevator announces its arrival.

Jimin exits first, leaving a flustered Jungkook behind. He looks at you with big eyes, hand covering the left side of his chest as he says, "Oh, he is good at this. I think my heart fluttered a little."

You swallow thickly, the reprimanding voice of your past self echoing in your head, reminding you that this is what Jimin is - a flirt. You're not special for receiving a little more of his attention lately, it's all just circumstance.

"You should get that checked out," You mutter, stepping out of the elevator to catch up with the bird hybrid.

Your goal is to do everything as quickly as possible – get your food, eat, and get out. But even you couldn't have expected just how awkward lunch would be.

From the moment Jimin took his seat next to you, you could feel the other people in the cafeteria staring you all down with envy. The situation certainly isn't made better by Jungkook and Hoseok - the two of them openly gawking and giggling whenever Jimin makes a comment that's even remotely funny. You know Jimin is charming, you can't deny that yourself, but you expected a little more resilience from your friends.

In the end, you end up picking at your food, unable to stomach much with the growing pit in your belly.

"Are you okay?" You glance over at Jimin, noting the concerned furrow between his brows.

"I'm fine," You force a wobbly smile, "I think I must have eaten something bad for breakfast."

"Should I go get you some medicine? There's a pharmacy right around the corner."

"It's fine." You quickly shake your head as Jimin begins to stand up, grabbing his arm to pull him back down into his seat. The bird hybrid doesn't seem convinced, his wings ruffling with protest behind his back.

"Wait, Y/n, did you try one of the protein shakes I gave you for breakfast? I told you not to drink it on an empty stomach–"

Jungkook's voice turns muffled, blending into the background noise as you shift your eyes from Jimin and meet hers across the room.

It's the same woman, the bird hybrid from Jimin's old department, who stops by your little makeshift office every day to drag him out for lunch. She's a swan, you think, known to be awfully territorial over what they consider to be theirs. And you have no doubt that she's staked her claim on Jimin, regardless of whether he knows or not. 

But he's not hers.

And he's not yours either.

The realization feels like a shot to the heart.

Even from the other side of the cafeteria, you can tell her gaze is venomous as she stares you down. The uneasy feeling in your stomach keeps growing, clawing at your insides, desperate to get out. She's looking at you like she knows what you're thinking – what you're feeling – they all are, and you absolutely cannot let Jimin find out.

"Uhm," You hastily push yourself to your feet, "I need to use the bathroom. I'm not feeling good."

You scurry off as fast as your legs can carry you, ignoring the familiar voices that call out your name. You don't stop until you reach the bathroom that's a little ways down the hall from the cafeteria.

Locking yourself in a stall, you sink onto the closed toilet lid, hands covering your face.

"Fuck," You whisper.

You like Jimin.

You can't pinpoint exactly when it happened but in retrospect, it's obvious your feelings for him have been growing for a while now, blossoming into something beyond your control. The worst part is – you don't even know if Jimin is single. It's never been a subject that has interested you before recently and you honestly just assumed that he must be taken based on the amount of attention he always garners when he walks into a room.

You take a deep breath, lightly slapping your face to bring yourself back to reality.

Jimin might be taken but he might also not be. You won't know for sure until you ask - or well, until you get Jungkook to not-so-casually bring it up with him. You might have a chance.

Until then, you just have to go out there and pretend that nothing has changed, that all is still like it was. You still have a job to do, regardless of your feelings.

Quickly washing your hands, you brace yourself to walk back into the cafeteria. Your flushed appearance can be blamed on not feeling good – you're certainly not going to admit it's because you finally understand that you like Jimin.

You tap your hands on your trousers as you step out of the bathroom, making sure they're dry as you walk back down the hallway.

Your steps halt as you reach the corner, your feet rooted to the ground as you hear Jimin's hushed voice in tandem with another. You plaster yourself to the wall, holding your breath as you listen in to what they're talking about.

"Be serious!" A female voice hisses. The swan hybrid.

"You expect her to help you? To treat you right? She's human, Jimin-ssi, she doesn't know anything about what it means to be a hybrid."

The swan hybrid spits out the word like it's a curse, followed by the sound of annoyed, rustling feathers.

"Do you think she's going to even look at you once your little project is over? She's just going to run back to her "friend"."

Oh.

She's talking about you.

The anxiety bubbling in your stomach roars back to life, your hands shaking as you find you can't do anything but listen - your feet unable to move.

Jimin's silence feels like a knife through the heart. Surely he doesn't think anything is going on between you and Jungkook? He knows you're just friends. And even so, you believed that you had grown closer lately, so much so that maybe you would continue to talk even when the project was over. But judging by his lack of response, it seems that you haven't given Jimin that impression at all.

"She doesn't deserve you. She can't do the things I can do, babe. "

You hear a deep sigh, Jimin's, his voice tight as he admits, "You're right. I know that.  She's not you–"

Before you even realize it, you're already halfway down the hallway, feet carrying you straight back to the bathroom. Your blood is roaring in your ears, the last part of Jimin's sentence mercifully too muffled for you to hear.

It seems you got this all wrong. It doesn't matter if Jimin is single, because he clearly doesn't like you like that. It seems the kindness he's been showing you has just been him being a good co-worker, keeping things civil and friendly.

You must have been projecting your feelings onto him, reading into things that didn't even exist.

How mortifying.

You stumble back into the same stall you only left a few minutes prior, eyes burning, as you lock the door behind you. You're not sure which emotion is strongest – disappointment, embarrassment, heartbreak, but it hurts all the same.

You can only hope that Jimin hasn't noticed your growing interest in the same way as the swan hybrid had.

There's only one thing you can do to save yourself from further humiliation, to make sure that doesn't happen. 

You have to pretend your feelings never changed. That you only tolerate him at best.

You have to pretend until it becomes true again.

Maybe it's time to go back to how things were, to distance yourself. Even if you fooled yourself into hoping for something more, the truth is that there is only one thing you and Jimin can be.

Enemies.

a/n: welcome back! it sure wasn't my plan to spend two months on this chapter but i've been jumping from one assignment to another and i've been more or less sick this entire time, so it sadly took me much longer than expected :( but here we are with ch 2! there will be three chapters total for this fic, so we still have one more to go.

what do you think so far? will jimin be able to clear up this misunderstanding and will the mc trust him enough to accept it? 🫣

i would love to hear your thoughts so far and reblogs are very much appreciated 💖

[chefs-other-corner]

Sick Days |Zoey|

☆Paring: Rumi x Zoey x Mira

☆Tags: SIck Fic, fluff, a pinch of angst, a dash of hurt/comfort, and just a shit ton of domestic fluff

☆Sum Sum: Zoey Gets sick this time, her girlys take care of her   ☆Word count: 714

☆Note: This was BASED AND FULLY INSPIRDE BY THIS POST, The one behind it is called fishsticks231 uhhh idk how to add it so I'll just (bloop) Here it isss ────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Zoey had a system. Step 1: Pedialyte. Step 2: Saltines. Step 3: Vomit in private. Step 4: Bathtub nest. This wasn’t her first rodeo with bad street dumplings. It wouldn’t be her last.

She hated getting sick. Not in the “ugh, this sucks” way—but in the deep, gnawing, makes-her-feel-like-a-burden kind of way. Mira and Rumi didn’t deserve to deal with her like this. So she did what she always did when her stomach turned against her: she locked herself in the bathroom with a pack of granola bars, her water bottle, and every blanket she could steal from the linen closet.

That was around noon.

It was nearly 6pm when Rumi came home, pushing the door open with her shoulder, arms full of plastic bags from the pharmacy.

“Z?” she called. “Got the stomach meds. And the fancy crackers you like.”

No answer.

The light was on in the bathroom.

She walked in—and froze.

Zoey was curled up in the actual bathtub. Blankets, two pillows, a half-empty bottle of Pedialyte cradled against her chest like a baby. Face pale, lips dry, sweat sticking to her hairline. Fast asleep. She looked… wilted.

“Oh my god,” Rumi muttered.

She dropped the bag and stepped closer. “Zoey?” She reached out, touched her arm.

Zoey stirred weakly. “Mmph… I’m good,” she croaked.

“No, you’re not.” Rumi didn’t waste time arguing. She leaned down, scooped Zoey up bridal-style, and carried her out like a princess in crisis.

“Put me back,” Zoey mumbled, already burrowing into Rumi’s shoulder. “I had a system…”

“Your system sucks.”

By the time Mira got home, Zoey was tucked into bed, face flushed and furrowed in half-sleep. Rumi was perched on the edge with a cold rag in her hand.

“She was in the tub,” Rumi told her. “With pillows.”

Mira sighed like she expected nothing less. “Food poisoning again?”

“Street dumplings.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Zoey stirred, eyes slitting open. “Sorry,” she rasped.

“Don’t be,” Mira said immediately, crossing the room and setting down a tray with soup and toast. “You’re sick. You don’t need to apologize for needing things.”

“But I feel bad…” Zoey mumbled. “You guys are busy, and I—I hate when people have to do stuff for me.”

“You’re not ‘stuff,’ Zoey.” Rumi reached out, brushing sweaty hair from her forehead. “You’re our person. That’s different.”

Zoey didn’t say anything. But she looked away, quiet in that way she always got when her guilt was louder than her stomach.

It took both of them to lure her out again later when the nausea eased. Mira crouched in the doorway with a bowl of chicken noodle soup and said, very seriously, “Zoey. I will slide this under the door like a can of tuna. Don’t make me do it.”

Zoey opened the door five minutes later, still swaying.

“I brushed my teeth,” she announced. “And I gargled. I didn’t want to smell like barf.”

“Great,” Mira said. “Now you’re going to shower.”

“I already wiped down with a wet rag…”

“Shower.”

Eventually, Zoey was clean, redressed in Mira’s oversized hoodie, hair damp, breath minty. Mira brought her back to bed while Rumi went to reheat her soup. She still looked fragile—like one more wrong move would break her.

“Sit,” Mira said gently, guiding her down. Then she knelt behind her and picked up a brush.

Zoey stiffened. “You don’t have to—”

“Zoey.”

Her mouth shut.

The brush ran through her tangles slow and smooth, no tugging, no rush. Mira had always been careful with her like this—especially when Zoey was too tired to pretend she didn’t need it.

Eventually, Zoey relaxed. Her head tilted back slightly, her shoulders sank.

“You’re not too much,” Mira said quietly, still brushing. “You never are.”

Zoey didn’t respond. She just blinked slow, eyes falling shut, until her breathing evened out. Mira kept brushing long after Zoey was asleep, her fingers light in the hair she once dyed bubblegum pink just for a concert.

Rumi came back in and smiled when she saw them.

“She’s out?”

Mira nodded.

“She didn’t finish the soup.”

“She will in the morning.”

They climbed in beside her, one on each side, tucking Zoey between them like the most precious, pitiful stray cat who forgot how to ask for help—but still deserved it anyway.

Part one Part Three

[theeartuaist]

Sometimes, I don't know what is worse, a yandere who's so delusional or a yandere who's so self-aware yet engages in obsessive and possessive behaviour nonetheless. Walk with me.

Like the delusional ones are terrifying because they genuinely believe they're doing the right thing. They'll lock you in a room and be like "this is for your own good my love" while you're screaming and they're serving you breakfast in bed with a smile.

They are so deep into the rabbit hole they've convinced themselves the hole doesn't exist. They're the ones who'll leave seventeen voicemails saying "I just want to make sure you're okay" while standing outside your window with a crowbar. They've rewritten reality in their minds like a twisted Choose Your Own Adventure book where every path leads to "happily ever after... or else."

BUT THE SELF-AWARE ONES

They'll deadass be like "I understand that my behavior is possessive, controlling, and violates multiple boundaries" then proceed to install 23 tracking apps on your phone. They know it's wrong. They can recite chapter and verse why their behavior would earn them a restraining order in any sane jurisdiction. But that knowledge doesn't stop them—it amplifies them.

They're out here doing full psychological analysis of their own behavior pattern while simultaneously deepening the pattern. They'll be in therapy describing their yandere tendencies in clinical detail to their therapist, nodding along to the coping mechanisms, and then walking straight out and buying 15 more security cameras for your house.

They're literally like "I know I'm toxic and you deserve better... anyway here's the 200-page dissertation I wrote about why we're soulmates based on the fact that we both like the same flavor of ice cream"

They can ratio you in an argument so hard because they'll use actual psychology textbooks to explain why their obsessive behavior is actually a totally rational response to their deep-seated attachment issues.

Like bro you can cite Jung and Freud all you want but you're still wearing my hoodie that you stole 3 months ago and sniffing it while updating your spreadsheet of my daily routines

The delusional yandere is in a horror movie. The self-aware yandere is in a psychological thriller where THEY'RE the unreliable narrator, the author, AND the reader all at once.

God help you if you try to ghost these bastards. The delusional one will keep calling until the phone lines fray from overuse. The self-aware one? They'll explain, in terms so clinical they could be published in the New England Journal of Stalking, exactly why your attempt to establish boundaries is actually detrimental to what they've determined is your "necessary codependency dynamic."

They're out here weaponizing therapy speak:

• "I need to process my abandonment trauma through this tracking device"

• "My love language is gift giving" buys your entire apartment complex

• "I'm just looking out for your mental health" hacks your DMs to delete messages from potential romantic interests

The self-aware yandere invented gaslighting yourself because they'll literally be like "I am fully cognizant of the fact that I'm gaslighting you right now", even providing footnotes explaining the exact gaslighting techniques they're employing while you be standing there like 🧍‍♀️ what do I even do with this information.

I think what fascinates me the most about self-aware type of yandere is that they exists in a state of perpetual dramatic irony. It's like they are trapped in a play where the audience (themselves) knows exactly what the character (also themselves) is doing, yet the show must go on! Scene by recursive scene.

TL;DR: Delusional yanderes are playing a game where they don't know the rules. Self-aware yanderes are speedrunning social relationships while reading the instruction manual and deliberately ignoring it.

Pick your poison I guess?